Thoughts on the Manics

On hearing the Manics announce another 'indefinite hiatus' recently, I thought of one of the many reasons why Bono is a tosser. On the release of one of their many interchangeable, pleasant albums, Bono remarked that he was "re-applying for the job of the Best Band in the World'. The thought that this role is something that one can apply for sums up everything that's wrong with Bono. You can imagine him, sat in some neutrally decorated reception somewhere, running over his just-affecting-enough lines, smoothing his sensible hair and polishing his rebellious shades (hinting at the morning after) before entering to a panel of elder statesmen and listing his merits. The Manics, in contrast, wanted nothing more than to be the Best Band in the World and failed. If only they'd not mentioned the Holocaust repeatedly in the interview, they might have been ok. The Manics really wanted to be the Best Band in the World, whereas Bono wanted to get the job to pad his CV when he applies to be Pope.

The Manics wanted to be the Best Band in the World because rock music really mattered to them, as it does to millions of people in derided backwaters all over the world. The openness and freedom matters when your horizons feel very near, the chord hangs on long enough to suggest a future and a far-away, a happy-ever-after. They added to this, a resolute refusal to patronise their listeners (which is why their fans adore them, and I'm writing this now).

Think of Bruce Springsteen, and the words he puts into the mouth of the protagonist of Thunder Road. Addressing his beloved, he mumbles "You ain't a beauty/but hey, you're alright". Now, the Manics' protagonist responds: "Life is full of cold made warm and they are just lizards"; "Anxiety is freedom"; "Rock and roll is our epiphany/of culture, alienation, boredom and despair". The mode remains the same, now weaponised by intellect, fortified by reading. The refusal to accept that living in a back end of arse-nowhere meant a focus on your own bubble, an ignorance of the rest of the world.

Of course, for Manics fans, the period where they meant that is long gone, and the above paragraph is mere jumpers for goalposts stuff. But even when the Manics changed course and turned inward, it was done with a lacerating lack of self-regard, another reason why they couldn't be the Best Band in the World. Their last truly great album, This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours, dealt relentlessly with the possible suicide by drowning of their hitherto most important member. The perversity of naming songs "Ready For Drowning and "Tsunami" in this context is admirable. The specificity of this album makes it a fucking miracle it ever got the Number One. Everything must go, never say goodbye, drift away and die.

Except they didn't, and wouldn't. The Manics have trundled on for more than ten years making songs that sound a bit like ones that they made when they were great. The best album was based on the work of their departed comrade. Their best songs, Indian Summer and Postcard from a Young Man, have sounded like goodbyes. So, goodbye.

Album of the Week: Community Music

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to go on holiday the week leading up to the Royal Wedding. Watching BBC World on hotel television was like viewing a distant, strange culture. On my return, my workplace was filled with bunting and minature Union Jacks, like the inside of William Hague's mind. But unlike William Hague's mind, it was in no way uncritical, self-satisfied and smug. Cynicism was, as always in these instances, the default reaction of my collegues and most folk. An astonishment and grinding irritation, bourne of the entire media reminding you that you are, in actual, legal fact, lower than others. If a millionaire a commoner, what the fuck is someone on minimum wage?

Perhaps it doesn't help to live in one of the Kingdom's peripheries, where notions of national identity are dual, making an idea of a national celebration a conflict at least. Whatever it was, the Royal Wedding made me angrier than a lot of more justified causes. The Wedding seemed like the horseshit cherry on top of the bullshit sundae of a decades long handwringing panic on the part of our rulers.

Whether it's Thatcher's migrant swamp, Blunkett's concern that immigrants continue to speak other (oh so other) languages at home, Tebbit's cricket test, British jobs for British workers, old maids cycling past village greens pissed on warm beer etc. etc. etc., our rulers express continual concern that the British, or, whisper it, the 'British', aren't trying hard enough to be British. This is proposterous, in no way their role, and should be spat on whenever it rears its grotesque and in no small part racist head.

This absurd spectacle, with its preemptive arrests for anyone who dares criticise it in an excessively visual fashion, marks its high point. After a near half century of spurious attempts to define Britishness as based upon human rights, democracy, fair play and the like, the wedding of an unelected posh bellend (as opposed to all the elected ones), visited by war criminals and autocrats and paid for by commoners has supposedly united and defined us all as British.

Pass the sick bag, and if you can hear over the sounds of my wretching and ranting, listen to this, this, and this. It may, for a fleeting second, make you feel glad to be British.

Album of the 'Week': Graceland

When does politics interrupt music? The short answer to that is: when you're listening to it in my presence. The interaction between politics and music fascinates me, and bad politics in particular. On hearing a bar of Billy Joel's 'Just The Way You Are', I will, regardless of circumstance or propriety, explain how it's a sexist Trojan Horse, sneaking in controlling impulses and a heavily gendered idea of what women are for under its calm-sea sheen ("I don't want clever, conversation/Just cook my dinner right you bitch). As for 10CC's 'Dreadlock Holiday', well, the problems with that really shouldn't need explaining.

