76. Manic Street Preachers
Roundhouse
15 December 2014
Last gig of the year, and what better way to see it off than with a sold-out, soul-scouring descent into the bleak of The Holy Bible? Thanks to the blessing of Roundhouse membership, I managed to swing a single ticket and parked myself in the members' bar.
This was the Manic Street Preachers doing The Holy Bible front-to-back, the album that reads like Richey Edwards’ final note to the world, or perhaps a cry for help screamed into a void too distracted to hear it. Five months after its release, Richey vanished, leaving behind only mystery, myth, and one of the most harrowing records ever to sneak onto a major label.
The album is not so much a collection of songs as it is a series of manic, blood-smeared essays on the worst impulses of the human condition. Self-harm, serial killers, imperialism, the Holocaust; as NME understated at the time: “this is no Gloria Estefan record”. It’s a furious, forensic manifesto of a man with demons on speed-dial, and the rest of the band often feel like they’re just along for the ride, trying not to get singed by the fire.
Never has that divide felt starker than it did on this night. The first half of the gig was The Holy Bible, track-by-bleeding-track, each song hitting like a punch to the psyche. Then, as the final guttural grind of P.C.P. faded out, something strange happened, they shifted. The band launched into a greatest hits medley, Motorcycle Emptiness, If You Tolerate This, and tracks from their latest record, and suddenly it sounded like an entirely different band had gate-crashed the wake.
In truth, it was a different band. The Holy Bible Manics were all fury, wire-thin angst, and intellectual warfare. The post-Richey Manics are the band that Mandy from Marketing claps along to at the Isle of Wight Festival whilst hoisted on her boyfriend’s shoulders, swaying to A Design For Life like it's karaoke night.
Watching the stark chasm between the two laid bare on stage, it felt like watching ghosts shake hands with their replacements. A gig of two halves, one haunted, the other you could hum to.