Stories
To Bring You My Love
Love, desire, heartbreak, gettin’ wet and makeovers: Claire Miccio remembers a favorite album for our recollections series, PJ Harvey’s To Bring You My Love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Better Baby Names Bureau (The Non-Expert)
- This Is Not a Eulogy (Profiles)
- The Vanishing Date (Spoofs & Satire)
Also by Claire Miccio
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- How Everything Turned Out (June 27, 2007)
- What's the Frequency, Musad? (June 15, 2004)
- The Education of Elisabeth Eckleman: Back to School (June 6, 2005)
Also in Stories
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Recollections based on the album To Bring You My Love, by PJ Harvey
‘To Bring You My Love’
I spend weekday mornings sitting up against the wall, listening to my housemates get ready for work. I’d sit and listen and think about how my reason for being there—him—loses a few of its sequins with each passing day.
I spend weekend mornings in bed keeping watch on his chest, the slight rise and fall, noting the way it slides from concave to convex as he switches from sleeping on his side to sleeping on his back. I love it, how it’s so flat and narrow, how when I touch it pushes back a bit, like a book whose binding hasn’t yet been broken.
I could spend days right there, watching just that.
‘Meet Ze Monsta’
I hear the song and it comes to mind every time—the look Stella shoots Stanley right as she walks down the stairs to him, hips forward rather than in tow. The scene where Kim Hunter has Marlon Brando, in arguably his greatest role ever, playing second fiddle to just her one look.
Yeah, I’m lucky
Lucky girl
Hell ain’t half full
Take me with you
‘Working for the Man’
Sophomore year, Gen and I skip school a lot. We lounge around, eat cheap food, and talk. We make fun of Jewel some too.
Toward the middle of the year I start skipping by myself and going to the public library. Always to the same place (the musty corner in the oversized book aisle) to the same chair (blue, plastic, and perfect to lean back in) to do the same thing (bemoan being 15).
I have it in mind that I will use the stolen time to write poetry. Poetry like people. I want each poem to speak tomes in a few phrases, if not a few words. An image, a fragment that you could feed forever on. Like a PJ Harvey song.
Or something like that anyway. The poems are awful.
‘C’mon Billy’
Lindsey calls her mom by her first name, Sally. Whenever I come over Sally asks me, ‘So any boyfriends?’ Lindsey and her mom are really close in this sickening way where they borrow each other’s clothes, talk boys, and co-diet. It’s like watching a Lifetime Original Movie but without the stalker, the terminal illness, or the gang bang to make it worth your while.
One evening I offer Lindsey a makeover. I begin with the intention of making her look nice but as I get going it just seems like more fun to botch. She knows what I’m doing because with every brush, poke, and line I’m cramping over giggling.
When it’s over I can’t even look at her. She puts Divine to shame.
‘Teclo’
My brother has this clunky four-track that’s the apple of his eye. The rule is ‘KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF unless I am there to watch you like a FUCKING HAWK Claire. Do you FUCKING hear me?’ He is joking of course but not really.
One night we take to our veneer-plank-paneled basement to make slow jams. Anthony is amazing; the sultry lines pour like it’s nothing. As for me, suckass isn’t even the tip of the iceberg. If my brother is Luther Vandross, I am Ethel Merman.
I throw in the towel and head upstairs to my room. I am better at singing along than singing alone. Anthony of course stays down there for hours.
‘Long Snake Moan’
I inscribe it ‘The Fem-Rock Mystique,’ and then revel in my cleverness. Tomorrow after eighth period I will give the mix tape to Jason and we’ll listen to it in his car and after hearing it he’ll have no choice but to admit that, 1) Fem-Rock is not a genre because it does not serve to further narrow the distinction of rock music (i.e. Twee, Punk, and Funk all describe a style, a certain sound of music, whereas Fem-Rock does not); 2) the idea of grouping all female rock musicians into a subset of rock based solely on the fact that they are women is asinine; and most importantly 3) he was wrong and I was right. ‘The Fem-Rock Mystique’ has a vast mix of female rock artists on it—early stuff, late stuff, loud stuff, soft stuff. Not only am I trying to prove a point but I also want him to hear a world of music beyond that of Pearl Jam. Beyond Eddie, his beloved.
It isn’t working and I am getting pissed. But PJ is coming up and she is closer to his usual canon of screamy vocals over traditional rock riffs. Plus, he has a moderate thing for Led Zeppelin and I kinda think of her as Led Zeppelin (1 thru 4) meets Butthole Surfers, fronted by Mary Magdalene.
