Journal for Plague Lovers

The ninth studio album from the Manic Street Preachers was released yesterday. I notice that the cover artwork has already been banned due to its claimed depiction of blood and scarring, which, as you can see, is a subjective view. The title itself, Journal for Plague Lovers, evokes a sense of guttural angst and childlike irony, far removed from the Manics’ recent releases. We may suspect, therefore, that this album will not simply kowtow to the popular expectations of fans and critics alike.

This album has been promoted by the band as the follow up to The Holy Bible, one of the most powerful, angst-ridden, lyrically profound, and respected albums of the nineties, so the mantle to climb is epic. As you should know, the lyricist and creative director behind THB, Richey James Edwards disappeared after its release, and his official death was declared last year by his family following almost fifteen years of searching. The Manics' task, therefore, led by singer and guitarist, James Dean Bradfield, and bassist, Nicky Wire, grows with every development.

According to Nicky, each band member was given a folder filled with art and lyrics by Edwards before his disappearance, which, with hindsight, became a parting gift. It is from these pages that the lyrics for JFPL were drawn. It would be extremely easy for me to devote an extremely long post to various and extensive quotations from the two albums, but I'll do my utmost to suppress my urges.

Musically, THB was compositionally and technically simple. Repetitive bass and guitar chords interlaced over grinding drums became a recurring formula throughout the songs, and JFPL sees a reversion back to the post-punk tempos and instrumentation that lent THB its severity. Rarely do we hear the strings, for example, that swept through their commercially most successful album, This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours. The real poignancy of THB, however, lay in the merciless delivery of the lyrics. On the opening track, Yes, Edwards' intentions for the album are clear:

For sale? Dumb cunt's same dumb questions.
Oh, virgins? Listen, all virgins are liars, honey.

The words are barely sung by Bradfield; rather they are compressed and spat into the microphone as urgently as possible, as if the lyrics were an afterthought. The opening bars of JFPL, during the song, Peeled Apples, on the other hand, portray a different kind of intent. Admittedly, though, I was nodding my head along to the menacing percussion that introduces the album, certain that I would not be disappointed. The early signs are promising.

The more I see, the less I scream,
The figure eight inside out is infinity.

The lyrics are clouded by uncertainty, contrasting the transparency of Yes. Perhaps, Edwards muses upon his obsession with intellectual fulfillment (regularly cited to explain the motives that underscored his disappearance), though this would be a stretch. Here, the rhythm is basic, as before, but the lyrics are sung with less brutality.

Throughout THB the listener struggles to identify the lyrics, as they're delivered faster than the music allows. There's a real carefree attitude that punctuates the songs, and gladly sticks two fingers up at the listener’s expectations. Later in Yes, during the chorus:

He's a boy. You want a girl, so tear off his cock,
Tie his hair in bunches, fuck him; call him Rita if you want.

We're hard-pressed to find similar examples of ferocity in JFPL. We're left to wonder at the thoughts that drove Edwards' to write distinctly contrasting lines; whereas the lyrics of THB indicate a troubled mind, JFPL demonstrates much greater restraint and subtlety. In an early moment of tenderness during This Joke Sport Severed, JFPL's fourth track, the guitars are unplugged and Bradfield relies more on his voice:

Jealousy sows rejection with a kiss
In silken palms that tear bone from skin.

Of course, if you go deep enough, instances of unrestrained violence and hostility do occur. The quatrain that opens Marlon JD, a song that would stand proudly alongside the mastery of THB, reverts to descriptions of masochistic aggression.

He stood like a statue
As he was beaten across the face
With a horse whip
Where the wounds already exist.

Again, the lines converge and overlap without, it appears, any regard for the music that weighs upon Bradfield’s delivery, echoing elements of THB. Further, images of whips and firearms pervade the lyrics, and the sadism that Edwards emblazoned across his early pieces, most pertinently in the first single taken from THB, Faster, is evident again.

I am an architect, they call me a butcher.
I am a pioneer, they call me primitive.
I am purity, they call me perverted.

During Faster, Edwards tackles the media suspicions of his self-harm with unrelenting honesty, whilst outlining the harsh introspection that gave 4st 7lb its intensity.

Such beautiful dignity in self-abuse.
I've finally come to understand life
Through staring blankly at my navel.

The result, then, means that JFPL will be viewed as relatively opaque and somehow weak by comparison, but this would be a flippant dismissal. Not only do you profane Edwards’ lyrics, but you ignore the accomplishment of a maturing group of musicians who’ve shaken off the burden of self-awareness and commerciality.

Edwards frequently talked of his amazement at Bradfield’s ability to sing his lyrics over the music. The lyrics were always written after the song had been composed, and it’s this process that gave so much to the feeling of urgency and brutality of THB.

JFPL came about through precisely the reverse. In recent interviews with the band, while they’ve been promoting the album, Bradfield discusses his emotions when putting music to Edwards’ lines. The overall effect is one of harmony, which, although aurally appealable, undermines the foundation from which THB became so celebrated.

Touching moments of beauty and tenderness, however, leap out from the malaise of melody and anger in JFPL. The album’s highlight comes in the penultimate track, William’s Last Words, which is (so far as my knowledge extends), uniquely, sung by Nicky Wire. His voice is shaky and uncertain, but he’s charged with singing some of the most striking of Edwards’ lyrics, so one can hardly criticize. The folder of Richey’s art and lyrics is suddenly embodied in one track, and the moment we’ve desperately searched for has been laid before us in its purest form. Edwards unravels his emotions:

Wish me some luck as you wave goodbye to me.
You're the best friends I ever had.

It’s as if we bear witness to Edwards’ parting eulogy; as if we’re hearing his thoughts the day before his disappearance; as if he’s made up his mind.

I will be waiting. All my cares are for you.
Dreams they leave and die
I'm just gonna’ close my eyes, think about my family
And shed a little tear.

As if Edwards is predicting his final moments, breathing the inevitable. The claim that, maybe, he did throw himself off of the Severn Bridge seems abruptly appropriate.

Just let me go
[…]
‘Coz I’m really tired.
I’d love to go to sleep and wake up happy.

Without the slightest contrivance, Edwards’ suicide note has been set to music.