However, those songs are politically dreadful AND shit. Graceland by Paul Simon is one of the first albums I ever loved, but on listening to it recently, it was interrupted by politics. A low level buzz of wan, patronising and ill-judged politics defines the album as much as beauty and lazy refinement. For the best example, see 'Under African Skies', a haunting melody, an earworm beyond compare. Now, take its lyrics. A protagonist named Joseph is introduced and it is established that he is black and African. That is all. "The roots of rhythm remain" indeed.

Yes, this is Paul Simon's Black Album. The international legal issue around its creation is less problematic frankly - the sheer amount of hairshirted gesture politics that followed his seemingly ignorant breaking of the UN Cultural Embargo on South Africa (playing gigs outside of SA with the cream of exile talent, playing for the ANC in exile in Zimbabwe, ending all shows with the ANC anthem - check, check and check) surely made up for that. The problem more the embedded power of going somewhere with the intention of picking its talent like the coolest kid in class, and the idea of specifically yoinking players on the basis of their cultural/racial heritage. Not exactly wrong, but disquieting nevertheless.

This disquiet pervades the album. The disconnect between Simon's aging hippy lyrics, a thoroughly different musical tradition and the now laughable hi-tech of yesterday's tomorrow creates an extra queasyness and leaves behind a genuinely uncanny music. 'The Boy in the Bubble', with its dislocated pump of accordion and bass, drums synthesised and shifting volume without logic, and a lapsed idealist straining for a political point, ranks #1 in my Oddest Records of the 20th Century. And that century contained 'Ride A White Swan'.

Of course, this is criticism masquerading as praise. The real reason why I love this political and musical experiment (apart from the fact that it's a political and musical experiment) is its humility. From 'Graceland', a rare break-up song that doesn't idealise or despise either party, to 'You Can Call Me Al' - wherein a person undergoing a mid-life crisis is redeemed by the horror of the Third World ("scatterings and orphanages") - the whole album is deep structured by the lack of confidence of its narrator, their crippling fears and very timid hopes. For that, and the bass playing, this album repays listening by anyone who may be put off because of 'Scarborough Fair', the subsequent hi-jinx of Bono and Geldof and the undignified parp of synth brass.

It Gets Better: 'Left To My Own Devices'

Mildly irritating and occasionally amusing US sex columnist Dan Savage has recently initiated a project named 'It Gets Better'. Basically, fully grown gays, lesbians and celebrities (including Paris Hilton) create videos boasting about how comfortable adult life is for the benefit of LGBT teenagers. This has the rare distinction of being smug and wonderful, a sacrament of boasting in the face of oppression.

Which brings me onto the song that has plagued my mind for much of the past few months, 'Left To My Own Devices' by the Pet Shop Boys. It's extraordinary. Firstly, the vocals. Johnny Rotten was famously happy to declare that he didn't care, although the tone of this pronouncement belies his actual level of care. Neil Tennant is unique in all of pop music in being able to sound as though he genuinely doesn't give a thr'penny fuck about all of creation. Languid, bored, lazy, distant - it's all there.

Why doesn't Neil care? Well it's hinted at in the music - a cold fusion of musicals, opera and early house - and suggested in the lyrics - "this friend of mine - he's a party animal", "maybe if you're with me, we'll do some shopping". Neil doesn't care because his Pink Pound and Wildean mind have transcended all limitations placed on him, all fetters on his artistic production and impeccable taste. Finally, he is everything he meant to be and anyone who disagrees can fuck themselves and enjoy it. It's a wonder, and anyone who finds this irritating or distasteful has their bread buttered on the wrong side.

Label of the 'Week': Warp

This week, coming home from a job I hate, with a government being decided that I was sure to hate, I decided to indulge myself with something I love. And indulgence it was. Using Spotify's label search function I searched for 'Warp' and hit random. Given the much vaunted death of the record label, it's a miracle that I could think of a record label, but Warp sprung to mind

Warp is less a record label and more a style of music in itself - easily identifiable. Drum beats skitter, overlap, cut and stretch - none of the melodic instruments sound organic. Vocals, if present, are heavily distorted. In short, it's warped. Unlike the abacus experimentalism of 12-tone music, or the shapeless mass of free jazz, the vast majority of Warp's music offers just enough structure to box you in, then spends most of it's time bending the walls, wrapping space and time, unsettling. It is a music made almost entirely on computers, and in an era when every job seemingly involves staring at an often malfunctioning computer system for 8 hours, then travelling home past detritis (organic and man-made) it's a music made exactly for our time. Thom Yorke was not wrong in describing Autechre's grotesque and detailed masterwork 'LP5' as "the sound that's in my head". It's in all of our heads, whether we accept it on not.

