Is there such a thing as being "too close for comfort" or giving up "too much information" these days as we detox after an overdose of media consumption and reality TV? You could probably set a clock to those dated phrases, yet either notion would work as the subtitle of PJ Harvey's latest CD, Uh Huh Her, a raw, in-your-face rejoinder to the sleek, triumphant pop-rock strut of 2000's Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea. True to its grunt-worthy, !!!-ish name, Uh Huh Her sounds smudged and sludged-out eking out of your computer speakers. This is dusky headphone music, meant for private, individual listening sessions – the easier for Peej and company to get on the direct expressway to your skull. Intimacy, rather than reality, is the key here, from the bled-out cover shot to Harvey's appreciation for the lost, sexy art of letter writing ("You and me / We'll be different / Take the cap / Off your pen / Wet the envelope / Lick and lick it"), so all those with commitment issues and boundary problems might want to keep driving.

Those who don't pass can take a cue from the wildly varying Harvey snapshot self-portraits and self-critical cut-up notes bedecking the inner sleeve. Uh Huh Her turns out to be the aural equivalent of a set of Cindy Sherman images, filtered through the dark, rough stuff of a girl's diaries: a dominant bass that grumbles like both a melodic prod and a rhythmic foundation; bare-faced acoustic guitar; and keyboards, electronic textures, and violins that cut the growling boogie with an appreciation for synthetic pleasures. Consistency and perfection be damned – these are the many faces of Polly. Clearly in transit, self-producing and playing almost all the instruments, Harvey moves from the more refined, Stories-like chord progressions of "The Life and Death of Mr. Bad Mouth" and "Shame," to the tender folk of "The Desperate Kingdom of Love" and "Pocket Knife," with grinding stops for the Sonic Youth-ful wail and crunch of "Who the Fuck?" and "The Cat on the Wall," songs that toss and turn on thwarted desire. Where to next? Consider this a road trip through a restless mind. (Kimberly Chun)

Johnny Cash
Presents a Concert Behind Prison Walls DVD (Eagle Eye Media)

To hear Johnny Cash sing "Folsom Prison Blues" is to experience one of American music's finest moments. His deep, mournful voice communicates a timeless anguish; the empathy he conveys speaks to one of the most admirable currents in American culture. To see the song performed in front of a roomful of men who, locked away, are at the end of their rope is a powerful experience.

Still, if that's the musical high point of this amazing DVD, his song "Jacob Green" resonates in today's America in a way that's almost uncanny. The song – a true story set to music by Cash – is about a 16-year-old boy who, after being arrested on a pot possession rap, was singled out for especially cruel treatment: "At the jail they took away all his clothes to shame him / And to make sure he had no pride left." The image of an Iraqi prisoner standing naked on one foot with his head covered and his genitals wired to a generator is so powerful that one scarcely hears Cash mention the boy's suicide.

Cash has a way of cutting through the bullshit, and his performance in this hour-long film – shot in 1977 at Tennessee State Prison in Nashville – is superb. No doubt his recent death has opened the floodgates for Cash-related material. The other highlight is Linda Ronstadt's take on Don Henley's "Desperado" – although Henley's notion that "freedom is just some people talkin' " is, well, just one person talking. Ronstadt – dressed in a minidress and looking like she's about to panic and sprint out the back door for most of her performance – delivers a rock-solid four-song set, backed by an Andrew Gold-led band that manages to look more uncomfortable than the singer. The jail experience did not become them a bit.

The DVD comes with a CD of the same concert – perhaps because the concert itself is relatively brief. It's a welcome addition, because the package, though sumptuous-looking, is a bit thin. (J.H. Tompkins)

Juana Molina
Tres cosas (Domino Records)

Establish yourself as one of your country's best-known comedic actors. Record an album that most dismiss as a vanity project despite its distinctly unglamorous feel. Go back to acting for seven years, then release another record, one that this time makes numerous year-end top 10s. Argentine singer-producer Juana Molina certainly took the road less traveled in her musical career, but one listen to her distinctly unusual and deliciously remarkable songs, and it's obvious this artist doesn't follow the rules.

Take the elements most commonly mentioned in reviews of last year's beautiful Segundo (Domino): Latin and electronica. While those grossly encompassing words usually conjure club beats uneasily wed to congas and cuicas, Segundo was a quietly intimate affair, with moments of drone and glitch flitting among quirky acoustic guitar and Molina's breathy vocals. Tres cosas treads similar territory but sharpens the focus on Molina's songwriting and delicate guitar work while moving the laptop flotsam and jetsam into the background. The creaking clicks and whirring hums are still there, providing a subtle counterpoint to Molina's gentle picking and whispered lyrics, but on this album they peek around the corners of her elliptical, edge-of-catchy melodies.

These are songs for reveries, for slowly waking up and falling back to sleep, never knowing which is which. The swallowed, muted bass drum on the title track plunks along beneath Molina's singsong vocals, while a synth warbles to itself and a few guitar notes echo back and forth. "Isabel" draws a line with its folky guitar, then spreads a wash of watercolor electronics below Molina's lullaby voice. Yet, despite their ethereal, almost incidental flavor, tracks like "Yo sé que" or "Cúrame" are never noodling, skillfully avoiding self-indulgence in their introspection. The one fault of Tres cosas lies with a tendency to fade into the background, its soothing coherence of tone and arrangement slipping away from attention. But I suspect this might not be the case if I knew a bit of Spanish and is more a fault of this monolingual, easily distracted listener than this enchanting dream of an album. (Peter Nicholson)