MANIC STREET PREACHERS

Being a teenager in the nineties it was almost inevitable that I fell for the Manic Street Preachers in a big way. Their pseudo-intellectual name-dropping and angst-ridden soundbites were perfect musical accompaniment to the life of an awkward teen who bragged to anyone who would listen that he worshipped Dostoevsky and Sartre (without understanding them) and referred to himself as a communist in a misguided attempt to impress the girls. Much of my cultural evolution can be signposted by references in Manic Street Preachers albums - from the books of William Burroughs, Albert Camus and Friedrich Nietzsche to records by the Clash, Guns n'Roses and Public Enemy. Thankfully, I long ago gave up any interest in politics and, ironically, it is the Manics' continued empty-headed sloganeering that has seen them reach such moribund depths as bloated (both artistically and physically) thirty-somethings striving to remain credible to people who have long since thrown the Communist Manifesto aside to work as lawyers and bank managers. Loathe as they would be to admit it the Manic Street Preachers mutated irrecovably the day troubled lyricist Richey Edwards threw himself into the Severn river in 1995 and the success they now enjoy is based almost solely on the bland Britpop anthems of Everything Must Go and the audience they now attract is dwindling away as they turn instead to Jamie Cullum's latest release.

To be fair, I think it is always difficult to be overtly political and not come across as fundamentally naive and hypocritical but the militant stance the Manics so prided themselves on still reeks of self-parody. Chuck D might get away with it because he is a cool black man from New York. Pasty-faced white boys from a crappy Welsh village do not quite have the same swagger about them. Regardless, though, the band in their early days at least benefitted from an accomplished songwriter in frontman James Dean Bradfield, who married the angry punk buzz of the Clash with the melodic power of classic arena rock to produce a roster of songs that offer hard rock thrills with a commercially agreeable pop flavour. Indeed, one of the strangest sights the Top of the Pops' archive has offered up is the Manics' raging performance of "Faster" in 1994 to an enthusiastic but increasingly bewildered studio audience. That said, the lyrics in the early days were a key selling point and although it would be a little unfair to write off Nicky Wire's early efforts on the back of his truly nauseating 'mature' material there is little doubt that it was the deeply disturbed Richey Edwards that was the key figure in the group. An obvious headcase, his actions have become rock folklore, particularly when he carved the words '4 real' into his arm with a razorblade in front of radio DJ and then-journalist Steve Lamacq (whose career seems to be degenerating into just repeating that anecdote) and, of course, his ambiguous suicide, with still no body identified and his parents refusing to register him as officially deceased. Like I said, his politics were conflicted and contradictory (as far as I'm concerned, it is a mistake to think of different policies as 'good' or 'bad', once you enter politics it is all bad) and his literary references stunk of soundbites nicked from a Dictionary of Quotations, rather than familiarity with the primary texts, but his way with words was often mesmerising and when he kept to his favourite subject - himself - frequently astonishing. Like Joy Division's Closer, The Holy Bible (the only real masterpiece the band put out) is a masterwork of misanthropic rage and acutely articulated petulance at the foul and rotting stench of a world. Also like Closer the lyricist killed himself soon after and, indeed like Joy Division/New Order, the remaining members closed ranks and continued in a much-sanitised incarnation which ended up bringing them greater commercial success. The multi-platinum Everything Must Go IS a good album, of course, and I'd be the biggest hypocrite of them all if I didn't admit it got me into them in the first place. Sadly, I realised their quality goes backwards from it, not forwards, and their post-Richey career has been a dreary plod through embarrassingly-politicised dad-rock. Fat, crap, and over the hill, it is a sad play out to a group who were briefly Britain's most vital and arresting band.

From: Helen Jenkins

Just read all the fabulous Manics reviews on ure page, one thing - I just wanted to point out (and I know in the Everything Must Go review, u say "disappeared at least") but throughout u refer to Richey as dead...hmm.

From: Chris

Hi jack. I think you some up the Manics very well. The only thing I disagree with you on is Know Your Enemy being better than This is My Truth. I must admit apart from 3 tracks, I hate that album, (sell out shite). However I'm glad you rate Gold Against The Soul highly, not their best album, but lyrically, but Bradfield's playing is awesom. It's a shame he doesn't do those licks anymore. I think the Manics are still good live, but its a shame that with age away goes all the energy.

