There is something undeniably satisfying about reconnecting with bands you loved during your formative years. Bands that have always been important to you, but as you got older, other things came along. While you still enjoyed the music, the youthful passion began to wane and those beloved discs, with their much-thumbed inserts and cracked cases, sat neglected on the shelf for a few years as you went on with life. Then one day as you look for something to listen to, you grab a CD off the shelf and shove it in your car’s CD player. As you listen to it with fresh ears and a more mature perspective, you start to feel a rekindling of the old passion you felt years ago. You listen again and you’re hooked, but it’s different this time; this time it’s better. The music talks to you on a different level. It’s a deeper, more meaningful connection.
Music is a form of expression and sadly, it seems today it has become a form of making money. Manufactured bands and solo artists that have to resort to ludicrous gimmicks just to sell records along with bands that refuse to go quietly into the night, have cheapened the listening experience. The emotion and expression has been replaced by banal, trite lyrics and melodies without substance. What was once a platform that inspired thought and change has been reduced to background noise played in shops, offices, and various public venues. With the exception of a rare few, modern music has lost its lifeblood and become anemic. Feeling I was drowning in melismatic mediocrity, I went back through my collection and found my salvation in The Manic Street Preachers.
My introduction to the Manics was brought about by a friend from Australia, with whom I shared a similar interest in music. He came to the States for a visit one summer, bringing with him, the newly released Generation Terrorists CD. The appeal was instant, “Stay Beautiful”, “Condemned to Rock and Roll” and the heartbreaking, “Motorcycle Emptiness”, conquered and converted me. Donned in white jeans, black eyeliner and leopard print, doused with aggression, the Manics became my religion. I had been a fan of the Sex Pistols, (long after their demise) finding their belligerence and pugnacious aggression against convention and authority very appealing. The Manics had all that; they also had intelligence and a sincerity that the Pistols did not. The Manics were, as the tortured Richey Edwards carved into his arm, 4 REAL. They could never have created the music they did if they hadn’t been. Generation Terrorists, along with The Queen is Dead, by The Smiths, were two of the most important albums in the formation of my musical evolution.
The follow up, Gold Against the Soul carried over the aggression of Generation Terrorists, but reflected a slight change in direction as James Dean Bradfield began to show an inclination towards a more melodic approach. Especially noted in “From Despair to Where” and the track that followed, “Scream to a Sigh (La Tristesse Durera)”. Tracks like “Nostalgic Pushead” and the ironically upbeat “Drug, Drug, Druggy” would have been equally at home on Generation Terrorists; while tracks like “Yourself” and “Symphony of Tourette” were an indication of what would come next-something no one expected. The deeply disturbing, The Holy Bible. I coveted Gold Against the Soul” just as I had Generation Terrorist and continued to be a devout parishioner.
And then…I stopped listening, and Richey Edwards disappeared, creating one of the biggest mysteries in rock music.
The Manics despaired about the fate of Richey, when he disappeared in 1995, and it was that despair that ironically saved them with “A Design for Life” off the captivating 1996 release, Everything Must Go. To quote Shelley the Manics found the “pleasure which exists in pain” and made Everything Must Go, a cornerstone in the Manic Street Preachers catalog. And along with its disturbing predecessor, The Holy Bible, it remains one of James Dean Bradfield’s favorites. It is also one of mine. It was this album that brought me back into the fold. The Manics had reinvented themselves-they were reflective, yet looking forward. They were changing their sonic landscape with the addition of strings and a tighter sound, while keeping some of the earlier energetic aggression in tracks like “Enola/Alone” and “Further Away”.
As much as I revered Everything Must Go, it didn’t prepare me for what was to follow-This is My Truth Tell Me Yours. Here, I must make a confession-I was afraid to listen to it. I was afraid of being let down, afraid the band had their moment in the sun and nothing the Manics did would live up to Everything Must Go. My fears were unfounded. This is My Truth Tell Me Yours, was a showcase for Bradfield’s musical maturity and Nicky Wire’s lyrical artistry coming out from behind Richey Edwards. Even Sean Moore’s drumming sounded more passionate. This was the Manics at their most brutal and beautiful. Tracks like “The Everlasting”, “Ready for Drowning” and “I’m Not Working” are rich with what Wordsworth called the “spontaneous overflow of emotion”. This is My Truth Tell Me Yours, pulls you in and doesn’t let go until it has squeezed out your deepest emotions and leaves you feeling a bit disturbed as if you have experienced a personal violation of sorts and secretly enjoyed it. Perhaps the assault left me emotionally drained, for it was the last Manic Street Preachers album I bought or listened to until 2007.
I’m not sure what is was about Send Away the Tigers that rekindled the devotion. It may have been the return to the guitar driven opening track, as well as Underdogs which gave a nod towards Generation Terrorists or “The Second Great Depression” which could have easily found itself at home on Everything Must Go. The Manics were back for me, and this time I wasn’t going to let go.
I realize I have left out a few recordings. Particularly The Holy Bible. The Holy Bible is its own entity. For me, I see it as something that cannot be lumped in with the rest of the Manics catalog. It is brutally disturbing and darkly beautiful. It is not for the casual listener. It is a powerful album, one that demands respect and caution. Each time I hear it, it leaves me feeling a bit uneasy, but yet I can’t stop listening to it.
James Dean Bradfield, a self-proclaimed lover of melody, is also a master of it-creating melodies so gorgeous, so sonically lush; it leaves you breathless, like a sucker punch to the stomach. The Manic Street Preachers are on a higher level than most other bands. They demand and receive commitment and dedication.
Simon Price, author of the brilliant Everything (A Book About Manic Street Preachers) stated “The Manics still leave me uncertain. Which means they leave me thinking. This is their ultimate triumph.” (Price xiii) The lack of this in modern music is exactly why rock music has become dormant and cheap pop has become the genre of choice. We have become a society of distractions preferring to use machines and social media to do the thinking for us. However, as the Manic Street Preachers continue to inspire new generations of musicians, I am not ready to give up all hope. As long as our smiles stay genuine, the influence of the Manic Street Preachers will remain everlasting.