Six months ago, 90 minutes in the Manic Street Preachers’ company seemed a profoundly unappealing prospect. Back then, the atrocity that was their seventh album "Lifeblood" was still fresh in the mind, with fans of their once-dazzling rhetoric struggling to come to terms with couplets such as: “Collapsing like the Twin Towers/Falling down like April showers” (from “Empty Souls”).
However, now that the dust has settled, it’s possible to see things in perspective. Manic Street Preachers were, without question, the most important British rock band of the ‘90s. Between 1991 and ’94, they perfected a blend of rock’n’roll swagger and intellectual depth that so outshone the bloated grunge and dreary post-baggy on offer elsewhere it was almost embarrassing. Nothing, it seemed, could stop them.
Of course, no one could have anticipated the disappearance of creative heartbeat Richey Edwards, or that pop culture could dumb down to the extent that Oasis would rule. Yet, the Manics bravely persevered and managed somehow, in sales terms, to ride the Britpop wave, even if, by the time 1998’s “This is My Truth…” came out, they were playing at being the Manics of old like a freshly-decapitated chicken plays at being a chicken. Ever since, they’ve seemed a spent force.
Tonight’s show, their last for at least two years, illustrates the gap between the pre- and post-Richey eras very poignantly. They play 2001’s “Found That Soul” or 2004’s “1985” and sound dumb, leaden, insipid. Then they play the murder/tyranny-themed “Archives of Pain” (off ’94 meisterwork “The Holy Bible”), or the howl of defiance that is “Stay Beautiful” (off towering debut “Generation Terrorists”), and sound zealous, ferocious, exhilarating. “The Everlasting” inspires trips to the bar; “Motown Junk”, frenzied moshing. Eagle-eyed readers may notice a pattern emerging.
Two song introductions encapsulate the Manics’ decline. Before “My Little Empire” – 1998’s toxically beige ode to housework – James asks rhetorically why any pub-goer would want mayonnaise when they can have sour cream. This, apparently, is the issue of the day. Later, though, Nicky Wire prefaces an electrifying “Revol” with these words: “We were at this really sh*t festival in Portugal, and Richey came into my bedroom. He said. ‘I’ve got this lyric which might work on 'The Holy Bible'. It’s about group sex in the Politburo.’” It’s a line that illustrates clearly where the Manics once were and where, sadly, they can never be again.
Still. Thanks for the memories.
