On December 29 Manic Street Preachers made their first public appearance since Richey Edwards vanished last February. In this four-page special SIMON PRICE explains why the Manics were for him the most important British band of the early Nineties and talks to the fans at Wembley about their reactions to the band's return while overleaf EVERETT TRUE reviews the Manics' long-awaited and emotionally charged comeback show.
SURVIVAL'S NATURAL AS SORROW
I still
believe that Richey Edwards walks among us. When I say this
people look at me with a certain concerned pity. It's not as if I'm
not prepared for the worst - I'm not stupid - but after 11 months
of rumour and counter-rumours it's just an instinct. (And nothing
more. I'm often approached by Manics fans who think I must "know
something". Once and for all I don't) Call it denial but
despite the pessimistic prognosis of case officer Det Supt
Stephen Morey the evidence I've heard - the fact that his
passport was missing the £2800 he withdrew from his account, the
sightings (I'm talking about the credible ones, not the ones from
the sort of sad freaks who probably reckon Elvis and Jim Morrison
are still alive) - I reckon it's at least as likely until I hear
otherwise.
You'll understand then why I talk about Richey in the present
tense.
REVOLUTION! REVOLUTION! REVOLUTION!
I first met Richey Edwards in the spring of 1991backstage at the Manchester Boardwalk. I was immediately struck by his physical beauty... as were two local rock chicks. Later in the bar of an unglamorous Rusholme B&B. I watched for hours as he tried to engage his new "friends" in discussion about politics and pop culture before eventually capitulating and ushering them upstairs to give them what they obviously wanted.
The third Manic Street Preachers singleMotown Junk had just come out on Heavenly and spent the preceding fortnight glued to my turntable. From the opening Public Enemy sample - "Revolution!Revolution!Revolution!" to the batteries slower-and-slower ending it was a magnesium-white flare of adrenaline amid a year of dope smoke and little fluffy clouds an alarm call to a snoring pop scene. The live experiencetoowas a vivid riot of tinn trebly guitars and starjumps" a mess of eyeliner and spraypaint" (from Day One ) the Manics wrote their own reviews dictated their own agenda). In the context of his was genuinely provocative an ECT jolt to a complacent comatose generation. More than anything else the Preachers left me confused. The Manics made me love what I do not love (heavy rock music) and almost as often believe what I do not believe. For that they instantly became my favourite band. They have been ever since. At the time this wasn't a fashionable view (I was threatened with the sack from Melody Maker only semi- jokingly by the then Features Editor for giving "Generation Terrorists" a good review). The Manics were seen as good copy - slap 'em up on the cover sit 'em around a microphone wind 'em up watch 'em go - but dare to take them seriously and you'd be laughed out of town.
The cartoon leopardskin-and-lipstick image of Nicky Wire and Richey Edwards - The Glamour Twins - meant that most people took a while to differentiate between the two. The Wire became notorious as the nihilistic superbitch dispensing soundbite spite with a Cheshire Cat grin. Richey meanwhile carved a reputation as the more reflective melancholy of the pair. "We know we have nothing to lose he told BBC2's "Rapido", "because we know we've lost already."
YOU...LOVE...US...
14 top 40 singles, three ever-improving albums and innumerable shock-horror scandals 4 REAL Michael Stipe hospitalised bouncers you know the plot) later. the Manics were no longer a laughing stock. They had achieved the sort of significance which goes beyond mere record sales chart positions and concert attendances. They were always too difficult too insoluble to reach Oasis-size (the Guns N' Roses pop-metal riffs jarred with the inscrutable Fall-style syntax)but more than any band since The Smiths they mattered to people.
For some reason - and not just simple lust - they appealed particularly strongly to girls. Nicky and (especially) Richey were feminised males ("I don't want to be a man..."), and if their songs about female experience were sometimes clumsy ("Little Baby Nothing") just as often they were uncommonly empathetic ("4st7lbs"). Richey's obsession with Solanas and Plath his utterly non-sexual fixation with skinny supermodels even his anorexia (rare in males although not as rare as you might think) were all glaringly unmale traits. For this as much as anything the Manic Street Preachers were/are revolutionary our Nirvana arguably the most important British band of the 1990s.