From: Geoff

Liked your reviews of the Manics, I'm a fan from New Zealand, my twin brother was a fan for years and years, I couldn't see what all the fuss was about until about five years ago when he played me the track "Archives of Pain" from The Holy Bible which was fucking fantastic (as was the rest of that album) so naturally I got the album off him and man I've been into them ever since. My favourite albums are Generation Terrorist and The Holy Bible, but have to admit that Lipstick Traces is pretty good as well. Their new album Lifeblood I've just recently pruchased but haha think that might take a bit of getting used to! Awesome site anyway, take it easy

When the Manic Street Preachers entered the fray in the early nineties it could certainly be said they did not lack confidence. Echoing the Clash's boasts of being 'the only band that matters' the band immediately established their love-hate relationship with the NME by taunting the publication with claims of their obvious superiority over their peers. Unfortunately, that particular period was a couple of years before my time but it does seem in retrospect that the British music scene was on hold whilst everyone awaited the Stone Roses' second effort and therefore a time when the Manics were justified in making noises about being the future of rock music. As a consequence, they sought to make good on such bold claims by releasing a debut album that ran for the maximum length of a CD; a double album in vinyl terms. The resulting album far-from-flopped and its overly literate political manifestos were obviously unique and no doubt manna from heaven for many similarly-inclined wannabe Trotskyites. Overall, the lyrical rhymes are not as well constructed as on the following two albums, often just pretentious-sounding words jumbled together in no discernable order, and as a result the actual stance of the group is quite hard to clearly extricate bar a general loathing of capitalism and Western society. I suppose on that basis the themes are less likely to become dated, although the anti-banking rant "Nat West - Barclays - Midlands - Lloyds" has lost its relevance given Midlands is now HSBC and the Royal Bank of Scotland has ruthlessly overtaken the lot of them. Perhaps more dated, or at least surprising, is the musical aspect of these eighteen tracks. Despite the popularity of the Pixies in Britain and the growing grunge scene in the States Bradfield and Sean Moore (although as the drummer I am dubious as to his songwriting input) eschew the trends of the time to produce an almost arena rock sound, straight out of the mid-eighties. Moore's snare drum is suitably booming, whilst Bradfield lays on thick the bluesy, crunching guitar riffs and extended, squealing guitar solos. Indeed, there is a strong contradiction between the polished professionalism of Bradfield's approach and Edwards's barely concealed disdain for even touching an instrument. It does make for a strangely out-of-time style, though, as if Bradfield refused to listen to rock music beyond Appetite for Destruction's release and although I generally like his vocals it was recently pointed out to me he does rather sound like the lad from Cheap Trick. In any event, all these lyrical and musical contradictions are forgotten about at least once, on the majestic "Motorcycle Emptiness", remaining to date the Manics' greatest anthem, with its wonderfully yearning melody and sorrowful lead guitar lines. Critics are generally divided over the rest, with some denouncing much of the rest of the material as generic hard rock stodge. Sure, this album is too long (with great bands saving the double album for their creative peak) and some of the songs probably are generic hard rock stodge, albeit with curious, obtuse lyrics, but the vast majority are impressive enough. Although Bradfield's riffs are occasionally excellent ("Slash n'Burn", "Condemned to Rock'n'Roll") the strength of much of the material is simply the melodies with "Love's Sweet Exile", "Little Baby Nothing" (featuring a duet with porn star Traci Lords), "Stay Beautiful" and "Methadone Pretty" all succeeding on the basis of their hooks. Although this is the 'lightest' of the Richey-era albums the band are visceral and vitriolic on occasions with the old school punk of "Repeat (UK)" making its point better than the meek hip-hop 'Stars and Stripes' version (although the former needlessly opens with the intro from It Takes a Nation of Millions) and the anti-religious "Crucifix Kiss" which also features a hilariously contrived attempt to incorporate a passage from the Bible into the melody. Of course, that kinda highlights the fact that unless you are a dedicated worshipper of the Manics (and as I said, I imagine most have grown up by now) or able to take their excesses with a pinch of salt one might find oneself losing patience with such an overblown excursion as this rather quickly. It IS a good album but, sadly, not as good as they obviously think it is or want it to be.

