ComfortComes

Manic Street Preachers – Journal For Plague Lovers

It’s a bit eerie listening to the Manics’ new album. It’s bad enough that the sleeve features a high contrast painting that (unintentionally, it would seem) appears to be a child’s blood-spattered face. But when you know the words emanating from James Dean Bradford’s lips were penned by Richey Edwards and stored in a folder given to Nicky Wire no more than a couple of weeks before he disappeared, the album takes on a creepily otherworldly aura.
 
It’s a bit frustrating listening to the Manics’ new album. The lyrics are immense. A five page interview with the NME has James and Nicky giving their own interpretations of Richey’s words. But the lyrics aren’t theirs and the meaning behind the songs can only be assumed. If Richey wrote sugary love songs or straightforwardly angst-ridden tirades, perhaps the lack of closure wouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps there wouldn’t even be a lack of closure. If only he hadn’t been such a poet.
 
The torment is evident from the get-go. ‘Peeled Apples’ gives a quick shout out to Noam Chomsky in the chorus just prior to launching into a description of ‘bruises on my hands from digging my nails out.’ The very appetising fish-hook that is ‘Jackie Collins’ Existential Question’ bravely puts forth the age-old moral dilemma: ‘Oh mommy, what’s a sex pistol?’ The accompanying video is nervously unsettling as the lyrics flicker across the screen in what you imagine to be their ‘original’ form – pages of type and handwriting that are just about fifteen years old. On the album you have the title track that features a similarly creepy manifestation by opening with the sound of pages being rifled through. The song then starts with a furiously pounding drumline that is determined to hide some sort of anguish and yells itself to an abrupt halt.
 
‘Me and Stephen Hawking’ is one of the more aggravating numbers – what does this science-fiction fantasy mean? Genetic engineering, cows turning human, bacterial cultures, milk and baby food… If only they’d recorded this a little bit earlier, Michael Crichton could work wonders with this concept. As for ‘Facing Page: Top Left’, you’d imagine this was a tricky one as well because the lyrics seem to have been forcibly strung together. Take away the very lovely acoustic sound and you’re left with an ostensibly disconnected pile of words. To wit: ‘Here is oblivion bathed acid red… Mutually discolour, skin cancer, calories.’
 
But, when it comes to eeriness, you cannot beat the perfectly placed album closer. ‘William’s Last Words’ is heartbreakingly real. The lyrics may be by Edwards’ but they’re perfect when they’re aimed at him. Part eulogy, part suicide note and part love letter it’s the flawless seal on a very personal record.