The gateway to Warp is the music of Aphex Twin, who serves as a kind of Weird Al Jankovic comedy record producer and totem for the Warp ethos, having evolved from making slightly odd music for raves to making ludicrous drum'n'bass and pretty piano music. A lot of the music on Warp follows this pattern - this is a label that used to put out records by the cut-up artist Cassette Boy (who used famous people's words to make them say inappropriate things, a comedy trope surpassed only by old people swearing in its satiric power) and the avant-garde composer Mira Calix, who once performed live 'collaborating' with a tank of insects.

In short, childish and modernist, which is where the idea of the holy label comes in. Warp, for me, fits. This was the idea behind the independent music movement - to have a label that catered for a specific group of people - a social and musical sectarianism. Warp is my sect, and its haunting, fucked music speaks to me as Sub Pop and Rough Trade spoke to its secret following.

Well, I say 'speaks', it's more 'spoke'. In recent years, Warp has succumbed to what China Miéville refers to as the "idiot logic of capitalism", the drive to expand, the drive to accumulate. It has broadened its musical palette, taking in flesh and blood bands with actual instruments, Americans and becoming involved in film production. So once again, I'm left in a corner, demanding ideological consistency, barking at the moon.

Magnificent Whining

Britain in the 00s was a country besieged by grumpy old men. The TV series of that title was unaccountably popular, given that it consisted of pensioned comedians whinging with minimal commitment about topics lobbed by terribly dressed 20-something runners. One of the best selling non-fiction books was entitled 'Is it just me or is everything crap?'. They could all have been replaced by this, for the greater good.

Album of the 'Week': 'Travels With Myself and Another'

I am divorced from current music. Not something to be proud of - music is consistently of value (except for the period between 1985-1988 or so it seems). In this year, I've become interested in one 'new' band, the charmingly named 'Future of the Left', and even they fall into a micro-genre that I'm inordinately interested in, that of 'Welsh Bands - Too Clever For Their Own Good'. It's a genre that includes FOTL (who acronym beautifully), Manic Street Preachers and Scritti Politti.

What is irresistible about these bands is that they're open to politics. While not polemical, their music is inflected by political history, or the idea of politics. An album that begins with a song entitled 'Arming Eritrea' is all too easy to enjoy. FOTL also share with Scritti Politti and the Manics an 'Americanism' - all sing in American accents, play with American forms of music and probably have portraits of George W. Bush on their walls for all I know. FOTL are not however, going to write songs about Jacques Derrida or empowering libraries. They're far too fun for that. Even though they practice a form of punk which is close to the avant-garde and to heavy metal (the irritatingly named 'hardcore'), their music is packed with melodies and jokes.

The perversely serious 'Drink Nike' begins with a description of a crap act of terrorism - "Right in the centre of Hove/Next to an escalator/Somebody's planted a bomb/Underneath a plastic chair" - mocking War on Terror paranoia or farcical homegrown terror plots. 'Stand By Your Manatee', not content with being titled with a crap joke, goes on to tell the story of a suicide motivated by the suicider's parents using plastic forks - ending with the sage observation that "it'll never be a kingdom shared". The harrowing 'Hope That House Built' takes the always enjoyable perspective of an evil ruling bastard, intoning "In the end/Everybody wins".

But what I really love about FOTL is what I love about reggae and calypso - the alliance of miserable or disturbing sentiment with gleeful music. The harmonies on 'Throwing Bricks at Trains', alone, make this my favourite album for a long while.

Album of the 'Week': Fear of a Black Planet

Public Enemy are ludicrous. I possess the first issue of the Public Enemy comic, from 2007, in which Chuck D fires up a young, disillusioned black man to fight authority, and, I seem to remember, ninjas. The character voices awestruck approval at the revelatory and liberatory power of Public Enemy's music and Chuck D's public speaking before, during, and after fighting the power. All this would be fine if this was charmingly ill-thought out fan-fiction, but the author of the comic is Chuck D himself. Public Enemy have developed into a middling band of overly earnest, politically confused old men, which would be fine, if they didn't have the most musically radical back catalogue of any popular band of the last 30 years.

'Fear of a Black Planet' is often referred to as the first hip-hop concept album, but it is nothing of the sort. Politically confused, over-long and patchy, there is no concept that can be said to guide the piece. The driving force of the album is utter rage. Rage at the band's detractors, rage at homosexuals, rage at race mixers, at Hollywood, and, finally, 'the power'. Rage breeds incoherence, and, coming to 'Fear of a Black Planet' decades after its release, with its reputation as the apex of politically engaged hip-hop, the unpalatable depths of homophobia and (perfectly understandable) race-hatred were shocking, but not as shocking as the sheer fragmentation of Chuck D's lyrics. It's difficult to discern a thread in any of the lyrics. This is in no way a criticism, it renders his writing a collection of placard slogans and a mass of phrases, delivered in his college-trained radio announcer voice. It does however, get a bit much - Ice-T's verse in 'Burn, Hollywood, Burn' (which can be said, with fair confidence, to have predicted the L.A Riots of 1992) actually arrives as light relief, even when he shouts "don't fight the power/(gunshot) the motherfucker!".

