Gatefold sleeve.

The forest has always surrounded the music of PJ Harvey. Even her rawest, grungiest record, Rid of Me, had an earthy presence at its center, like a vengeful dryad locked in a dank basement; her glossiest, Stories from the City..., alternates between the modern pleasures of city life (Sex! Alcohol! Polished production!) and a numb sense of alienation from a natural way of being that those pleasures can never quite keep at bay. With every subsequent album, the trees grew closer and closer, branches beckoning; now, she has run out to join them, and if we look carefully through the thickets, we may see the glow of the hearth in her new bramble-shrouded home.