MANIC STREET PREACHERS at BRIXTON ACADEMY

I should be used to seeing the Manic Street Preachers without Richey Edwards by now. It’s been twenty years since I last saw him throwing rock ‘n’ roll shapes on the left hand side of the stage. Guitar slung low, nonchalantly hitting a few chords, looking beautiful. Even before his disappearance in 1995 the Manics played shows without him when his fragile mental state required professional attention. In a frank interview with Gary Crowley prior to their Reading ’94 appearance about Richey’s condition, James Dean Bradfield described how they’d resemble “a shitty mod trio” without him.

Every Manics gig still brings thoughts of Richey, from his unoccupied space on the stage, to the songs he left behind, to the lyrics Nicky Wire has written since which so frequently bring his absence to mind, whether intentional or otherwise.

Half an hour into the final date on their latest tour - a second night at Brixton Academy - the Manics play “Rewind The Film”, which reflects on a life nearing completion (“So rewind the film again, I’d love to see my joy, my friends”) whilst a film projects behind them of people in their later years pottering about playing bingo, the camera honing in on their wrinkled faces. It’s very poignant and hard not to think not only of Richey but friends and family no longer with us.

With those images fresh, they followed with an unexpected rendition on “Die In The Summertime”, one of three tracks to be played, none singles, from the most bleakest, brilliant record imaginable, their masterpiece, and Richey’s parting shot, The Holy Bible. The narrative being played out in my mind, at least, continued with a rousing and emotive “Everything Must Go” as Bradfield bellowed “Nothing but memories, MEMORIES!”  

All this makes it sound a somber and depressing affair but it was anything but. They put on a show; it’s an intelligent, thought-provoking show but a show nonetheless. James Dean Bradfield from the opener “If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next” wanted to see those clapping hands in the air and did. As much as I treasure those early gigs in front of a handful of hostile people bouncing cans and bottles off Bradfield’s bonce it was never the Manics’ intention to be a credible but unsellable product so any slight rockisms are par for the course I guess.

During the first half Nicky Wire looked absolutely fabulous in his black jeans, black leather jacket, dark punky air and panda eyes – like Sid Vicious’ wealthy, clean-living uncle – and jumped and leaped and bounced like he’d finally been given the new bionic knees he’s so long craved. Second half he returned dressed as a camp milkman.  Wire’s favourite part of the evening, he told us, is thousands of people yelling “fuck off” at him mid-song. During “Stay Beautiful” his smile couldn’t have been wider.

I’ve never much been a fan of Bradfield’s acoustic interlude – my clearest memory of those final Richey gigs at the Astoria isn’t of nosebleeds and destruction but of me sulking off to have a piss during “Bright Eyes” – but his handling of “This Is Yesterday” and “This Sullen Welsh Heart” was truly exceptional music from and for the soul.

With their twelfth album, Futurology, imminent – only six months since the last one - there’s a wealth of material to draw from and although they continue to rate “Tsunami” and “You Stole The Sun From My Heart” far higher than I, it was a superb set list choice. The big hitters “Design For Life”, “You Love Us” (“We love you”, sings Bradfield back at the crowd), “Motorcycle Emptiness”, “The Masses Against The Classes” (seems incredible now to think the general public made that the first number one single of the new millennium), “Your Love Alone Is Not Enough” were present and although “Faster” was absent, a spectacular, lesser-spotted “Archives Of Pain” was more than enough consolation with around ten songs not released as singles. As for “Motown Junk”, I could listen to that on repeat all night and the thrill would never diminish.

Throughout the past 23 years I’ve never seen a bad Manics gig, I’ve always enjoyed them, but on occasions they’ve maybe treaded water. Not now. Following the post- National Treasures hiatus there’s real fire in their bellies and in the three spiky new songs – “Europa Geht Durch Mich” (yes, parts were in German), “Futurology” and “Let’s Go To War” – showcased on Saturday.

There's nothing shitty, mod or even trio about the Manic Street Preachers (a couple of other musicians discreetly do their thing), just a remarkable band. As much as they, and I, reflect on the past, it's the present and future which still excites. 

BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS FOR RICHEY EDWARDS

Today is, or would have been, Richey Edwards' 44th birthday. To his family I'm sure it is.

Following yesterday's post when I wrote of the Manics Diorama gig in December 1991, here's a one minute clip of it. How I'd love to see the whole thing again. If you look closely around the 54 second mark you'll see myself and Richey engaged in the campiest tug or war you'll ever see with a microphone stand. I'm the one in a white Levi jacket and the faintest hint of a bald patch the size of a five pence; Richey is the one in the red blouse and immaculate hair.

IT WAS TWENTY YEARS AGO TODAY

In Norwich, of all places.