The lyrics are the transcription of a riot of ideas, influences and emotions. They form new beats, get sidetracked, alternate between self-pity and bombast. One of the masterpieces of the album, 'Welcome to the Terrordome' begins "I've got so much trouble on my mind/Refuse to lose". The lyrics as a whole betray a seige mentality, following the controversy created by the band's conduct (particularly Professor Griff's claim that "Jews are responsible for 90% of the evil in the world today" a wonderfully precise bit of utter nonsense), and reflect the broader seige mentality of a black community seeing the gains of the civil rights era rolled back by Reaganomics. The shifting rhythm and shock phrase-turning ("brain game, intellectual Vietnam", "subordinate terror kicking off in error", "most of my heroes don't appear on no stamp") and the authoritative delivery make avoiding engaging with the lyrics impossible. They force debate. That MLK and various faceless nameless orators appear in sample makes this even more delicious.

This, however can be said of any number of earnest rappers. What gives 'Fear of a Black Planet' its continued shock power and enduring status isn't the healthy dose of Louis Farrakhan-era Nation of Islam politics or Chuck D's self-pity, but the mindblowing production of The Bomb Squad. As opposed to the fast majority of hitherto existing hip-hop, each track is through-composed, and the album contains thousands of micro-samples. At one point (the first 20 seconds of the gloriously titled 'Anti-Nigger Machine'), the level of abstraction resembles John Cage's 'Williams Mix'. This alone makes the buffoon I saw perform his rap version of Elton John's Tiny Dancer look even more like an arse. But there's more - the vast majority of the tracks have no tonal centre - no student will ever be able to perform 'Fight The Power' in an ironic fashion at an open-mic night.

But most importantly, the production embraces what devotées of anologue call 'the digital squelch' and computer sequencing (Chuck D even namechecks the Mac on which the album was presumably made). 'Fear of a Black Planet', despite its 'classic' status, belongs to an old school of hip-hop that purists and modern practitioners like to imagine doesn't exist - one that isn't identifiably old, and is directly politically confrontational. The wonder of 'Fear of a Black Planet is that not only has it not dated, but it sounds as though it could have been released in the distant future.

Album of the 'Week': 'Enema of the State'

The notion of a guilty pleasure is a strange and degraded one. Obviously, there are things that you can't admit to in polite company, things that don't fit the criteria that society and you yourself set for enjoying things. But in admitting to a guilty pleasure, you are exposing these hidden passions - for this reason, people are squeamish about what they reveal. They might admit liking Eastenders or Desperate Housewives, but never Blink 182. Their bassist has a mouthful of fucking seaweed in the picture above, for crying out loud, and the album I'm writing about is called 'Enema of the State'.

Nevertheless, each of us has enjoyed music that seems repugnant in hindsight. Revisiting 'Enema of the State', the depth and breadth of sexism and puerility on display is truly shocking. Nu-metal, and the more sprightly and appealing pop-punk that developed alongside it at the beginning of this decade was in many ways the nadir of the macho posturing inherent in rock - a mixture of sweaty male bonding and inane self-pity that's truly off-putting to anyone with an ounce of decency.

However, I would argue that Blink 182's approach renders them a partially defensible pleasure. Unlike Limp Bizkit, Blink 182 have enough sense to make themselves the butt of the joke. The frat-house nonsense that infects the album is punctured by songs like 'What's My Age Again?', which demonstrates a degree of self-knowledge and self-doubt that makes the homophobia and sexism a bit more palatable. There's also a clear pop sensibility at play, which made the music an anathema to dull, mohawked punks and the traditional tween audience of pop. Their relative musical and lyrical idiocy also leads to the inclusion of a genuinely pathetic and upsetting song about teen suicide (appalling punks with the use of keyboards).

This was Blink 182's musical highpoint, and it's been downhill from there. The traditional cliché about American culture (oft-spouted by the BBC) is that the American Dream remains upstanding, despite the many disproofs that exist. The pop-punk version of the American Dream as presented by 'Enema of the State' seems closer to the fact - myriad flaws and disgusting attitudes, covered by a surface sheen that is, in my case, irresistible.

Album of the Week: 'What's Going On?'

A while back, I ranted, without much control, on the subject of 'New Atheism'. Listening to 'What's Going On?' this week, I realised that those words were wasted (well, more than usual) given that the stupidity of the New Atheists can be summed up by the fact that they refuse to recognise the difference between the Christianity of Pope Benedict XIV and Marvin Gaye.

'What's Going On?' is correctly considered to be one of the greatest albums ever made, and there is a narrative traditionally associated with it, usually featuring the unheard-of political radicalism of it, as a Motown release. The film Dreamgirls, about Diana Ross and the Supremes, features a subplot where a Gaye soundalike's vision rubs up against the boss of the Motown-alike record label - leading 'Gaye' down a path of heroin use, and towards death. The inanity of the music that the soundalike produces is hilarious - 90% of the lyrics being the words "peace and love" - and this is before we take into account that 'Gaye' is played by the foul Eddie Murphy - but I digress...

