PINK!?!?

Well, yeah, the predominant colour on the sleeve of the Manic Street Preachers’ 1992 debut disc Generation Terrorists is a nice baby pink. To be honest, I wouldn’t associate the Manics’ filthy brand of rock music with such an innocent and – dare I say it – soppy colour, so that’s going to be my excuse as to why I held off picking the album up for so long. The crude artwork on the front cover was also a turn-off (although it appears to be a messy impression of rhythm guitarist/lyricist Richey Edwards’ upper body, just with the tattoo changed ever-so-slightly – his reads “useless generation”). Of course, within the liner notes you’ll find the usual type of nonsense that you would come across in virtually all of the band’s work… each song in the tracklist is backed up by a lovely, pretentious quote underneath it. I think my favourite is probably this little gem – “O witches, O misery, O hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the strength of a wild beast. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand, misfortune was my God”. How endearing.

But then the Manics were never the most loveable of lads were they? These four furious young men, hailing from the beautiful landscape-age of Wales, threatened world domination before they released this debut – in fact, they were convinced that they would sell millions of records and then retire after just the one album. As it turns out, they’ve gone on to release another five studio albums (not to mention a B-sides collection and a greatest hits) subsequently. Plus lose the aforementioned Mr. Edwards in confusing circumstances. Most settle for the explanation that he merely “disappeared” – that is, those in cahoots or in any way associated with the band, and usually fans too. The sad truth is all too obvious…

The thing is, Edwards was their lynchpin. He mightn’t have shown it to full extent on this effort, but he was an amazingly poetic lyricist, much better than couldn’t-write-lyrics-for-toffee (or play bass for that matter) Nicky Wire, the scrawny Goth wannabe. Much of his best and most horrific work was revealed on the band’s masterpiece, 1994’s The Holy Bible. (They were strangely prolific in their earlier years.) The fact that he couldn’t play more than about four chords on guitar was irrelevant. After that 1994 effort he vanished, and the band decided to mellow out a little, before returning with a vengeance – but not a great album – in 2001.

However, the fact still remains that the Manics came off, on this debut, as a really cocky bunch of kids trying way too hard to impress. I mean, take one look at the tracklisting and you’ll see eighteen songs. A little too much for my liking, especially since there is one of the crappiest remixes in the history of music stuck in the midst of it all for no apparent reason. It all becomes a little blustery and overbearing after a while, and by the time you get to a little past the halfway point on the record, you’re becoming a little sick of the Manics and their bewilderingly needless complexity at points. I say this because some of the guitar work sounds like it wouldn’t be out of place on a Guns ‘N Roses album. In fact, the music on here as a whole isn’t that far removed from the sound of the popular early '90s outfit. It has the same bustling energy, the same furious screaming and barely intelligible vocals (albeit more of a ferocious growl from lead man James Dean Bradfield rather than a squealing pigeon howl from Axl Rose), and the same outrageously self-indulgent guitar solos. But then again, guitarist James Dean Bradfield has never really been shy about flexing his guitaring muscles to impress, and he has never been short of a little bit of egomania, has he? One only has to look at the insane two-minute long solo on The Holy Bible’s Archives Of Pain for proof of this claim.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this record, I _do_, very much indeed. It’s just that the biting punk edge and nihilistic lyrics can become tiresome after eighteen songs worth. You may be yearning for the worldly simplicity of something like Green Day by the time all is said and done here.

Track Listing
1.Slash And Burn - 2.Nat West – Barclays – Midlands – Lloyds - 3.Born To End - 4.Motorcycle Emptiness - 5.You Love Us - 6.Love’s Sweet Exile - 7.Little Baby Nothing - 8.Repeat (Stars And Stripes) - 9.Tennessee - 10.Another Invited Disease - 11.Stay Beautiful - 12.So Dead - 13.Repeat (UK) - 14.Spectators Of Suicide - 15.Damn Dog - 16.Crucifix Kiss - 17.Methadone Pretty - 18.Condemned To Rock ‘N Roll

A band who are attempting to impress beyond belief are hardly going to ease you into their debut album slowly, and expectedly the Manics don’t even try to, assaulting the listener with a barrage. In truth the five opening songs are a virtual attack on the senses, with only a little break for the glorious standout track, and the band’s first single, Motorcycle Emptiness. This one is absolutely dazzling, with a squealing and strangely comforting riff spiralling its way over the top of everything. True, the song does delve in some exceedingly 1980s-style cheesiness at times (as does much of this album, actually) due to out-of-place tinkling pianos, but the choruses of ”Under neon loneliness / Motorcycle emptiness” are truly heavenly. You just try explaining the sentiment to me… Of course, there is some incredibly fiddly and impressive soloing going on everywhere throughout this one. For once though, Bradfield doesn’t bite his lyrics out through grated teeth, rather choosing to unleash the singer within him. It sounds pretty damn good.

