so damn easy to cave in, man kills everything.
I suppose I should feel old and decrepit that, barring any major accidents like a meteor falling on me or the bottom half of my body bursting, tomorrow I'll be heading to the Manchester Albert Hall to see Manic Street Preachers mark the 20-year anniversary of their third album The Holy Bible by performing it in its entirety. The evidence of my greatly advanced years is not helped by my long-since neglected CD shelves also containing both the original release of the album and the 10 Year Anniversary re-issue.
I was in college when the first Manics album came out, bringing with it eighteen tracks of old-school, spiky glam-punk with an angry socialist agenda and mascara, it was the album of the week for most people I knew for most of the year. Their "difficult" second album, Gold Against The Soul I can remember kind of liking, certainly really enjoying a few tracks but earnestly trying to get into it as much as their previous, my opinion hindered by having just ten tracks at a time when my rudimentary standards correlated quantity with quality, and also the fact that they were promoting the album by supporting Bon Jovi on tour. I know, Bon Jovi, as if you'd dare! My appreciation of that album grew with age, if you can imagine the idea of a "grower" having such a long fuse it required the listener to grow up a fair amount first. Bon Jovi, on the other hand, was an interest of a much younger version of me, that soon found its place firmly in the "Grown Out Of" file.
The Holy Bible though, first of all broke a cardinal rule, again of my frankly idiotic teenage standards; having the track listing printed on the album cover. Outrage, I mean it just looked slapdash and my youthful, highly slappable face declared it to be an utterly needless spoil. It redeemed itself almost immediately by naming track two Ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonesecondit'sworldwouldfallapart, unsurprisingly enough a song about institutional racism in America that is perhaps even more relevant right now with the events in Ferguson and New York than it ever was in 1994.
That time on TOTP with Vic & Bob, James in a balaclava, Richey was there and your parents could FUCK OFF :D #Manics http://t.co/Hv05UGUX4x
— [inaudible cracker] (@akaFLAMEGiRL)
The lion's share of the album's music is upbeat with almost pop-like hooks, going down well with large festival crowds and smaller club venues with equal aplomb, which belied the dark heart of the lyrical content, featuring themes exploring anorexia, sexism, glorification of serial killers and existential despair, together with titles like "Die in the Summertime", "Archives of Pain" and "The Intense Humming of Evil", content which in many ways could be regarded as the Tumblr of its day.
Midway through touring the album, its principle lyricist and, indeed, curator Richey Edwards disappeared without a trace, last seen on 1st February 1995 and officially presumed dead some thirteen years later. The Holy Bible seems to exist in some small sense as his highly eloquent suicide note, or at the very least a general letter of resignation to the false, plastic trappings of modern life.
Suffice to say I regard it to be one of the best albums released in my lifetime and I certainly couldn't imagine placing it anywhere other than firmly within the top five, were I ever to compile my personal list of The Absolute, Definitive Best Albums of the 1990s for some reason.
And tomorrow I get to see them live, I think for the first time. I know I was around at a Glastonbury Festival one year when they were headlining on the Pyramid Stage but my predilection for staying up all night and drinking most of the afternoon caused me to sleep through that particular appearance. I kind of regret nothing, midnight to dawn at Glastonbury is pretty amazing and deserves making sacrifices for.
It's just a shame my post-surgical status will prevent me from diving in the moshpit. As I am wont to do, on account of being totally metal. Obviously.