The real surprise of the album, after imbibing the traditional narrative, and hits used for the illustration of it, is the level of introspection, and religious content that 'What's Going On?' contains. The left-wing politics is wonderful - gloriously earnest, exalting "picket lines/and picket signs" and those whose "hair is long". These gems are sanctified and sillified by the inclusion of a recurring prayer that begins "Don't go and talk about my father/God is my friend (Jesus is my friend)", which puts one in mind of both Gaye spoiling for a pub fight with a trash-talking atheist, and Gaye's own father, who tragically shot his son, depriving the world of black music of one of its greatest stylists, and perhaps its greatest singer since Paul Robeson. The music is profoundly soft, unthreatening, with melotrons and flutes spiralling to the heavens, drums that resemble a babbling brook, and grand, simple strings.

Listening to the album, the picture that emerges (much like that of Thom Yorke's 'The Eraser') is of a troubled soul, projecting his crises onto a disturbing, broken world. But a continuity exists with his earlier work, which unlike that of Thom Yorke, is not entirely depressing. So the lush, swinging 'Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)' comes on like a love song, then begins "Oh, mercy mercy me/things ain't what they used to be/Where did all the blue skies go?/Poisoned is the wind that flows/From the North and South". On 'Right On', he bemoans inequality, and his own addiction to easy living and nightlife (and perhaps cocaine - I don't have a good Gaye timeline), despite the horror of the world.

The litany of apocalyptic scenarios contrasted with appeals to God's love present us with something more complex than simple love songs, or political tracts. We're left with love songs which accept a world where love is crushed under the jackboot, songs of beauty and ecstacy in a world of squallor, songs that appeal to our highest impulses, while accepting that the easy way out is very easy indeed. It deserves its status, and deserves better than Eddie Murphy.

Album of the 'Week': 'Off The Wall'

Amongst all the tearful tributes, Jackson radio marathons and sick jokes (my personal favourite being the most simple - "R, I, P - easy as 1, 2, 3"), a gradual chorus has emerged that regardless of his manifest personal problems, we should concentrate on 'the music'. This is easier said than done, because Jackson's musical decline was pretty much unsurpassed. The dull grandstanding of his later career was a product of one thing - the poor musical and lyrical instincts of the all-powerful Jackson. The greatest parts of his work were all the products of outside influences - the magnificent Jackson 5 records, with tiny Michael's breathtaking vocals backed by Motown session players fucking around on a slow day, and the first two albums with Quincy Jones, 'Off The Wall' and 'Thriller'.

For someone devoted to Top Of The Pops around the time of 'Earth Song' and 'You Are Not Alone', 'Off The Wall' was a genuine surprise - the largest surprise being the sheer aggression underpinning the best tracks. Not only is Jackson's singing not devoid of character, as it was to become, but he fucking goes for it. The insane falsetto of 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' and the joyous shouting of the title track (with the lyric "living crazy/that's the only way" - a sentiment he took far too literally) are reminders that he was a truly great singer, although, in contradiction to what various cloth-eared pundits have been repeating over the last few days, nowhere near as talented a musician as Mozart and Beethoven. Despite the hyperbole, the soft cloud of harmonies on 'Rock With You' are the closest he, and probably pop music to that point, got to the ecstatic.

Musically, the album pre-dates Jackson's personal and musical flight from his race. The sheer funk of the album, is, again a surprise. The nervy, jumping bassline of the title track, and the iron grooves that pervade the album are a wonder, and mostly the product of Quincy Jones's invention. The subtle, sane use of electronics are probably attributable to this as well - the Quincy-less Jackson would end up sanctioning the terrible production of 'Man In The Mirror'. Strings are used as simply another element, and not the point of the song, as they are at worst.

Given the hundreds of thousands of words written about Jackson following his odd death (there are many more to come...), this post feels oddly truncated. But perhaps the greatest tragedy is that, from 'Thriller' in 1983, his story overwhelmed his music, and, in musical terms, he'd died a very long time ago.

Album of the 'Week': 'Journal For Plague Lovers'

The Manic Street Preachers are, as Simon Price argues in his brilliant and infuriating masterwork 'Everything', the band that mattered the most to their fans since The Smiths. Arguably this title was wrestled from them by The Libertines, partially because The Libertines are more interesting in terms of narrative, but largely because of the Manics' truly staggering backslide in terms of musical quality.

From 1994's 'The Holy Bible' to 1999's 'This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours' (an album with a title long enough to merit a comma) the Manics made scythingly beautiful pop music, allied to gauché and memorable lyrics - their grandiosity and naivité making them the perfect antidote to Britpop's music-hall/football crowd stylings. Then came one of the worst albums ever made by a great band, and my personal departure from the Manics, 'Know Your Enemy'. Mere words cannot describe how shit the album is, but they can go some way. It was clattering, pretentious, ugly and stupid - it contained songs defending the former Soviet Union and attacking Royal Correspondents (how controversial!). This album was trailed as a return to form - it arrived as a terrible disappointment. I'd like to deride the albums released since 'Know Your Enemy', but I've scarcely heard them - they have some good songs, but that does not make them worth weathering.