The Manic Street Preachers initially claimed they would disband after one album but - in line with many other of their arrogant claims - they went back on their word. Generation Terrorists had been received favourably by the critics and the rock kids rather took to their old school ethos so it was to everyone's benefit that the Manics saw fit to continue for a while longer yet. Mind you, if they had split up after their fourth album there perhaps would have been less grumbling. Musically, this album is like so many other sophomore efforts in that the band sound much more confident and independent in their own style but without sufficient improvement in the actual songwriting to produce a significantly superior set of songs. The production is meatier, the arrangements more impressive, the lyrics more articulate but even over just ten songs there is as much padding as there was on Generation Terrorists. For instance, the chorus hook for "Drug Drug Druggy" is as dumb as the title (and essentially the same) and the lyrics exhibit Edwards/Wire at their patronising, preachy extreme (which smothered the band's material after Edwards's death). Thankfully, Edwards does show an improvement as a lyricist as a whole and the immaculate set of verse that would document his personal holocaust on the following album is at least hinted at on here with the likes of "From Despair to Where" and the stark, confessional "Life Becoming a Landslide" ('my idea of love comes from a childhood glimpse of pornography'). Furthermore, of course, Bradfield improved significantly as an arranger with the material on here shedding the power chords of the previous album with vicious riffs ("Sleepflower", "Gold Against the Soul") balanced against melodic lead guitar lines ("La Tristessa Durera (Scream to a Sigh)", "Roses in the Hospital") to produce a sound that is unashamedly classic arena-style hard rock. Similarly, the production is more fleshed out than that of their debut with keyboards and imitation-strings boosting the climaxes of many tracks (again the excellent "Life Becoming a Landslide" stands out). At the time the band pointed to their love of Guns n'Roses and it is not too cynical a step to suggest the bigger sound was an attempt to improve their profile over the water. Unfortunately for them, the Manics have never succeeded in America (with most of their albums import-only over there) and such a suggestion is reinforced by the fact The Holy Bible was given a different, meatier mix for its aborted American release. Of course, expensive production values cannot save poor material and the mock-disco of "Nostalgic Pushead" becomes nothing but a polished curiosity, whilst the immature petulance of "Symphony of Tourette" is no less stupid, just louder. And speaking of which, the inclusion of the dictionary definition of Tourette's Syndrome in the sleeve-notes says more about the Manics' puffed-up intellectual vanity than a hundred of my barbed, sarcastic comments ever could. The scathing pop of "Roses in the Hospital" was the biggest single from the album but, for whatever reason, I've never been that taken with it. Still, it helps to contribute to what is undoubtedly another strong set of songs by the band and is also evidence of their advances musically and lyrically. The overall quality still falls short of classic standard but it helped to reinforce the Manics' status as one of the Britain's best new rock bands, even if it only partially hinted at what was coming next.

