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The band recognised they became their own worst enemies on the sluggish and drained This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours. So this, the 6th album is a self-confessed attempt to get back those rampaging punk roots that engulfed Generation Terrorists and iconised The Holy Bible.
The adrenalin starts to pump on Found That Soul and the surprisingly paced lament to the loss of a mother Ocean Spray delivers without triteness as the lyrics in isolation suggest, “ Please stay away/wake, and then we can drink some Ocean Spray”. The energy and pacing is weirder elsewhere: Intravenous Agnostic and The Year of Purification are initial standouts/throwbacks but they never break loose. It never sounds like they want to either. The rage simmers, it never boils.
Instead
we get diversions (So Why So Sad is swamped by its
pretty (forced) Beach Boys homage), big black holes
(Royal Correspondent is defunct, lazy sludge) and the
very odd moment (Miss Europa Disco Dancer is funky Bee
Gees. No really).
Thematically
there’s supermarket sociology and pick and mix
pop/politics: the Daily Mail, American democracy, the
Blairs all get predictable bashings. Wire has always
been annoyingly capable of taking grand political ideas
but watering them down into angsty laments.
Predominantly, he avoids on KYE: Baby Elian is
politically angular, anti- American, short and unsweet
“kidnapped to the Promised Land….America the devil’s
playground”. Not one to mince words our Nicky.
Unfortunately, they’re often lost in clumsy, ranty,
unthoughtful arguments. Freedom of Speech Wont Feed My
Children should be attacking 1st
Amendment priority over social welfare reform but is
more like bitching about the holier than thou Beastie
Boys and their Tibetan cause. Stuff like “we love to
kiss the Dalai Lama’s ass because he is such a holy
man” does not a case make.
The
personalised wins out: Dead Martyrs is menacing and
bubbling thanks to tight David Holmes production and
sits close to the band’s history lyrically and
musically whilst His Last Painting is frustrating
because this simple song of resignation illustrates what
purity this band are capable of.
Striving
but never quite making that ideal is pure Manics. They’re
flawed ambition, but its like they’re trying too hard
to be everything: politicised, personal, angry, not.
These days it is akin to watching old folk out of
day-care and everyone saying how nice to see them out
and about stretching their legs. Never mind the results.
The
enemy is still the same. Before a great band becomes a
mere ageing band, quit whilst you’re middling. |
