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Rating: Let’s be clear, the Manic Street Preachers of the “Richey James Edwards era” are not just those of “The Holy Bible” or “Generation Terrorists”. They might be a part, but certainly not the whole. I believe there was a quote by E.E. Cummings in the booklet of “Generation Terrorists” that said, “Progress is a comfortable disease.”
“Gold Against The Soul” starts from there, building an ethic on discomfort: between one string section and another, between a riff and another by the skilled James Dean Bradfield, this damned rose with its poisoned petals, the lyrics of Richey James, is born. Indeed, “Gold Against The Soul”: a symphony of discomfort (“Symphony Of Tourette”).
Perhaps their most philosophical and poetic album together, with a thousand facets, where between one track and another, the Welsh elegance of Philip Larkin and Dylan Thomas becomes almost tangible. But here, listen, those who truly abandon themselves to listening don’t care that much, they let themselves get carried away. That’s all. “A memory fades to a pale landscape.”
And then, it’s impossible not to consider “Sleepflower” a masterpiece. Minute after minute, it drags you into its gloomy atmospheres (the same as “Small Black Flowers That Grow In The Sky”, the most beautiful song ever). Rimbaudian echoes, a faded “Season in Hell.”
Man in rebellion seeking to reconcile himself with the natural elements, to find himself in the world, and when he surrenders to the realization that all this is impossible, he becomes the “absurd hero” of “From Despair To Where”, an eternally split character who cannot discern whether his human condition is real or not (“Cannot tell if it’s real or not”).
Every possible revolt, “metaphysical rebellion,” to use Albert Camus’ words, is denied, not yet allowed, it is not possible to conquer oneself or the world. Yet this reality becomes common to all, even to the valiant soldier of “La Tristesse Durera (Scream To A Sigh)” who decides to sell his medal for valor to pay an insignificant bill, or to the protagonist of “Yourself” for whom it is impossible to find meaning in the repetitiveness of everyday gestures, in the false illusions upon which self-awareness is built (“You go on day after day/ oh- ooh/ Dreaming on a lie/ That you keep locked inside”).
Once, during an interview, Edwards said that the only perfect circle is represented by the human eye when there is an eyelid to protect it: upon opening it, one finds oneself facing a sort of descending spiral where everything is born, grows, and then dies.
Like the eyes of the child in “Life Becoming A Landslide” when they peer into the world, and immediately the impact with the light becomes something wonderfully violent, fascinating. And then love, jealousy, the perfect decay proceeding from childhood (“I don't wanna be a man”), a mythical, ideal, happy age, to senility (“Everyday more numb to agony/ This the howl this the sigh of the lonely”), decrepit, corrupt. A text halfway between Nietzsche’s myth of eternal return and William Blake’s poetry.
Even from manure, flowers are born: this is the sense of “Roses In The Hospital”, the strange idea that a piece of happiness and life can sprout even from a place of death and pain such as a hospital might be. What matters is accepting death, like Camus’ Meursault in “The Stranger,” wanting death, freeing oneself from hopes (“Nostalgic Pushead”), from the futility of the everyday. There is no more hope, no more adventures or false chimeras: “Gold Against The Soul” and the catharsis of rock’n’roll: the epilogue of an album.
We must seek, become, profess our truth. Only that.
“Rock’n roll has a conscience”.