As I said, though, the rest of the opening twenty minutes or so here is pure bile and fury. The opening riff to Slash And Burn is cutting but glam at the same time. The lyrics are rather lovely too: ”Worms in the garden more real than McDonalds / Drain your blood and let the Exxon spill in”. But it’s the exceedingly good riff that bulldozes its way through the song, eventually morphing into a screeching burst of guitar noise to accompany the final chorus. Following on, Nat West… is a more bullying affair, yet still carries a hint of glam under the surface. It _is_ weirdly sing-along in style, but is still probably the weakest out of the opening five. Born To End bounces along on a flurry of drum thuds and punching chords, before deviating off to more frantic and overblown solo breaks. Bradfield nearly chomps his mike to pieces as he barks out the lyrics. You Love Us, not entirely different in style, is the ultimate anthem to self-confidence – or maybe not (”You love us like a holocaust / Same P.R. problem as E.S.T.”), and is an entirely darker affair. The guitars turn mean, filthy and distorted beyond recognition. Guess what? More avant-garde soloing? You bet. Well, not so much avant-garde (you get the feeling that Bradfield is trying his best to emulate Slash, which is always gonna be tough), but its still absolutely tremendous and possibly the most outrageous stuff put on display thus far.

There are many other highlights on here. It’s unfortunate that a great deal of the tracks carry similar elements to one another, or I’d be able to give more distinctive descriptions. Tennessee has a lovely, almost lo-fi feel to it. You can barely hear the individual guitars as they all seem to mesh together in one big ball. Stay Beautiful, another standout track, has an almost anthemic feel to it with its crisp bass and big blasting power chords. The squealing guitars in the chorus take the place of some naughty words, which makes it all the more cheeky. Again, this one probably ventures way too far into 1980s rock territory, with delicate and sappy piano tinkles strewn all over the place. But it doesn’t take anything away from the song, or the by-now-familiar lyrical sentiment: ”Babies on the run with poisoned lips / Wrap your arms around this everlasting kiss / Clinging to your own sense of waste / All we love is lonely wreckage”.

Another Invented Disease has one of the more bewilderingly fiddly riffs on the entire album – and it’s all wrapped in amongst a punchy, powerful and angry number that morphs into some sort of speed-punk in the lead-up to the slightly generic-feeling choruses. Condemned To Rock ‘N Roll ends the album on a self-indulgent, pretentious note (just the way the band would’ve wanted it, probably) yet still manages to retain massive amounts of credit. A very beefy riff takes its place on here, and the track runs on for just over six minutes. It’s a lot slower and more deliberate than a lot of the rest of the material, and Sean Moore gets to flex his filling muscles as echoic drums pound away in the background. Actually, at one point, the riff transforms into something very reminiscent of Guns ‘N Roses’ Rocket Queen (further proof that they are probably the Manics’ favourite band). Lots more soloing and riff-chopping lead the song through until its end. It’s really, really impressive – might I add. I applaud the work of James Dean Bradfield here. It’s things like this that make him my favourite guitarist.

What haven’t I mentioned yet? Oh, that’s right! Repeat is typical fare from the band: pulsing, jagged chords coupled with Bradfield’s furious howlings. And the provocative lyricism – “Repeat after me / Fuuck queen and country”. Do I even need to tell you that there is massive amounts of solo action here? I didn’t think so. Unfortunately… this song spawns the worst track on the entire CD. The stars and stripes version of this one is an embarrassment, to the point that I can’t believe the band allowed it to be put on here. A thudding, annoying beat and random DJ scratchings just don’t suit the Manics one bit. Uuuuuugh…

Another misstep would be the exceedingly un-Manics-like Little Baby Nothing, another one that should make faces go red. It starts off promisingly enough, with a sweet little electric riff, but soon morphs into a weird and almost heavenly piano-led number. As usual, the piano sounds rotten, plonking along merrily and cheesily. Female vocals??? What??? Need I say more? I mean, not that I have anything against female vocalists – they’re quite lovely actually – it’s just that you would never expect to hear one turn up on a Manics record, and it’s quite the culture shock. Not in a good way, either.

Summing up, as I said earlier, I enjoy Generation Terrorists very much. Dirty great slabs of raw guitar laid down atop the barking vocals of Bradfield, complete with massive amounts of apparently needless soloing? Bring it on! But I find myself becoming bored of the whole act very quickly, something that doesn’t happen with the Manics more recent material, and for this reason I’ve downgraded the album severely. I’d still recommend this to _anyone_, but particularly folks who enjoy severe solos and don’t mind the odd nihilistic lyric or two. Or anyone who is a big fan of the Manic Street Preachers and doesn’t have it yet.

Excellent: Slash And Burn, Motorcycle Emptiness, You Love Us, Condemned To Rock ‘N Roll
Good: Nat West – Barclays – Midlands – Lloyds, Born To End, Another Invented Disease, Stay Beautiful, So Dead, Repeat (UK), Damn Dog, Crucifix Kiss
Average: Love’s Sweet Exile, Tennessee, Spectators Of Suicide, Methadone Pretty
Weak: Little Baby Nothing, Repeat (Stars And Stripes)

Final Rating: 12/20



Recommended: Yes