Sketches from the Book of the Dead

The primary question that you are left asking is why it's taken a man with so much talent so long to release his solo debut? Fortunately there is enough worth and intrigue within this record to keep you occupied until the next one, if there is one.

Harvey's music has never been more self-assured than it is here, and this album marks the dawn of a new era for him as an artist.

It's an album dependent on listener mood and one that can often feel droningly dark and unfocused.

If you can get on board with Harvey's uniquely theatrical songwriting style, then there's a prismatic world of life, love, indulgence, abandonment, betrayal, and ultimately, death in this record. Sadly, for those of you happier to be six months clear of pantomime season, it's maybe a struggle to appreciate these songs as much more than histrionic fiction.

It's a tantalizing glimpse of how great solo Harvey can be, but unfortunately, a good deal of the rest of the album is simply unmemorable.

Harvey's softly purring voice hardly leaps from the speakers, but his identity is stamped strikingly on Rhymeless, with its malevolent appropriation of "all the songs you never sang to your little ones." [Jun 2011, p.103]

What we're left with is a sincere, patiently crafted musical statement that is high on atmosphere but rather hard work.

Sparsely arranged around piano, guitar and his gruff vocals, it's sombre, but affecting.