By the summer of 1994 after a miserable series of catalysts (the death from cancer of Manics mentor/manager Philip Hall the suicide of an old college friend) Richey's self-abuse spiralled dramatically. Shortly after a (triumphant) appearance at Glastonbury Richey's parents found him at his flat in Cardiff's docklands after a two-day cutting binge which has since been interpreted as a suicide attempt. He was taken to the local Whitchurch hospital which Richey later described in "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" terms (with lobotomies replaced by Prozac) then relocated to the private Priory clinic in Roehampton and placed on an alcoholic rehab course.
Meanwhile the rest of the band continued to play the remainder of the festival season - T In The Park and Reading - as a trio. "It felt like a betrayal" Nicky admitted, explaining that they only did it to pay Richey's hospital fees. Against this background the band's third album. "The Holy Bible"was inevitably seen as Richey's album (apparently he wrote 70 per cent of the lyrics) the Manics' "In Utero". Each song was a dwarf star of ultra-compressed imagery a horrific harrowing tour of the most shameful corners of the dying 20th century (dictatorship prostitution anorexia suicide genocide) a merciless doomsday judgement of what e e cummings called "manunkind". "We all are of walking abortion..." Soon - perhaps too soon - an apparently recovered Richey rejoined the band for two low-key European tours supporting Therapy? and Suede.
SO DAMN EASY TO CAVE IN...
I last met Richey Edwards in Paris in the back of a darkened tour busfor what was to be his final British interview. The most striking thing was his ability to analyse his sickness in a detached way act as a doctor and patient. (Playing an unmarked blank tape recently I found the interview and was astonished to hear him laughing and joking about his problems.) It is this prismatic clarity which makes me question whether Richey was ever "insane" at all. If anything Richey is too sensitive and intelligent for a brutal and crass world... but we shouldn't think of him as a victim. His desire to experience everything drives him to extremes of degradation (his notorious night in the red light district of Bangkok) and purity (the discipline of anorexia the rigour of his mind). His dead pupils voraciously devour the world with the fermented misanthropy of Larkin and the piercing intellect of Chomsky: a razor to his fleshOccam's Razor to the rest of humanity. As I once wrote the mortuaries are littered with people who were too sensitive for this world. What sets Richey apart is his ability to actually articulate the horror."
In December the Manics played three shows at the London Astoria by turns emotionally draining an very funny. Comedy was an attribute which I - perhaps alone admittedly - had never attached to the Manics. In the space of 30 minutes on the last night we went from James in a Santa hat singing Wham!'s "Last Christmas", to Richey beating himself about the head with the splintered remains of his guitar and with a disturbingly calm smile dive-bombing into Sean's drumkit. There was a strange mood of finality about it all (as well as the hits and "The Holy Bible" they played long-lost Heavenly B-sides which seemed somehow ominous and Nicky destroyed their proper expensive gear as opposed to the cheap substitutes which usually got trashed).
Shortly afterwards in January Japanese magazine Music Life visited Richey at home and found him with the shaved head and a striped pyjamas of an Auschwitz inmate and (coincidentally perhaps) the same black suede Converse sneakers found on Kurt Cobain's corpse. He'd also recently thrown most of his carefully kept notebooks into the river, he told them. A final Bonfire Of The Vanities.
SOLITUDE, SOLITUDE, THE 11th COMMANDMENT
On the morning of February 2 Manics press officer Gillian Porter rang me at home to tell me I ought to know that Richey had vanished from London's Embassy Hotel at 7.00am the previous day and that there were would be an official joint announcement from the Manics' management company Hall Or Nothing and the Metropolitan Police. It wasn't the first time that Richey had done this sort of thing but I knew that the fact that Gillian had taken the trouble to tell me personally before a formal statement was issued and that this time the police were involved meant it was serious. There was a short-lived eruption of media interest almost all of which - from highbrow "Culture Of Despair" pieces to tabloid "Slasher Cult of Rock Star Richey" screamers - missed the point into exactly the same cart-before-horse, egg-before-chicken way. Richey had been cutting himself with a compass and drinking to the point of blackout as a student at Cardiff University but the clichéd press analysis was: rock star can't take pressure rock star goes mental. Worse still - they seemed convinced that a legion of girls had suddenly started slashing their arms in imitation. (Although this was true in a very few cases far more common were girls who'd been mutilating themselves for years and through identifying with Richey found confidence to "out" themselves). On Saint Valentine's Day his car was found at Aust Services near the Severn Bridge. And then... silence. For those who care this is perhaps worse than a simple suicide: the gnawing uncertainty the not knowing. Never a day goes by..