‘What do you think?’
CALL MEEE LAZZZUHHHRUSSSS…
‘Ehh.’
DOOOO YOUUU WANNNAA HEAR MY LONG SNAKE…MOAN!
‘C’mon her voice could derail a goddamn train.’
YOUU OUGHTAA SEEE MEE CRAWL MY…ROAR!
‘Wait, you’ve got to hear Eddie sing ‘Red.’ I’ve got the tape in here somewhere…’
‘Down By the Water’
My brother tapes 120 Minutes, the alternative rock show. Even though over the years the hosts have become decreasingly capable of subject-verb agreement, the videos remain rockin.’ When ‘Down By the Water’ comes on the first thing that strikes me are the colors. The green background in contrast to her red dress, in contrast to her black hair, in contrast to her white skin. Haunting. Her body is small enough to slip through a garlic press yet her voice is eerily deep, ripping full throttle through the lips of a specious smile.
‘Tony, who is this?’
‘I Think I’m a Mother’
<play repeat 1>
1X: eyyyyaah?
2X: not me.
3X: creepy.
4X: hypnotic.
5X: I think I’m a mother/roll over roll over
‘Send His Love to Me’
I like listening to music on headphones. I makes me feel closer to the music itself or at least more observant of it. With headphones I hear nothing but the music, nothing but the sounds I choose.
I had this problem where I’d pick at my hairline until it bled. Consciously and unconsciously I’d start digging out the hair follicles until I had raw skin beneath my nails and a forehead wet and rimmed in red. Eventually I kicked the habit by wearing hats and sitting on idle hands. But I never could quell the urge.
Recently I started it up again so I dig out my maroon wool knit hat and begin wearing it inside and outdoors, well before the weather could afford me an excuse. It’s a good thing I have headphones that hang from my ears rather than sit atop my head because otherwise I’ll have to make a choice and I look like such an asshole in hats anyway.
‘The Dancer’
We hadn’t talked in awhile so I decide to just go over and say hi, see what was new. A year after he dumped me and I still liked him so much. God knows why. I have since learned to rule out all boys who wear sunglasses either indoors or at night. He does both.
I stand next to the light switch. I mess up the word ‘meaningful’ so that it comes out ‘meantful.’ I am wearing a bra that makes me look pokey so I hug my chest as we talk. Or really as I talk.
‘I like how the album begins with the desert and ends with the desert. I really says something, you know? Like about always being dry or wet. Oh! But not that kind of wet. Heh…oh god.’
‘To Bring You My Love’
I spend weekday mornings sitting up against the wall, listening to my housemates get ready for work. I’d sit and listen and think about how my reason for being there—him—loses a few of its sequins with each passing day.
I spend weekend mornings in bed keeping watch on his chest, the slight rise and fall, noting the way it slides from concave to convex as he switches from sleeping on his side to sleeping on his back. I love it, how it’s so flat and narrow, how when I touch it pushes back a bit, like a book whose binding hasn’t yet been broken.
I could spend days right there, watching just that.
‘Meet Ze Monsta’
I hear the song and it comes to mind every time—the look Stella shoots Stanley right as she walks down the stairs to him, hips forward rather than in tow. The scene where Kim Hunter has Marlon Brando, in arguably his greatest role ever, playing second fiddle to just her one look.
Yeah, I’m lucky
Lucky girl
Hell ain’t half full
Take me with you
‘Working for the Man’
Sophomore year, Gen and I skip school a lot. We lounge around, eat cheap food, and talk. We make fun of Jewel some too.
Toward the middle of the year I start skipping by myself and going to the public library. Always to the same place (the musty corner in the oversized book aisle) to the same chair (blue, plastic, and perfect to lean back in) to do the same thing (bemoan being 15).
I have it in mind that I will use the stolen time to write poetry. Poetry like people. I want each poem to speak tomes in a few phrases, if not a few words. An image, a fragment that you could feed forever on. Like a PJ Harvey song.
Or something like that anyway. The poems are awful.
‘C’mon Billy’
Lindsey calls her mom by her first name, Sally. Whenever I come over Sally asks me, ‘So any boyfriends?’ Lindsey and her mom are really close in this sickening way where they borrow each other’s clothes, talk boys, and co-diet. It’s like watching a Lifetime Original Movie but without the stalker, the terminal illness, or the gang bang to make it worth your while.
