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“I was meant to interview Ms Harvey in her room, however, that is no longer possible.” I pause and lean in a little closer to Adam, “So we’ll need to arrange another space for the interview.” Adam nods understandingly, “Just wait here Miss.” I sit and draw stars in my notebook, fully expecting the concierge to return at any moment with hotel security.Amanda Palmer clomps past me dressed in layers of clothes, laughing and yelling.She is wearing all black: heeled boots, pants and a sleeveless top. As she sits in front of me I immediately notice her exposed arms, they look frail and I try not to stare.Dramatic black curls frame her face and in such close proximity she looks ageless.I focus on small talk, how the tour has been, how they can’t believe it’s finally over, how I am Polly’s very last interview for a very, very long time.The Wombat expands like fermenting roadkill as PJ enters the room.Her features are exceedingly full – lips, nose and eyes – dark and intense.
Harvey gaits towards me, long strides driven by her hips, creating a lengthy pause between each consecutive step.Interviewing an artist whose work means a lot to you can be dangerous territory.If the conversation doesn’t meet your expectations you risk unsettling your relationship with their music forever.All I need to do is act confident, and convince a 5-star hotel to let me use one of their rooms to interview PJ Harvey. “Helloooooo,” a concierge called Adam purrs as I place my note pad, with great authority, on the hotel desk.“I’m in a spot of bother” I say, having not once uttered those words in my 27 years.
She had finally released and was relaxed and buoyant; gushing about this great piece of work she had produced. I can see she has let the album go, she has said everything there is to be said about it and is already thinking about what comes next. Every movement she makes is very deliberate and paced.