Could any musical marriage be more pathetic than a middle-aged Cure fan repledging her troth to Goth? Teeming with glassy-eyed, ne'er-grow-old devotees, rock's most sullen subgenre has always resurrected its teen spirits like a Peter Pan factory in the Village of the Damned. Somewhere around the age of 20, when misery no longer loves company, aging Joy Division adepts are replaced by younger comrades in a rotation as constant and consistent as that of a Disintegration record on a junior high brooder's stereo. Call it nostalgia, then, that wants to hold PJ Harvey to the ideal of a Marilyn Manson-Monroe--a timeless icon of voluptuous appetites whose visceral songcraft seduces fairly conventional older crowds while still shocking self-marginalized whippersnappers with its Polly-morphous sexuality and enticingly whispered promises: "You too can be this sad for the... More >>>