Manic Street Preachers
The Holy Bible

THE REVIEW

Every creative work is born from a precise and well-defined conception of the world. This rule applies to poetry, cinema, painting, and especially music. Craftsmen, it goes without saying, proliferate particularly in cinema and the music industry, with many dreaming of becoming rich quickly only to disappear into nothingness. But if the intentions of the three remaining members of this group inspire some suspicion in me, this does not apply to Richey James. I do not need proof to be certain of his absolute authenticity: and I couldn't care less about that damned day when Richey decided to carve "4 Real" on his arm to prove to the newspapers that at least he wasn't a damn puppet. "4 Real," a bit like saying "we mean it."

I was talking about a conception of the world: listening to "The Holy Bible" reveals all the paranoia and despair that gripped Richey's mind. His lyrics have few equals in the history of music, certainly not in the realm of Bob Dylan or Nick Cave, but his chilling blend of decadent poetry, nihilistic philosophy, and political polemic remains unmatched to this day.
That the group's music is nothing revolutionary is well-known: just good hard rock that's sufficiently raw to serve as the perfect backdrop for the harshness of the lyrics but melodic enough to bring about fairly catchy songs.
This probably softens the impact of the band's psycho-political disputes, which, in my opinion, are the most interesting part of this work, and indeed "The Holy Bible" resembles more a philosophical treatise (a bizarre and venomous fusion of Nietzsche, Sid Vicious, and Marx) than a chart-topping rock album.

The group showcases its more aggressive side in the epic and desperate chorus of "Yes," delves into the depression from anorexia (a disease that afflicted James) in "4st 7lb," and pays a heartfelt tribute to the victims of the Holocaust in "Mausoleum" and "The Intense Humming Of Evil." There are no instrumental virtuosos, no quirky rhythms, no experimental magic. I often find myself reflecting on the type of music that would have been produced by other musicians having a member like Richey James at their disposal. Oh yes, because if Sean Bradfield and Nicky Wire (to whom part of the band's political vehemence is owed) respectively voice/guitar and bass do their job with competence and simplicity that fits the group's sound like a glove, what primarily matters in this album is not the music. It is that terrible, cruel, and damnably successful fusion of art and personal experience: even if it’s not a masterpiece of originality, that simplicity and lack of musical nuances are the best possible fit for James's creativity.

"The Holy Bible" is an endless tunnel with no way out, the forlorn and funereal lament of those who cannot win their personal battles (in James's case, those against anorexia and alcohol) while at the same time watching the world fall apart. It's like seeing things from another person's perspective, capturing their impressions, discomforts, fears. And it doesn’t matter if the Manics will later become excellent chart entertainers; one can always think that once they also wanted to convey a message through music. It's not hope, it's not trust, it's not a desire to live. But it's expression, it's a message, and it's everything that Art is composed of. But so it is: other characters draw the masses' attention. People like Oasis, for example. Or like Blur (in my view, highly overrated except for "Blur" and "13"), oh yes, they do produce real music. Not like these four misfits obsessed with revolution and philosophy.