So, another album, another return to form. 'Journal For Plague Lovers' re-engaged the music press and lapsed fans through a wonderful piece of grave-robbing, using for its lyrics notebooks bequeathed to the band by missing lyricist and guitarist Richey Edwards. The look and sound of the album is clearly based on that of 'The Holy Bible', the last Edwards-era Manics album, and it delivers on the promise. If it's merely an exercise in nostalgia, it's an exercise which has led them back to the well of decent music, from the lake of shite where, for a decade, they have pitched camp.

The lyrics of 'Journal For Plague Lovers', compared to their contemporaries used on 'The Holy Bible', lack density and focus. Whereas 'The Holy Bible' offers lists of demagogues, 'Journal For Plague Lovers' gives us jokes - "me and Stephen Hawking...we missed the Sex Revolution when we failed the physical". Some of the lyrics would have benefited immensely from being left in the book - Doors Closing Slowly's opening couplet "Realise how lonely this is/Self-defeating? Oh fuck yeah" is one of the worst lyrics ever committed to tape. There are still flashes of brilliance - "the Levi jean will always/be stronger than the Uzi" being a particular favourite - but the lyrics feel like what they are - the unwisely opened notebooks of a sadly insane man.

What has kept me listening to this album is what keeps all fans of the Manics listening to the Manics - the world-beating songwriting and singing of James-Dean Bradfield. On 'Journal For Plague Lovers' the discrepency in quality between the two elements of the songs becomes absurd. On 'Me and Stephen Hawking', James-Dean's giddy verses, sung at the edge of his vocal range, are a joy - the lyrics, including the phrase "Transgenic milk containing human protein", are an irritant. The anthemic 'Jackie Collins Existential Question Time' has a lyric which at first is amusing and becomes, through repetition, an annoyance ("if a married man fucks a Catholic"). But, give or take a few skipables, the Manics have made an album that repays listening, a fact as wonderful as it is unnerving.

Album of the Week: 'Radiator'

Brit-pop is dead - most of its stars are no longer musicians. In fact, most of those who are still producing music are no longer musicians in any meaningful sense, Oasis being a CBBC version of The Rolling Stones and Damon Alburn being a wide-ranging credibility vampire with Tony Allen and Dangermouse as his quarries. Neither as politically radical nor musically radical as punk, there's a tendancy to write it out of history, and to accept the clip-show version of its history as fact - Liam Gallagher at Knebworth, 'Roll With It' vs 'Country House', Geri Spice's Union Jack dress, and, to mark its death, Tony Blair schmoozing the ambassadors of Cool Britannia like only a groupie can.

Of course, this is bollocks - Brit-pop produced many great songs (I may have been of an impressionable age, but watching Top of the Pops from 1994-1997 was a profound, gleaming thrill - remember Top of the Pops when you were a kid?) and bore aloft various bands that still produce great music to this day. Some kind of cosmic balance ensured that for every Shed Seven there was a Radiohead, for every Menswear there was a Pulp and for every Dodgy there was a Super Furry Animals.

Unlike Pulp or Radiohead, the Super Furries were clearly of Brit-pop. Bankrolled by Creation Records' Oasis-gotten millions, with jangling guitars and sunglasses/haircut combinations trademarked by Ian Brown, they were ideally suited to creating uplifting summer hits. But, regardless of their physical and spiritual proximity to the tenets of Brit-pop, the music they made was simply too divergent and odd.

Radiator, their second album, while it contains anthemic and pensive songs, full of sweeping guitar chords, and singalong melodies, also contains absurd fitful sketches, slightly over 2 minutes in length, called things like 'The International Language of Screaming'. Actually, even if we disregard the wilfully awkward pieces of music - the little keyboard pieces, the song in Welsh - even the 'hits' are difficult. 'Demons', with its sense of purpose and sweeping chords, has one of the most abrasive guitar tones in the history of recorded music, and the lyric "and in the year three million/our skins will be vermillion". 'Mountain People' asks you to digest, along with its singalong melody, a perpetually stretching verse and, to finish, a wall of electronic noise. These were not songs made for 'I Love The 90s'.

This is bad enough faced with the button-down style of Oasis and their friends, and the even more straight-laced members of the sub-group 'Cool Cymru'. But, the Supreme Crime of the 1990s Furries was their adherence to a non-personal lyric style. So 'The Placid Casual', as well as having the gloriously memorable chorus-marker "Fuzz/Clogs up my video", has a second verse about an unsuccessful coup in Sierra Leone. 'Mountain People' could be a eulogy for any number of culturally distinct mountain folk - the Kurds, the Chechens or, at a push, the Welsh - and heavily implies conflict - "two short blasts followed by one longer blast". The two love songs of sorts come laden with irony and history. "Hermann Loves Pauline" tells the story of a love affair between two socially odd people, in the third person, throwing in absurd references to Che Guevara, Marie Curie and 24-hour combination petrol stations and supermarkets. "She's Got Spies" does what it says on the tin, imagining a relationship destroyed by the interpersonal secret services of mistrust, eventually collapsing under its own tension. This is Brit-pop bent by history, an imaginary Oasis where one of the Gallaghers has read a book.