Although a work of art always reveals something about the person behind it there are only a select few that reveal everything. Within that group there are thankfully even fewer that reveal something truly shocking - a mirror held up not to a human face but to a crooked, blackened, heartless shell, offering up a better, more frightening, vision of Hell than the real Bible ever managed. I said this in my Closer review (with the two albums similar in their misanthropic despair and mesmerising quality) and I reiterate now that the fact that the author of such a work ends their own life shortly afterwards cannot help but reflect on the content of the work but it does not determine it. Miserable albums though they undoubtedly are, the final works of Kurt Cobain (In Utero) and Nick Drake (Pink Moon) are simply not of the same calibre, do not capture the repugnant fascination of hearing men renounce their membership to their species and denounce the state of humanity and the planet it has infested. True, works by the likes of Lou Reed or the Cure might have taken on slightly different significance if they'd topped themselves after recording them but it would not in itself elevate them to this standard. Gold Against the Soul retained the Manic Street Preachers' fanbase but it did not strengthen it. At this stage the band were still determined not to get stuck in a rut, playing it safe, and, for a variety of reasons, The Holy Bible was (and remains) their most uncompromising release. Although the album did not underperform upon release its reputation remains mostly on the strength of critical recommendations and its hardcore following from the fans. Manics fans may argue endlessly over the merits of their other releases but NO-ONE disputes the fact that this is their crowning glory. As is no doubt clear, Nicky Wire was forced to take a back seat to Richey Edwards as the latter produced not just catalogues of new lyrics but lyrics so deeply and uniquely articulate and dripping with such eloquent contempt for society, culture, politics, love, and his own very existence that it would have been impossible - and idiotic - to leave them out. Although many of the songs are disturbingly confessional ("4st 7lb"'s matter of fact portrayal of anorexia) Edwards fixes his wrathful gaze on the very basest elements of Western society and human nature, highlighting the depravity of serial killers on "Archives of Pain" and denouncing our willing acceptance of capitalism as wholescale prostitution on the searing "Yes". Although the politics are still irritatingly pretentious at times ("Revol") and preachy (the political correctness rant "P.C.P.") he at least brings the States down to earth with the biting, cynical "If White America Told The Truth For One Day Its World Would Fall Apart", even if it is ambiguous as to whether he views Britain in the same light. Of course, it is important that the musical side of things is not overrun by the streams of vitriolic verse and, amazingly, Bradfield produced his greatest set of songs to match Edwards's career high (and end) as a lyricist. The sound is as heavy as Gold Against the Soul but without the puffed-up arena rock dynamics. The production is stripped away to just the basic instruments (with Richey no longer even pretending to be a guitarist) and without the keyboards and strings the metallic buzz of the guitar makes for a uniquely gothic grind that perfectly captures the sentiments of the lyrics. Crucially, Bradfield's melodic sense has become even stronger and, at times, it is almost as if there is a self-sabotaging competition between Edwards and Bradfield. However, every time Edwards presents a dense, complex set of verse Bradfield weaves it into an immaculately melodic vocal hook with apparent effortless ease. Very occasionally the mood can get a little oppressive, with the cartoon horror of "The Intense Humming of Evil" somewhat ponderous, but mostly the songs work wonderfully and offer an exhilarating and unique blend of macabre verse and top notch rock music. The opening "Yes" offers perhaps the best example of Bradfield meshing Edwards's words into a shockingly catchy incongruity but the gothic climax of "Mausoleum" and the almost power-pop of the closing "P.C.P." are equally compelling. Nothing is superior, though, to "Faster" - the obvious and undisputed centrepiece of the album and the envy-inducing kiss-off to the world by an angry young man. The gratuitous name-dropping in the chorus now seems rather immature ('I am stronger than MENSA, Miller and Mailer/I spat out Plath and Pinter') but the verses are a series of wonderful one-liners that have probably been carved into a thousand school desks over Britain and I'm certain 'I know I believe in nothing but it is my nothing' and 'I've been too honest with myself, I should have lied like everybody else' were scribbled into my notebooks on more than one occasion. One wonders, really, when Bradfield was setting his masterful arrangements to these words how concerned he became over his friend's mindset. As it is, he'll have to decide whether he should be proud or repulsed that he gave extra prominence to such an articulate and savage suicide note by framing it within such a peerless appropriation of hard rock. Although its non-existent status in America means it has rarely been mentioned in such terms in the mainstream media there seems little doubt to me that this release was one of the absolute finest albums of the decade. It is a landmark release and just as thrilling and unique ten years on as it was at the time. It is far from a comfortable listen but, for whatever sins the band committed, it deserves to take its place as one of the most powerful albums in rock music history.

From: Yvan RUZZICONI

Hi Jack. Good reviews, very good in fact. Except maybe too much indulgence with punk music album. Manic street preachers are a stupid arrogant band. A mix of Oasis and the Sex Pistols. So, The Holy Bible is a great album but the lack of gloomy atmosphere doesn’t make it the darkest of all time. Sure great lyrics but maybe far too much explicit. I don’t think pretty intelligent or perfectly clever to use "arbeit macht frei" in a song. What about to claim that Hitler was a bad guy. And the sound is so far, so cold, so empty sometimes. The singer got an awful accent. Still with the intention to condemn the world weakness, pretty politic, a band with big balls, Rickey save the whole package with a human despair. And that’s this sensation that makes it a great album. The song about anorexia is superb. It would have been a magnificent thing if they could have stayed simple and not so arrogant.