Richey James, thank you.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 Sleepflower (04:52)
Morning always seems too stale to justify
Lament blossoms, hours, minutes of our minds
Broken thoughts run through your empty mind
At least a beaten dog knows how to lie
I feel like I'm missing pieces of sleep
A memory fades to a, a pale landscape
You were an extinction, a desert heat
A blind illness of my anxiety
Endless hours in bed, no peace, in this mind
No one knows the hell where innocence dies
Fragments crawling like cobwebs on stone
Blows away the safety only a sleeping pill knows
I feel like I'm missing pieces of sleep
A memory fades to a, a pale landscape
You were an extinction, a desert heat
A blind illness of my anxiety
I feel like I'm missing pieces of sleep
A memory fades to a, a pale landscape
You were an extinction, a desert heat
A blind illness of my anxiety
02 From Despair to Where (03:34)
I write this alone on my bed
I've poisoned every room in the house
The place is quiet and so alone
Pretend there's something worth waiting for
There's nothing nice in my head
The adult world took it all away
Wake up with same spit in my mouth
Cannot tell if it is real or not
I try and walk in a straight line
An imitation of dignity
From despair to where
Outside open mouthed crowds
Pass each other as if they're drugged
Down pale corridors of routine
Where life falls unatoned
The weak kick like straw
Till the world means less and less
Words are never enough
Just cheap tarnished glitter
I try and walk in a straight line
An imitation of dignity
A cripple walks in a straight line
An imitation of dignity
From despair to where
03 La Tristesse Durera (Scream to a Sigh) (04:13)
Life has been unfaithful
And it all promised so so much
I am a relic
I am just a petrified cry
Wheeled out once a year, a cenotaph souvenir
The applause nails down my silence
La tristesse durera
Scream to a sigh, to a sigh
I see liberals
I am just a fashion accessory
People send postcards
And they all hope I'm feeling well
I retreat into self-pity, it's so easy
Where they patronise my misery
La tristesse durera
Scream to a sigh, to a sigh
I sold my medal
It paid a bill
It sells at market stalls
Parades Milan catwalks
The sadness will never go
Will never go away
Baby it's here to stay
La tristesse durera
Scream to a sigh, to a sigh
07 Roses in the Hospital (05:02)
Roses in the hospital
Try to pull my finger nails out
Roses in the hospital
I want to cling to something soft
Roses in the hospital
Progressing like a constant war
Roses in the hospital
There's no one to feel ashamed for
All we wanted was a home
Now we're so strung out we wanna own
Like a leaf in the autumn breeze
Like a flood in January
We don't want your fucking love
Roses in the hospital
Stub cigarettes out on my arm
Roses in the hospital
Want to feel something of value
Roses in the hospital
Nothing really makes me happy
Roses in the hospital
Heroin is just too trendy
All we wanted was a home
Now we're so strung out we wanna own
Like a leaf in the autumn breeze
Like a flood in January
We don't want your fucking love
Roses in the hospital
This century achieved so much
Roses in the hospital
To make a voice no voice at all
Roses in the hospital
Flowers cannot express the loss
Roses in the hospital
Torn reflections of burnt out trash
Of burnt out trash
Forever ever delayed
Forever ever delayed
Forever
Forever
Forever ever delayed
Independence is a game
Forever ever delayed
Credibility, I'm yawning
Forever
Forever
Rudi Rudi Rudi Rudi gonna fail
Forever ever delayed
Forever delayed
Forever
Forever
Forever delayed
The West scratches onto my skin
Forever delayed
Contagious like a suntan
We never felt any sun
08 Nostalgic Pushead (04:14)
I am the raping sunglass gaze
Of sweating man and escort agencies
60's alienation the anthem of care
Now a knife constantly slashing eyelids
Slavery to the beat
Slavery to the chord
Slavery to the pleasure
Slavery to the god
Slavery to the beat
Slavery to the chord
Slavery to the pleasure
Slavery to the god
They dig the new scene and their parties
Where Stonehenge is worshipped and drugs a deity
Vicarious thrills re-run their youth-
We follow we have no voice the dead
Radio nostalgia is radio death
I wanna cover diamonds on my wife Hardrock nostalgia the Stones on c.d.
Tranquillised icons for the sweet paralysed
Slavery to the beat
Slavery to the chord
Slavery to the pleasure
Slavery to the god
Slavery to the beat
Slavery to the chord
Slavery to the pleasure
Slavery to the god
So cool the new sound of the decade
Thinks it's so fresh not a post Elvis still
All taste is nothing-old pictures blow dried
Rebellion it always sells at a profit
I am a face of fashion in Soho Square
My tie is Paul Smith or Gaultier
My cheeks blood red as my favourite port
But hey cocaine keeps cholesterol at bay
Slavery to the beat
Slavery to the chord
Slavery to the pleasure
Slavery to the god
Slavery to the beat
Slavery to the chord
Slavery to the pleasure
Slavery to the god
Some god
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