MANIC STREET PREACHERS: “The Holy Bible” (Sony)

CONSPICUOUSLY not influenced by the religious tome of the same name, The Holy Bible is a profane, mean, angry-as-hell powerhouse of an LP. With the vast majority of their contemporaries conforming to the prevailing smiley-faced hippy-dippy sunshine ’n’ flowers orthodoxy, the Manics’ devotion to punky post-Clash guitar noise, virulent nihilistic sociopolitical lyrics and horrible song titles (‘Of Walking Abortion’, ‘The Intense Humming of Evil’) is a real breath of fresh air.

They’re literate as hell (“I am stronger than Mensa, Miller and Mailer/I spat out Plath and Pinter”) and they’re angry about something. More pointedly political than last year’s Gold Against The Soul, this LP is filled with righteous rage (‘If White America Told The Truth For One Day Its World Would Fall Apart’) and rage against righteousness: ‘P.C.P.’ is the anti-political correctness diatribe I’ve always wanted to write. (“When I was young PC meant Police Constable”).

The catch is that their lyrical shock-effects don’t really hit home without any sonic dynamics to back them up. Musically, the group seems stagnated – any progression since Gold . . . Soul is minimal. Maybe they’re waiting to learn some more chords. Their political venom also loses some of its sting when they don’t really know where to direct it. I mean, “Khrushchev – self love in his mirrors/Brezhnev – married into group sex/Gorbachev – celibate self importance/Yeltsin – failure is his own impotence” – what the fuck does that mean? If you’re looking for serious political commentary, stick to your Marxman.

Far more haunting and effective are the personal songs – the dark, stark beauty of ‘She Is Suffering’ almost brings tears to the eyes. “Beauty is such a terrible thing/She is suffering yet more than death/She is suffering/You exist within her shadow.”

The lyrics are culled from guitarist Richey James’ dark night of the soul; apparently not satisfied with carving lumps out of his own flesh, he has now decided to starve himself to death. ‘4 st. 7 lbs.’ is an ultra-harrowing ode to anorexia – it echoes Sonic Youth’s ‘Tunic (Song for Karen Carpenter)’ but is all the more blood-curdling for being a first-person account. Those of us who love life in all its terrible beauty will despair at lines like “I wanna be so skinny that I rot from view/Such beautiful dignity in self-abuse”. Yet mixed with the despair is a perversely flawless logic. “Choice is skeletal in everybody’s life/I choose, MY choice, I starve to frenzy/Hunger soon passes and sickness soon tires/I don’t mind the horror that surrounds me/Self-worth, self-esteem’s a bore/I long since moved to a higher plateau.”

This comes from a man who disclosed in a previous interview that “I drink three-quarters of a bottle of vodka a day. I get in bed, drink vodka and flick channels. It sounds sad but it’s the most pleasurable thing I can think of doing.” The implicit message therein is that life, success, failure etc. do not matter; we live, then we die, in quite a short space of time. What Richey’s trying to say, I suppose, is that he doesn’t give a fuck.

To an extent it’s hard to disagree. Where we depart is that Richey sees no light behind the darkness, which causes me no little irritation; if a humble hack can find reasons to get out of bed in the morning (well, afternoon), why not a well-loved rock star?

Anyway, if you don’t have a conceptual problem with it, The Holy Bible is a fine rock ’n’ roll album; it’s punchy, energetic and noisy, laden with epileptic riffs, slash ’n’ burn guitar solos and James Dean Bradfield’s hoarse shouted vocals. And it’s recommended, except for those contemplating suicide.

• Craig Fitzsimons