RICHEY EDWARDS' MAKE-UP TIPS

On February 1st, 1995, Richey Edwards sloped out of The Embassy Hotel in London and was never seen again. When I stood on platform two of Baker Street station reading about his disappearance in the NME shortly afterwards I wasn’t unduly concerned. I thought – not for the first time - he'd copied a Joe Strummer move and done a bunk for a while. Strummer lasted a few weeks and turned up in Paris; Edwards has now been gone sixteen years.

Here are Richey and Nicky Wire in typical interview mode from 1993. Listen and learn kids, listen and learn.

MANIC STREET PREACHERS at the BRIXTON ACADEMY

I don’t dig the concept of guilty pleasures but an admission to liking the Manic Street Preachers often feels like one with any attempted justification sounding like frantic back peddling, so I’ll try not to. My name is Monkey and I like the Manic Street Preachers. There, said it.

Twenty years ago – to the day - they released “Motown Junk”. I bought it then and it still sounds thrilling now; considerably more so than latest single “Postcards from a Young Man” but let’s not quibble. They may not have included “Miss Europa Disco Dancer” but by the Manics often predictable standards this was thoughtfully put together set containing a handful of lesser played numbers. Ever since Richey left a gaping hole on the left hand side of the stage and filled it with memories and hefty emotional baggage its been a complex affair trying to enjoy their live shows - and “Roses In The Hospital” (“tear my fingernails out/ I want to cling to something soft”) and Nicky back in his leopard skin coat don’t help - but there’s no denying the pull of “Faster” or “Me and Stephen Hawking”, and “Motown Junk” back to back with “If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next” is as good a pairing as I could wish to hear.

Nicky turned 42 the day before. We’ve both been doing this over half our lives and it's been a rocky ride but we’re hanging in there. He with considerably better hair and make up.

RICHARD by BEN MYERS

“Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps.” Someone (Chuck D) said it, the Manic Street Preachers quoted it, and I pinched it. It’s a recurring theme.

I wouldn’t say I’ve any heroes as such but I wouldn’t deny The Jam, and Paul Weller in particular, musically and sartorially shaped my early teenage years and a decade later the Manic Street Preachers, and Richey Edwards in particular, had an equally profound and lasting effect ideologically and culturally.

The streets were covered with snow in January 1991 when I bought, unheard, the Heavenly 12 inch of “Motown Junk”. Time hasn’t diminished the thrill and rush of that garbled punk urgency which flew acid in the face of everything around it, then and now. It’s difficult for newcomers now with the Manics far removed from the mess of eyeliner and spray paint that first dazzled from the pages of the NME spouting off about William Burroughs, Karl Marx and Harold Pinter to believe how vital and exhilarating they were in an flimsy era of post-baggy "we've always had a dance element to our music" desperation and faceless shoegazing dullness. The Manics were a fascinating, intelligent, well read, educated, cynical, unfashionable, working class band kicking against the pricks, yet slowly – and frustratingly – unraveled as often willfully subservient and compromising.

Ben Myers’ Richard tells two stories in parallel. The first recounts the story of four insular school friends from a Welsh mining town that became the Manic Street Preachers who invited and provoked hostility and adoration in equal measures. Edwards, with little to no musical ability being enlisted because he was their best friend, driver, looked fantastic, balanced the symmetry, could write lyrics and be their Minister of Information a la Public Enemy’s Professor Griff. It proved a smart move but one that came at a price. There’s little in Myers’ imagining to cause too much indignation from Richey acolytes, as it effectively blends established “fact” with Richey’s well documented sense of worthlessness. After only selling a handful of their first homemade single Richey was already saying “There is more self hate in this band than anyone can realise. We hate ourselves totally”. Yeah, yeah, nice quote mate, makes good copy for the music press, play the game. Prove it they said.

The second, potentially more difficult to accept book, is the one told in Richey’s voice from the time he disappeared from the Embassy Hotel in 1995 never to be seen again. Myers uses the few alleged sightings as stepping stones to construct a version of events and a version of what could have been going through his mind. How would he know? Well, he doesn’t, does he? The book jacket pointedly says Richard - A Novel, not Richey Edwards - The Unauthorised Biography. It paints a distressed Richard driving on autopilot back to Wales, trampling the hillside, seeking solitude and release from the taunting voices in his head telling him what an insignificant, useless coward he is. Kurt Cobain, he proved it. He was 4 Real.