Everyone loves a comeback story and perhaps it was inevitable that when Richey Edwards left his car in a notorious suicide spot in 1995 and disappeared either into the night or the unforgiving waters of the Severn river the Manic Street Preachers would come back stronger. Stronger commercially, that is, as without their most compelling member they were never likely to reach the artistic heights that the troubled genius of The Holy Bible scaled. Without wishing to diminish the three-piece's achievements too much the Manics were also benefitted simply by the changing of the music scene, with their fourth album appearing in the eye of the storm created by Britpop's resurgence and therefore catapulted to public prominence in a way that might not have been possible if there had been less enthusiasm towards guitar music at the time. A vast proportion of people who bought this album (including myself) had not even heard of the band until the string-laden epic anthem "A Design for Life" started flooding the airwaves. Of course, their jump in profile was a two-way thing as, without Richey's miserablism suffocating the rest of the band's more mellowed outlook, they were able to write an album almost of pure pop songs with the metallic gothic grind replaced by sanitised arena rock arrangements and anthemic strings. Like many a smash album the sum of the parts proved to be less than the strength of the many singles that promoted it and although this album walked away with a plethora of awards (with 'props' to Richey no doubt featuring heavily in the acceptance speeches) it is actually, arguably, the weakest release of their career thus far. Although Bradfield's songwriting skills remain formidable and concerned mostly with melody his efforts lack the urgency of his previous efforts and it often seems like commercial success came at the price of muted artistic ambition. Of course, you can't mess with "A Design for Life" and although the Orwellian lyrics return to their naive, preachy sloganeering the strings give it an epic uplift and the chorus remains one of the most spine-tingling moments in their career (with the line 'we don't talk about love/we just wanna get drunk' misinterpreted as frequently as "Born in the USA"). The title track, and second most successful single, recycles the same trick, but marginally less impressively, and "Kevin Carter" was also a big hit, with its rat-a-tat melody and guitar riff supporting a somewhat incomprehensible account of the doomed photographer's murder. Sean Moore also takes greater strides to prove his musical influence on the latter with a bizarre and incongruous trumpet solo (not just a drummer, see). Lyrically, Wire obviously takes on far more responsibility but, surprisingly, about half the songs were apparently picked from the notes Edwards had left behind. Even more surprising, if these songs were written after The Holy Bible, is that the subject matter is far less intensely personal with, as well as "Kevin Carter", his sincere tribute to Sylvia Plath in "The Girl Who Wanted to Be God", and "Small Black Flowers That Grow in the Sky", a rather heavy-handed depiction of caged animals but rescued by Bradfield's beautiful acoustic and harp arrangement. Despite being around during its golden age "Removables" is the first real attempt by the band to address grunge and its stale, predictable dynamics seem to support their ethos of not looking beyond Guns n'Roses for influences. Everything else is basically power pop supported by crashing power chords with the best such cuts being "Enola/Alone" and, yet another chart success, "Australia" (which they rather sweetly allowed the Australian Tourist Board to use for its adverts). As a result, and like a lot of big-selling albums, beyond the impressively catchy singles there is not a great deal to laud and the overall effect is rather a prosaic one when compared to the darkened horror of The Holy Bible. Sadly, it was also as good as it got for the second stage of the Manic Street Preachers' career.

With Everything Must Go's phenomenal success (in Britain, they remained about as popular as Bin Laden in the States) the Manic Street Preachers finally reached the highest level in the rock hierarchy. Ironically, for a band that started out with arrogant promises about their relevance and stature, they were at their very least interesting and provocative at the very top. One would think the youthful Richey Edwards and Nicky Wire would have balked at the thought this is how they would reach superstardom but as he approached middle-age Wire was almost brazenly proud to be compromising the band's sound and attitude. "My Little Empire", in particular, is fatuous drivel about living a boring life in a boring town featuring such lyrical gems as 'I'm tired of being tired' and 'I'm done with being done'. A far cry from the compelling personal savagery of The Holy Bible or even the nihilistic call to arms of Generation Terrorists. Given Everything Must Go emerged out of the tragedy of Richey's death This Is My Truth was the first release where the band really had a chance to reflect on his demise and, predictably, much of Wire's dreary, maudlin lyrics are concerned with both the state of Richey's mind ("Nobody Loved You", "You're Tender and You're Tired") and his own ("Ready for Drowning"). Wire's attempts to get all political on our sorry asses is a similarly jaded affair with the low-point being the album closer "S.Y.M.M.". Concerning the Hillsborough disaster in the late eighties where 97 Liverpool fans were crushed to death due to the negligence of the police the initials stand for 'South Yorkshire Mass Murder' and the band's moral cowardice in not printing it in full on the back is only the tip of the problem and should not gloss over Wire's truly, truly dreadful lyrics ('thank you Jimmy McGovern for reminding me what lives on') and Bradfield's almost peversely melodyless arrangement. Indeed, the problem with this album is two-fold, not only are Wire's lyrics an embarrassment to Edwards's memory but James Dean Bradfield struggled almost entirely to match ANY of them to decent melodies and arrangements. The whole exercise is excruciatingly mid-tempo and so dreary, both lyrically and musically, that it is a real chore to listen through to the end; a problem that is exacerbated by the fact the good songs are over by track five. In a meagre attempt at frontloading the two best songs appear first with the slow ballad "The Everlasting" making for a strange but nonetheless vaguely melodic opening and initial single "If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next" offering a downbeat account of the Spanish Civil War and the last decent T-Shirt slogan the band managed ('if I can shoot rabbits then I can shoot fascists'). Beyond that I still kinda like the sitar dominated "Tsunami", with the poppiest chorus hook on the album, but everything else, even the other singles, is a lame attempt to recreate the success of Everything Must Go. The album underperformed commercially, quite understandably, and the band have since fallen away again from the spotlight as the Everything Must Go newcomers ambled away and the hardcore fans distanced themselves from their new incarnation. Although future releases improved marginally on the drawn-out lethargy of this album the band already sound like the dads of the quartet behind The Holy Bible and suddenly that naive promise of breaking up after one album seems more and more tempting.