As such it was ignored. But like the other square-peg Britpop bands - Pulp, Manic Street Preachers, Radiohead - history has been kind to the Furries, and they continue to record challenging, witty music, long after Tony Blair committed some war crimes and Geri Halliwell became a UN Goodwill Ambassador.

Album of the Week: 'Grrr'

One of the stupidest ever aphorisms is "don't judge a book by its cover". You only have to look at the cover of say, 'Articles of Faith' by Russell Brand to know it's going to be a lot of cobbled together, self-obsessed shite. Albums covers are the same. An album covered with a picture of members of a band, soberly dressed, staring in various directions, will generally be directionless and plodding. However, an album with a cover like that above, can only be good. It has a trumpet, and a fucking LION!! (Cub).

So I bought it. It didn't disappoint. By the radical anti-aparthied South African (lion) trumpeter (trumpet) Hugh Masekela, it's constantly sunny, and a reminder of a tradition different to the dour blues funk of most feted African artists - Fela Kuti springs to mind. Partly out of necessity (Masekela was exiled in the US for his opposition to aparthied), it mixes traditional African rhythm with more conventional jazz musicality. If North American music is Europe saying "hello" to Africa, what Masekela provides us with is Africa saying hello to a mixture of Europe and Africa.

So far, so nice. But where the 'Grrr' of the title comes in is with Masekela's trumpet playing. Absurdly overblown, the notes bend, warp and growl, providing a childish thrill - sometimes it resembles that most comic of instruments, the trombone. Of course, being a trumpeter, Masekela, can't ramble like Fela Kuti about the injustices done by his government, but the vehemence of his playing leaves us in no doubt that he's absolutely furious.

Album of the Week: 'Early'

One of the most off-putting aspects of serious engagement with popular music is the myth of the Holy Album. From the people who neglect the shuffle function on mp3 players, to stoners reverently listening to vinyl, worshippers at the shrine of the Holy Album put the commodity before its content, and neglect the fact that, in the bad old days, bands would churn out any old shit to fulfill a contract. Alan Partridge was right to say that his favourite Beatles album was 'The Best of the Beatles'. Aside from being sometimes far better than the albums from which they are compiled, some compilations enable listeners to hear music that was otherwise inaccessible to everyone except a core of devotees.


Green Gartside, the only constant of the 'band' Scritti Politti, is one of the oddest musicians working. Aside from being a 50-something who does a mean rap cover version live, his musical career has bewildering shifts, usually related to what seem to be mental breakdowns. In the 80s, he made disgustingly lush, lyrically obtuse pop, while looking like a shell-suited Princess Diana. After a decade's silence, he returned with the same, but with rap added. Another decade passed, and he made an album of singer-songwritery wonder, which was correctly nominated for the Mercury prize, called White Bread, Black Beer (a testament to his apparent alcoholism). But, before this, Scritti Politti were actually a band, and made some of the most broken, disturbing punk of its time. Due to either a breakdown, or a speed-induced heart attack, they folded before recording what Mojo would call an album. Luckily, in 2005, Rough Trade collected these lost songs, and made an album of them.

'Early' starts in with a jolt, with the terrifying 'Skank Bloc Bologna'. Terrifying sounds like hyperbole, but it isn't - the music is absolutely fucked, and the lyrics are all limited horizons, ruined potential and, most of all, unknowing. Slipknot would have to have ten guitarists, six drummers and five DJs, masturbating, to induce this bewilderment and dislocation in their audience. The general mood of the album is fearful. In fact, punk can be seen as a fear reaction to the social crisis of Britain in the 70s - with Sex Pistols being the fight, and Scritti Politti being the flight. Of course, the Sex Pistols are more fun, but Scritti are more interesting.

This is an album that can only be understood in its historical context. It's funky, tuneful and all that, but lyrics, like those that appear in the brilliant 'Bibbly-O-Tek' - "secondary picket, Eastern Bloc" - are wonderfully, laughably of their time. In general, the album has more to chew on than most others. Voices overlap, speaking different words, songs stutter, restart, change course. Even when their pop future can be glimpsed, there are little phrases, musical and lyrical, that raise a smile. 'The "Sweetest Girl"', the most punkless song here, has Robert Wyatt playing dissonant keyboards, and the best rationalisation for a break-up ever - the Girl left "because she understood the value of defiance". Like the music M.I.A. now makes, these songs are funny, political, funky and beautiful. And to think that they all could have been left on authentic, decaying vinyl EPs, never seeing the light as a joyous, inauthentic CD album.

Album of the Week: 'Fear of Music'

Talking Heads were unique among their punk contempories in their childishness and playfulness. This fizzled out by the time of their most acclaimed album, 'Remain In Light', and lead to some of their output being unlistenable cock ('More Songs About Buildings and Food' being useless). Luckily, they had a last fun hurrah with 'Fear of Music', which also contains their most enjoyable music.