SPECTATORS OF SUICIDE...
Although I
rarely see him these days I still consider Nicky wire to be a
long distance friend. James Dean Bradfield as most of London can
testify is one of the friendliest people on the planet. I've
always got on OK with quiet little Sean too when I've met him. I
met Richey countless times - I will always picture him in some
hotel or other on the Cardiff-Paddington train or hanging around
a TV studio nicking my fags and sharing his Jack Daniels arguing
about Pearl Jam and the state of Welsh football - but I'm not
going to lie to you and weep melodramatic tears about "my
lost friend". Richey isn't the sort of person who makes
friends easily.
I feel slightly embarrassed to admit this - it does feel vaguely
foolish to idolise someone who is almost exactly my own age (we
were born two months and 20 miles apart) - but my relationship
with Richey is that of uncritical admiration of fan to hero. His
picture is the only one which hangs on my wall at home.
Intelligence is the only criterion upon which I discriminate in human intercourse and Richey Edwards is the most intelligent person I have ever known. It barely needs stating that Richey has no such high opinion of himself. His feelings of inadequacy run deep. That this man for whom humility - a politer term for self-hatred? - is second nature has become an icon is the ultimate paradox. I don't know why I identify with Richey (it certainly isn't just for superficial reasons of generation and geographical proximity or the noble savage/educated prole aspect). I've never suffered from depression, I've never damaged myself any further than dyeing my hair and piercing my ears. I always know when I've had enough to drink and anorexia has never really been a problem. I have been depressed¸ very depressed but that's different - it's always traceable to a direct identifiable cause. But perhaps Richey's isn't classic manic depression either the quasi-physical illness which descends like a stormcloud quite regardless of external circumstances but the same sort of cause-and-effect depression we all suffer. Richey is disproportionately affected by... everything.
This may explain what I can only describe as the Christing of Richey (ever since the hospitalisation) the idolatry has stepped up a gear beyond mere canonisation). To some he's become a stigmata martyr - "He Bleeds For Our Sins". There has always been an element of ghoulish voyeurism to the Cult Of Richey we are all of us (would-be) spectators of suicide hypocrites happy to live a 4-REAL life by proxy. Stay just fucked up enough to write all those great songs we seem to be asking but not so fucked up that you aren't among us any more. This is why a few of us (see Wembley fans) now feel some degree of guilt.
OUTSIDE OPEN-MOUTHED CROWDS PASS EACH OTHER AS IF THEY´RE DRUGGED...
The 29th time I see the Manic Street Preachers is in a barn full of cunts. In the autumn it was announced that the Manics would support a popular Led Zeppelin tribute act from Manchester at Wembley on December 29th. Previously James had said "if it ever comes to a point where Richey's not coming back, we wouldn't continue". This fuelled the tempting theory that if the remaining Manics didn't know Richey was all right surely they wouldn't ever consider playing Wembley.. so he must be OK. (If this is true incidentally the unselfish view is to pray he never ever considers rejoining the band.) I had my doubts about a comeback. But I also knew that all things considered I had to be there. I'm not saying they shouldn't have done it and yes it was fucking brave of them to do it at all. But I am saying - in retrospect - they shouldn't have done it like this. It was going to feel like a wake whatever happened so it should have been a cathartic emotional one. Close friends and family. Two thousands of us that is but us not the Adidas-clad baggy throwbacks and Northern Uproar lookalikes gathered to see the headlines.
Nonetheless friends of mine were in tears. I was expecting to be moved one way or another. I felt numb. They just walked out there solemnly did the job and walked off again. James in a pecs-enchancing white T-shirtm Nicky in a Cardiff Devils ice hockey shirt Sean in his usual Bosnian mercenary gear. No make-up no slogans no lippy pronouncements from The Wire apart from an opening calm down, it's only us!" So it's just the music... (Which band are we talking about again?) On a stage this size James' decision to occupy Richey's habitual Stage Right position just shifted the gaping abyss to Centre Stager instead. If the new Manics intend to bear any resemblance to the old Nicky needs to step into the Richey role: the face the mouth the mind. But these days Nicky's happier existing in reclusive domesticity in Gwent than playing the agen provocateur. (Which is his prerogative but...)