It took me a while to stump up the courage (and cash) to get the follow-up to This Is My Truth and I was somewhat relieved to realise it isn't actually that bad. It ain't very good (let's get that straight from the start) but it is nowhere near as offensively poor as most of the last album was. In fact, this album is all together pretty inoffensive. Of course, I doubt the Manics will ever produce another great album after losing their principle inspirational artist (Richey Edwards, to you and me) but at least the insidious Nicky Wire is only insidious on occasions. I initially accused this album of being a sell-out and, for the most part, I stand by the claim. On the other hand, only rarely do they aim to mimic their original angry young selves but mainly they stick to ripping off Everything Must Go, which is far more acceptable (given it was never artistically ambitious to begin with). The occasions they do strive for originality on this album are often horrendously embarrassing. Well, the excruciating double bill of "Wattsville Blues" and "Miss Europa Disco Dancer" is certainly embarrassing. "Wattsville Blues" is simply a terrible song, whilst the affected disco beats of "Miss Europa Disco Dancer" is definitely cringe-worthy and makes for a really horrible effort. Nicky Wire is also at his most obnoxious on those two, with his terrible lead vocals on "Wattsville Blues", whilst his chanting of "brain-dead mother-fuckers" at the end of "Miss Europa" is as moronic a gesture as he's ever attempted. I suppose he thinks it makes him sound angry and aggressive but he just sounds like some Welsh twat in his mid-thirties swearing for the sake of looking cool (which is precisely what he is). Well, to be fair, it is only those two songs that really succeed in self-ridiculing the band. There are still some poor knock-offs on here, though. The opening "Found That Soul" obviously aims at recapturing the original spirit and it seems like the only way they know how is to shamelessly rip off an old punk classic (the Stooges' "Raw Power"). It is not even as if people would fall for it as "Raw Power" is obviously a pretty famous song, not to mention the fact that it has been ripped-off so many times before that the Manics even seem unoriginal in their unoriginality. The song was actually released as a single at the exact same time as "So Why So Sad" (perhaps mimicking Guns n'Roses' simultaneous release of Use Your Illusion I and II) but it seems like a bad move in retrospect as neither are anywhere near to being best tracks on here. "So Why So Sad" is a little better but the Phil Spector-esque production is a mis-step and the song is nothing greater than mediocre. Most of the rest of the album basically repeats the template of Everything Must Go ("Royal Correspondent", seemingly written about that posh BBC reporter Jennie Bond, "borrows" the vocal melody from the far superior "Small Black Flowers") which at least means the songs are all inoffensive. The album, again, is too long (sixteen songs should have been reduced to about ten to achieve 7* quality) and the samey Everything Must Go knock-offs on the second half often fail to engage the listener. The second half does have its moments, though, mainly "The Convalescent" which at least features a great falsetto vocal hook from Bradfield ("so I convalesce, and I ease the stress"). The album also finishes strongly with the superbly titled "Freedom of Speech Won't Feed My Children". Before I'd heard the song I presumed I'd be calling it a better slogan than song but it is actually a really good driving song with something approaching genuine aggression that only mildly hints at selling out ("IfWhiteAmerica..."). Most of the nice surprises come on the first half of the album, however. The folky "Let Robeson Sing" is unambitious and therefore inoffensive and the aggressive "Intravenous Agnostic" (whatever that means) again is a good enough song to temper accusations of selling out. The best song on the album, though, is probably the first to feature Bradfield's own lyrics - "Ocean Spray". Dealing with the death of his mother, it is a genuinely touching song (although the pointless "Kevin Carter"-esque trumpet solo is a disappointing touch). Basically, "Ocean Spray" suggests to me that the Manics should call it a day (perhaps the forthcoming Greatest Hits package is a fore-warning of this). Bradfield remains a good songwriter, even if his arrangements veer towards adult contemporary rock he can still knock off fairly memorable melodies, so I'm sure he might have a decent solo career ahead of him. Wire, on the other hand, has lost effectively all of his lyrical prowess ("Freedom of Speech" aside) and is spoiling satisfactory albums with his obnoxious and insidious personality. Still, I was wrong in a way - this album is inoffensive enough and is certainly not as bad as This is My Truth. It still fails to really justify the continued existence of the Richey-less Manic Street Preachers however.