One evening I offer Lindsey a makeover. I begin with the intention of making her look nice but as I get going it just seems like more fun to botch. She knows what I’m doing because with every brush, poke, and line I’m cramping over giggling.
When it’s over I can’t even look at her. She puts Divine to shame.
‘Teclo’
My brother has this clunky four-track that’s the apple of his eye. The rule is ‘KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF unless I am there to watch you like a FUCKING HAWK Claire. Do you FUCKING hear me?’ He is joking of course but not really.
One night we take to our veneer-plank-paneled basement to make slow jams. Anthony is amazing; the sultry lines pour like it’s nothing. As for me, suckass isn’t even the tip of the iceberg. If my brother is Luther Vandross, I am Ethel Merman.
I throw in the towel and head upstairs to my room. I am better at singing along than singing alone. Anthony of course stays down there for hours.
‘Long Snake Moan’
I inscribe it ‘The Fem-Rock Mystique,’ and then revel in my cleverness. Tomorrow after eighth period I will give the mix tape to Jason and we’ll listen to it in his car and after hearing it he’ll have no choice but to admit that, 1) Fem-Rock is not a genre because it does not serve to further narrow the distinction of rock music (i.e. Twee, Punk, and Funk all describe a style, a certain sound of music, whereas Fem-Rock does not); 2) the idea of grouping all female rock musicians into a subset of rock based solely on the fact that they are women is asinine; and most importantly 3) he was wrong and I was right. ‘The Fem-Rock Mystique’ has a vast mix of female rock artists on it—early stuff, late stuff, loud stuff, soft stuff. Not only am I trying to prove a point but I also want him to hear a world of music beyond that of Pearl Jam. Beyond Eddie, his beloved.
It isn’t working and I am getting pissed. But PJ is coming up and she is closer to his usual canon of screamy vocals over traditional rock riffs. Plus, he has a moderate thing for Led Zeppelin and I kinda think of her as Led Zeppelin (1 thru 4) meets Butthole Surfers, fronted by Mary Magdalene.
‘What do you think?’
CALL MEEE LAZZZUHHHRUSSSS…
‘Ehh.’
DOOOO YOUUU WANNNAA HEAR MY LONG SNAKE…MOAN!
‘C’mon her voice could derail a goddamn train.’
YOUU OUGHTAA SEEE MEE CRAWL MY…ROAR!
‘Wait, you’ve got to hear Eddie sing ‘Red.’ I’ve got the tape in here somewhere…’
‘Down By the Water’
My brother tapes 120 Minutes, the alternative rock show. Even though over the years the hosts have become decreasingly capable of subject-verb agreement, the videos remain rockin.’ When ‘Down By the Water’ comes on the first thing that strikes me are the colors. The green background in contrast to her red dress, in contrast to her black hair, in contrast to her white skin. Haunting. Her body is small enough to slip through a garlic press yet her voice is eerily deep, ripping full throttle through the lips of a specious smile.
‘Tony, who is this?’
‘I Think I’m a Mother’
<play repeat 1>
1X: eyyyyaah?
2X: not me.
3X: creepy.
4X: hypnotic.
5X: I think I’m a mother/roll over roll over
‘Send His Love to Me’
I like listening to music on headphones. I makes me feel closer to the music itself or at least more observant of it. With headphones I hear nothing but the music, nothing but the sounds I choose.
I had this problem where I’d pick at my hairline until it bled. Consciously and unconsciously I’d start digging out the hair follicles until I had raw skin beneath my nails and a forehead wet and rimmed in red. Eventually I kicked the habit by wearing hats and sitting on idle hands. But I never could quell the urge.
Recently I started it up again so I dig out my maroon wool knit hat and begin wearing it inside and outdoors, well before the weather could afford me an excuse. It’s a good thing I have headphones that hang from my ears rather than sit atop my head because otherwise I’ll have to make a choice and I look like such an asshole in hats anyway.
‘The Dancer’
We hadn’t talked in awhile so I decide to just go over and say hi, see what was new. A year after he dumped me and I still liked him so much. God knows why. I have since learned to rule out all boys who wear sunglasses either indoors or at night. He does both.
I stand next to the light switch. I mess up the word ‘meaningful’ so that it comes out ‘meantful.’ I am wearing a bra that makes me look pokey so I hug my chest as we talk. Or really as I talk.
‘I like how the album begins with the desert and ends with the desert. I really says something, you know? Like about always being dry or wet. Oh! But not that kind of wet. Heh…oh god.’
—Published October 29, 2002
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