Album review: Manic Street Preachers: 'Journal for Plague Lovers'

MANIC STREET PREACHERS: 'Journal for Plague Lovers' (Columbia)

When news first broke that the 2008 incarnation of Manic Street Preachers were about to put former band member and cultural icon Richey Edwards’s unused lyrics to music, and release said project as their ninth studio album, an entire nation took a sudden gasp of air. For a split second, there was a palpable apprehension in the glorious world of indie-rock; Edwards’s place in the pantheon of British rock history is assured and the reverence bestowed upon his lyrical works is almost unprecedented. The last thing any of us needed was to have this iconoclastic pedestal demolished from within by a band whose past four or five years have been patchy at best. Sure, ‘Send Away the Tigers’ was a solid effort, but it was a retread, a largely successful attempt to recapture the success of 1996’s ‘Everything Must Go’, the one sublime (mostly) non-Richey album. When they’ve attempted to channel their ‘former glories’ this decade, as in 2001’s ‘Know Your Enemy’, the results have been somewhat lacking. A similar effort in 2009 would’ve been catastrophic for everyone. And then, of course, there was the risk that Edwards’s final words simply wouldn’t be good enough, that they’d tarnish his legacy through their ‘rambling’ nature, something that Sean Moore had hinted at in interviews in the aftermath of his disappearance. The stakes were high, the pressure most definitely on… could this most maligned of trios really succeed?

We needn’t have worried. The Manics have clearly approached ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’ with the clarity needed to do its litany of masterful and beguiling lyrics every justice in the world. This is as faithful a record as we could possibly have hoped for, perfectly capturing the essence of Richey’s words while managing to avoid stylistic repetition or, worse, musical nostalgia. A great number of critics expected this project to be ‘The Holy Bible, part 2’ and while there are similarities, this is less of a sequel and more of a sister record, reflecting some of the thematic concerns of its predecessor but taking them in new directions, finding some solutions to the problems and quandaries posed within its palate. This is the sound of a more resigned Edwards, a man who has drawn his own conclusions about his issues, made decisions about how best to deal with them and while they may not always be the most positive or pleasing, they are nevertheless his. Ultimately, however, it proves somewhat fruitless to fixate on the lyrics – as fantastically evocative as they are (‘Riderless horses on Chomsky’s Camelot’, ‘transgenic milk containing human protein’, ‘this beauty here dripping neophobia’ – where else do you get such vivid imagery? Certainly not in Pigeon Detectives albums, that’s for sure) – because their author isn’t around to clarify them. We can only speculate, and at times be completely baffled (just what is ‘Jackie Collins’ Existential Question Time’ actually about, huh?!), which is why the music arguably takes such a central role. And boy, what music.

‘The Holy Bible’ may be one of the most accomplished records of the last two decades, but it certainly cannot boast the diversity of sound on display here. Its monolithic, unrelenting brusqueness, the abrasion of its taut, clipped guitars and militaristic, gothic production gives it the cohesion it needs to work as an essay on all the most horrific of man’s creations and proclivities. It perfectly reflects the prose, the motifs. ‘Journal’ does the same; its range of sounds and styles capture the scattershot nature of the lyrics, allowing the listener to experience the range of emotions they depict, from the bittersweet resignation of ‘William’s Last Words’, with its quiet collision of unusual orchestral parts and uncomfortable vocals from a Mark E Smith-esque Nicky Wire, to the wonderfully celebratory ‘Marlon J.D.’, with a dance backbeat that’s so rhythmic, it would be a crime if it never cropped up in the nation’s indie clubs. It’s a fantastic move, putting Richey’s hero-worshipping prose to such catchy noise, peppered with quotes from its namesake.

‘Jackie Collins’ is similarly jaunty, a delightfully oblique lyric asking questions about what constitutes fidelity, worked around the most addictive guitar riff of the decade. The moment when the guitars crank up a notch mid-song and James screams about ‘situationist sisterhoods’ (whatever they are) is so exciting, you practically shit your pants with glee. ‘All Is Vanity’s irresistible punchline – ‘it’s the facts of life, sunshine!’ – is probably the only thing that comes close to matching it for sheer, reckless enjoyment. That isn’t to say that the other tracks are at all lacking, mind. ‘Facing Page: Top Left’ is the Manics’ best acoustic moment in years, James managing to weave something sonically beautiful around an incredibly ungainly lyric. ‘She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach’, despite a rather clunky title, is a wonderfully punchy number; ‘Pretension/Repulsion’s blizzard of guitar riffs are practically orgasmic (and as is the Ingres-referencing chorus); ‘Me and Stephen Hawking’ jerks, jitters and jolts so much it feels like you’re being given a series of electric shocks while on LSD: yes, you will most certainly do a double take when you hear that opening couplet (‘Herman the bull and Tracey the sheep?’ What?); and ‘Peeled Apples’, the opening track, is just fucking sinister, sneering out of the starting block like the sow-faced behemoth that it is. That bass line, man… just, wow.

It seems almost clichéd to suggest it, and doubtless there will be those who claim that it’s just a load of smoke being blown further up the arse of a man who has practically achieved God-like status in the fourteen years since his disappearance, but fuck me, ‘Journal for Plague lovers’ is fantastic. Somehow, some way, James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore have done their lost friend all the justice they could, and then some. The music matches the lyrics so wonderfully, evoking exactly what the oft-beguiling words seem to suggest, that it appears almost effortless, as if they were intrinsically aware of what was needed without having to consciously think about it, like the interpretation just tumbled out of them, ready made and bloody marvellous. ‘Journal’ works both as a testament to a hugely talented man and as a thrill-packed rock record, full of beautiful melodies, gorgeous guitar wizardry and air-punching intensity. At times, it feels prudent to cast aside all thoughts of Richey altogether; as Christian Bale says in the first ten seconds of the album, ‘we know so little about [him]’, after all. But it doesn’t matter; Manic Street Preachers have made a record that surpasses these concerns, cutting past the distractions in trying to seem authentic and simply allowing the words to stand on their own.

For ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’, MSP are musicians first and foremost and it’s given them a clarity that has perhaps been lacking in their other releases this decade. We really couldn’t have asked for anything more; for now, once again, Wire, Bradfield, Moore and Edwards are the most important fucking band in the world. (9.5/10)