The Manics released a greatest hits package in 2002 (Forever Delayed) which was, quite frankly, sickening. ONE song from The Holy Bible was included ("Faster") whilst the CD was mostly filled up with the likes of "You Stole the Sun From My Heart" and "So Why So Sad". Now I realise the people they are trying to sell the compilation to are not going to be particularly taken with "Archives of Pain" or "Mausoleum" as a result of being acquired by their sanitised Brit-rock anthems, primarily from Everything Must Go. Therefore, to again try and dispel the selling-out accusations (which I'm not buying - releasing a Greatest Hits whilst still active is always a sell-out in my eyes) the Manics collected together some odds and ends from their career to win back the long-term fans. (You'll be glad to learn I do feel at least a little hypocritical writing this as I was one of the fans who didn't know of their existence until after Everything Must Go.) Primarily this is a b-sides and covers exercise but the mere fact that we get a further chance to re-examine their early career (which they seem almost embarrassed of, these days) is reason enough for me to be reasonably content with this offering. The set is split into two CDs, with the first including all the b-sides and the odd unreleased offering and the second including only the covers which, in turn, are roughly split between studio and live renditions. I probably could have divided this review into two as a result, and given the second CD its own paragraph, but, quite frankly, it is hardly worth it. I've not heard of "We Are All Bourgeois Now" and "Take the Skinheads Bowling" before but both are pretty decent driving rockers. The Clash covers of "Train in Vain" and "What's My Name" and GNR's "It's So Easy" are all faithful enough but there really ain't a huge amount to take out of the experience. Nirvana's "Been a Son" on a slide-guitar doesn't really work and the faithful covers of the Stones' "Out of Time" and the easy-listening classics "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" and "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" are pointless and inconsequential. The less said about an excruciatingly bone-headed but remarkably lifeless "Rock and Roll Music" the better. Let's just be thankful they were wise enough to not release a covers album separately, even if this compilation would undoubtedly be better if they'd just thrown the handful of decent covers onto the main CD. Anyhow, the first CD is pretty good, all told, and easily worthy of the individual 8* grade awarded above. Surprisingly, the b-sides from the last two albums are actually all pretty impressive and it is nothing short of shocking that they weren't included on their respective albums. How the hell did something as banal as "Nobody Loved You", for instance, get on This Is My Truth ahead of the superb bludgeoning rocker "Prologue to History"? Christ, even Wire's lyrics are pretty cool. Similarly the New Labour rant "Socialist Serenade", another b-side from the album, would have been a best track. That said, "Valley Boy" bucks the trend as it is easily sufficiently dreary and lyrically smug enough to have been a This Is My Truth track. In terms of good late-era songs we are also treated to the vaguely space rock of "4 Ever Delayed" and the above-par Know Your Enemy b-side "Just a Kid". Of course, the fact that the post-Richey material is much better than expected (the Everything Must Go b-side "Mr Carbohydrate" is also a pleasure) is just a bonus, really. What we really came here for was more of the good stuff from 1992-4. Amazingly, there is even MORE material from the Generation Terrorist sessions although it all sounds like the decent songs on the album. I wouldn't say any of them are poor but they hardly stick in your mind after listening much either. Basically, they sound like good b-sides from a great album. The Gold Against the Soul b-sides are arguably the most disappointing aspect as both "Donkeys" and "Comfort Comes" prove to be something of an anti-climax. So, finally, what do we get treated to from The Holy Bible sessions? What could possibly match the darkest, greatest and most underrated album of the nineties? Well, unfortunately we are only treated to a mere two numbers but, fortunately, they are fucking superb. "Judge Yr'Self" was actually previously unreleased and therefore put out as a single with this compilation and it is an almost painful reminder of how great they used to be. Unsurprisingly it is a gothic, grinding rocker with equally intense lyrics from Richey and vocals from James Dean. If you think that's impressive, though, "Sculpture of Man" is arguably even greater. It is over within two minutes and is one of the most intense, aggressive and vitriolic songs I've ever heard. The lyrics are pure genius, reminding us of Richey at his bitter and misanthropic best. Although it was obviously written before the event it takes balls to release a song with the lyric "Wills and Harry dressed in drag/Standing over the sodomised body of their mother/Would make a beautiful poster in Athena" after the poor People's Princess was bumped off by the paparazzi and MI6. To be honest, though, it is arguable whether either song warrants an inclusion on the original album which only reinforces its breath-taking quality. Of course, it is sad that the Manics will never come to close to matching that sort of form again but at least the likes of "Prologue to History" and "4 Ever Delayed" hint that they might have something reasonably decent still left in them. Certainly this compilation is a better bet than Forever Delayed although first-time buyers should just head straight to The Holy Bible anyway. This is an essential for hardcore fans, I guess, although it is a bit of a shame they insisted on including all those shitty covers. One thing the Manics never had was a decent sense of humour.