The choice of songs seems fairly meaningless: a chance to try out the new stuff and a few famous oldies that a neutral Arena crowd would recognise ("Motorcycle Emptiness" as featured on the "Drive Time" CD sold in petrol stations between Chris Rea and Dire Straits). But for those of us who are here specifially for the "second support act", the set list was weird. The five new songs - "Elvis Impersonator","Design For Life","Enola Alone","Australia" and Everything Must Go" - did sound incredibly poignant (in context how could they fail to?) a shift away from the gothic intensity of "The Holy Bible" back towards the meloudiousness of "Gold Against The Soul". But so much depends upon the lyrics indecipherable tonight - always a problem with the Manics, that. (The band are currently refusing to confirm which are Richey's and which are new Bradfield/Wire/Moore compositions.) But hearing the us-against-the-world fusillade of ‘91’s "You Love Us" into the context of '96 was the best anachronistic and hollow and the worst sickly Motown Junk" likewise. (will the reunited Beatles record a song that goes "I laughed when Edwards fucked off"?) "Roses In The Hospital" never was much of a song, more a re-write of Bowie's "Sound And Vision" with added "Radio Ga Ga" handclaps false sense of community from this most alienated of bands. Strangest of all there was nothing from "The Holy Bible", their latest LP and their best... and the most strongly associated with Richey. I wasn't expecting a guitar stood stage right with a wreath around it or a back-projected B&W photo saying "RICHEY JAMES EWDARDS, 1967-?" or for Bradders to behave like it was the Freddie Mercury Tribute - "This one's for you Richey!" - but their complete refusal to acknowledge the situation was uncomfortable. As if nothing had happened.
... A FEAR OF THE FUTURE?
So what
happens now?
(Don't think for a moment that this is "none of our business".
The Manics of all people know better than that.) Most of the fans
polled at Wembley expressed absolute certainty that the band
should carry on. But they were the ones who turned up (I know
many others who stayed away on principle). Whatever The Manics
WILL carry on in some form. James' deeply ingrained work ethic
demands itand it's hard do imagine James Nicky and Sean doing
anything other than making music (condemned to rock'n'roll...?)
But as a fan the "they need to make a living" argument
just won't do. This isn't any band. This is the Manic Street
Preachers. There are a number of possible outcomes. Back in
February I hoped for a neat and tidy finale: record an EP with
four tracks' worth of Richey's bundle of bequeathed lyrics,
release it on the anniversary in memorian, no live
appearances then bow out with dignity. Worst case scenario is the
wounded limping animal like the sad rump of the Clash which
hobbled on for a year or two after Mick Jones left or the
farcical attempt to continue The Sex Pistols after Sid Vicious
died. Unlikely... Barely better is the possibility that they'll
continue as a moderately popular indie trio like Therapy? or the
fucking Foo Fighters. When they finally do split up no one will
even notice. Conceivable...
Maybe, armed
with a back catalogue of catchy melodic rock songs they will
become bigger than ever, pawn their souls against gold while
quietly losing their original devoted fanbase. (If Manics still
want to crack America then a barn full of cunts isn't a bad place
to rehearse.) Possible...
In some ways either of these last two case scenarios would be
fitting a certain defeatism has always been inherent as has a
built-in Hypocrisy Clause which meant that any accusation you
threw at them could be accepted and absorbed with a Nicky Wire
shrug, a grin and a "we always said we were sluts/liars/(fill
in the blank)".
But a more positive model is the way New Order rose from the ashes of Joy Division and went on to create even more magnificent music than their original incarnation. The similarities are more than superficial: even without Richey the Manics remain a brilliant musical unit with an underrated lyricist. (But in this case shouldn't they stop trading as the Manic Street Preachers and rename themselves?) It seems indecently hasty after one shaky live performance to be asking these questions. But I pray - and I do have a certain faith - that they'll make a record of such undeniable excellence that all preconceptions are atomised (not least my own). My mind switches back and forth daily even hourly. I still love this band and I can't love anyone who doesn't. (It may seem an arbitrary way of choosing friends but some things are fundamental I hope they give me more of a reason than sentimental affection.