Myers was always going to court controversy with this (“how very dare he?”) and the technique has been done better before (David Peace’s The Damned United) but I managed to easily separate fact from fiction. Richey fans should be an intelligent bunch but that didn’t stop the clatter of protest before publication. If somebody had done the same to a personal friend of mine my instinct would be to want their severed hand on a stick but I didn’t know Richey; I only canonized my own interpretation of him. The interpretation based on his interviews and lyrics so I struggled through the first third of this book as I couldn’t hear Richey’s voice. The words attributed to him are at times simple and clichéd, as is some of the text, and not as eloquent and as carefully measured as I’d expect. But that slowly sinks away and the comparisons drift apart. I stopped reading it as an account dictated via Doris Stokes and started to appreciate it as a novel in its own right. It’s an increasingly uncomfortable and terribly sad read (and I’m certain no bundle of joy to write) but its contemplation on misery and confusion, alienation and despair, self loathing and suicide are surely food and drink for followers of Richard James Edwards.

Richard by Ben Myers is published by Picador, priced £12.99.

MANIC STREET PREACHERS - RAPIDO, 1992

Take a look at this footage of the Manic Street Preachers from late 1991/early 1992. If we ignore Sean's ludicrously unsuitable winter jacket, the rest is about as perfect as any band could ever be.

A VERSION OF REASON: IN SEARCH OF RICHEY EDWARDS by ROB JOVANOVIC

Guess what? He didn’t find him.

Jovanovic only found a copy of Simon Price’s Manics biography Everything; a pile of yellowing music papers; some YouTube clips, and bundled them together to play amateur sleuth, padding out his weak book with a host of already proven false leads, pointless speculation, and irrelevant filler like what’s scribbled on a shopping list in his copy of Junkie.

With Edwards’ family and friends wisely unwilling to talk and rake over the same painful ground, there is scant new material. Whereas Price’s deep understanding of his subject inspired an intelligent and articulate portrayal, Jovanovic's approach is more akin to a Sunday newspaper hack chasing a lead, sniffing for scandal and outrage. If he can’t find any, he’ll simply throw in some groundless theories. With no actual body ever found you can’t prove Richey is dead, something Jovanovic frequently plays on: he could be in a monastery; he could be abroad; somebody close may have helped him disappear. Maybe he’s in the house next door like the “Canoe Man”.

As a subject for a biography Edwards is perfect material yet Rob Jovanovic isn’t up to the job. Come in Simon Price, come in Jon Savage, your time has come.

A Version of Reason is published by Orion Books, priced £18.99

MANIC STREET PREACHERS at The ROUNDHOUSE

It’s over eighteen years since I first saw the Manics, and approaching fifteen years since I last saw them with Richey Edwards, yet his presence looms as large, if not larger, than ever.

They’ve made some fine records since The Holy Bible in 1994 with Nicky Wire making a sterling job of writing all their lyrics since, but the decision to now release Journal for Plague Lovers, a whole album using Richey’s lyrics, magnifies once again both what they’ve been missing and why they stood apart during those halcyon (in retrospect) days of 1991-94. Aside from the fact he looked utterly brilliant and no-one has ever worn a guitar as well, there weren’t lyricists then and there aren’t lyricists now that can cram as much depth and interest into a song like Edwards.

Tonight they play two sets. First up is a beginning to end recital of Journal for Plague Lovers. Despite the welcome addition of 13 new songs, it’s a difficult album to get my head around. It’s so Richey but it’s so not too. It’s 1994 Manics lyrics put to 2009 Manics music, and whilst I like both things, conjoining the two confuses my brain. And if I find it emotionally draining, I can’t imagine how it feels for James Dean Bradfield, Wire and Sean Moore.

Bradfield gives everything to his vocals but there’s a solemn air to proceedings not helped by Wire’s prolapsed disc that restricts his movement and roots him to the spot depriving him of his usual bounce (“I’ve finally become one of those cunty bass players” he says). His discomfort is obvious as he plays through grimaces and gritted teeth. Bradfield looks like he’s carrying the whole weight of Richey’s memory on his shoulders and I’m struck by whether the album and the decision to play the album in its entirety was one of those Manics’ good-idea-at-the-time moments. In interviews Wire has already voiced unease at the release and suggested it would have been better to have remained a mysterious, unreleased, “lost” album. With no singles to be taken from it, it’ll be interesting to see how quickly they brush it under the carpet. If some of their previous albums are any measure, not long.

The mood of the audience and band, especially Bradfield – who seems almost apologetic - visibly lifts immediately they return to the safety and familiarity of a greatest hits set. All the big hitters were knocked out and with Wire uncharacteristically immobile Bradfield did his whirling dervish routine with extra aplomb. The set was half Richey era and half post-Richey. The “Motown Junk” b-side “Sorrow 16” being the one surprise inclusion and more than any other evoked memories of those fantastic early gigs where they thrived on confrontation, hostility, and a sky of bottles and beer raining down on them.

There’s no denying it’s a quality hour of intelligent rock music but with only one song less than ten years old, a verse from “If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next” catches the ear and should sound a warning: “And on the street tonight, an old man plays with newspaper cuttings of his glory days”.