Ironically, my initial accusations of Know Your Enemy being a sell-out were subsequently taken up by the critics who had originally championed it, although it may just have been a tool with which to make obvious contrasts with the seventh album of the Manic Street Preachers' career. Although the Manics were still riding sufficiently high to promote a Greatest Hits collection in the early noughties the relative failure of this album, their lowest chart entry since their debut, combined with its staid, anodyne set of songs has put the band on rockier footing. Bradfield claimed at the time of Forever Delayed that the band saw no point splitting up as they'd just reform a few years later when they'd got bored of sitting round the house, drinking tea, but the Manics' absence after the arena tour that followed this album is conspicuous and Bradfield's solo appearances on the live circuit ominous. In any event, this is the first release of their post-Richey career which sees them deliberately restraining their more ludicrous extremes and, in effect, offers up an unashamed appropriation of adult contemporary, complete with David Bowie's old producer, Tony Visconti. To be fair to Visconti, the sound is more reminiscent of the eighties, than the seventies, and it is ironic that a band whose history mirrors New Order went on to release an album that sounds almost exactly like them. There is none of the middle-aged raging of Know Your Enemy, the lyrics are (nearly) all modest and, indeed, somewhat boring, and the entire album is awash with shimmering keyboards and quiet guitars. In fact, it is risky territory for a band that made their name on the back of nihilistic rage and lovingly constructed hard rock and punk tributes and could easily have echoed the very dullest moments on This Is My Truth. That the band do not produce twelve repeats of the agonising banality of, say, "S.Y.M.M." is no small relief and, in fact, the overall effect is one that is slightly better than This Is My Truth, if only because their modesty prevents them from pretending their mediocre songs are anything close to the visceral genius of their best work. Therefore it is difficult to decide whether this album is a great disappointment, as it is hard to relate the band that released The Holy Bible with an album this bland, or simply a relief that they are no longer a trio of thirty-somethings trying to gatecrash a politics student's house party. A bit of both is obviously the answer but given they are continuing to record under the same name that is printed on the cover of the first three albums there is certainly relief that they do so with some much-needed maturity. The occasional retrospective throwback, such as the finger-gnawing line 'so God is dead/like Nietzsche said' from "1985"'s chorus and the entirety of the baffling "The Love of Richard Nixon", remind us of Wire's often crushing idiocy but they are rare moments. Indeed, the first track on the album is retrospective of a time before the Manics even existed with it seemingly just recalling things that happened in 1985 (with Everton's league and European Cup Winner's Cup double shockingly omitted). The song is a perfect example of banal lyrics being set to a bland sound but with enough subtle yet distinct melodicism to allow it to pass without complaint. Apart from the plodding "The Love of Richard Nixon" there are no obvious stinkers on here, an improvement from This Is My Truth and Know Your Enemy, although it may just seem that way because the entire set is so white and watery it trickles past unnoticed. After the semi-angry double bill of "Empty Souls" and "A Song for Departure" (the most arresting songs on the album, and that ain't saying much) it becomes difficult to really overtly criticise or praise any of the material. "Solitude Sometimes Is", though clumsily titled, is the stand-out ballad on the album, with a restrained march that raises it out and above the other material. It is really one of those albums where anyone would be hard pushed to really lay into it but, equally, it is difficult to imagine anyone putting it on the stereo with any degree of regularity. Given the way the Manics have struggled to cement a new identity after Richey's death it might just be that this is a transitional album and the band will come back with a stronger sound. Or it might just be their days in the sun are well and truly in the past and all we can look forward to now is a raft of disappointing albums and numerous 'comeback' tours until we all forget exactly why we liked them in the first place.

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Email me at: jackfeeny@yahoo.co.uk