'Fear of Music' is 'a Brian Eno Production', and those who wonder where his unblemishable reputation comes from, this and David Bowie's 'Low', from the same period - staggeringly different, both wonderful - are the place to start. The man can churn out as many Coldplay and U2 albums as he inexplicably wants to, with these in the bank. Unfortunately, all the links available are live performances, but see 'Drugs', the closing track, which is like no guitar music before or since.

Aside from 'Drugs' and 'Heaven', the songs on 'Fear of Music' are funk, or at least funky - a path they followed with ever diminishing returns - but here, it sparkles with energy and invention. Eno adds another dimension, spinning synthesisers and wrapping tape around their spindly, excitable funk, highlighting the quirk of the subject matter and the oddity of David Byrne's breathless vocal.

The songs, named with idiot simplicity ('Drugs, 'Animals', 'Cities'), have lyrics that take off at right-angles from their blank titles. It's easy to imagine, say, a Motley Crew (why should I spell their name wrong, like they choose to do?) song named 'Animals', boasting of their rock and roll lifestyles, with a video featuring motorbikes somehow. Talking Heads, however, give a first person monologue from someone who anthropomorphises, then detests animals, claims that "they're making a fool of us" and that "they're setting a bad example" by "[shitting] on the ground". You could imagine into existance a song by Manic Street Preachers named 'Cities', grandiose and bestringed, with James Dean Bradfield wailing about the alienation and beauty of large conurbations. In the hands of David Byrne, 'Cities' becomes a young adult fantasy about moving to different cities, noting of Birmingham, Alabama, that it has a "dry ice factory - good place to get some thinking done!". Childish enthusiasm is the main emotion you're left with, something which, when feigned by adults, is usually grating. Here, it's just glorious, and seemingly sincere.

"Up some jungle, up some tree": Kala, Fame and Poverty, or how I learned to stop laughing and love M.I.A. part 2.

M.I.A. has described the difference between Arular, her first album, and Kala, her second, as the difference between masculine and feminine - the first being made to honour her father, the second, her mother. In fact, the difference between the two is the difference between bad music and good music. While Arular is intriguing - lyrically dense, sporadically melodic, politically bracing - Kala is an unironic joy, over-stuffed with melody, sharply shifting rhythms and laugh-out loud lyrics. The album shimmers with the unheard opinions and wasted potential of the several billion people who live in dire poverty (a guess-timate based on the billion that live in slums - call me old fashioned, but if where you live is called a slum, you're pretty poor in my book). It hits like we can imagine a gap-year does.

Which makes the choice of 'Paper Planes' as the calling-card single for this album absolutely inexplicable. The song is still wonderful, and it being a hit is perhaps the greatest thing to occur in the hundred-odd years of electronically recorded music. But nevertheless, it's atypical of the album - stable, even sedate. It is, maybe, a fitting end to the album, energetic and colourful - it serves as Monday morning to the album's weekend. Its best lyric is "Sometimes I sing sitting on trains/Every stop I get people clocking my game". Paired with the New York backdrop of the video, this conjours the image of the people that stand out, to terrifying effect, on mass transit systems - the insane, the factor of risk that must be present when millions of people co-exist and commute.

Hearing the first track (the dreadfully titled 'Bamboo Banger'), you notice significant continuity with Arular. We're back in Galang territory, the sparse arrangement, the monotone delivery, the air of threat. But the break comes at 1.57 (in the linked video), when we hear a shrill sample - from then on, the album is awash with voices, through the tropical traffic jam of 'Boyz' to the wonderful novelty of 'Mango Pickle Down River'. M.I.A.'s vocal delivery is hugely improved, with the lyrics thankfully comprehensible, and she even sings, to great effect, on 'Jimmy'.

With Kala, M.I.A. filled the nonsense position to which she was appointed by critics at the time of her first album - 'The Voice of the Developing World'. The simple listing of place names is deployed to this effect, with the album opener giving a 'shout-out' to Angola, Burma, Ghana, India, Somalia and Sri Lanka. That's one song. As tiresome as this sounds, she's clever enough to subvert this later. Jimmy - the only love song she's ever recorded - begins "When you go/Rwanda, Congo/Take me on your genocide tour/Take me on a truck to Darfur". Here, she resembles a Tamil Peter Kay - cataloguing facts for comic effect. In effect, she's going "Remember genocide, yeah? Remember genocide, when you were a kid?".

On the stunning 'Hussel', she again front-loads her best joke: "We do it cheap/Save our money in a heap/Send it home and make them study/Fixing teeth". It's worth stepping back and marvelling at this - over Hoover synths, with clattering percussion, someone is rapping about remittances. Not just here, but particularly here, a whole sequence of transactions, a whole way of living, an immigrant experience, that falls under the radar for most, is being recorded, and being funky.

M.I.A.'s career is currently at a high-point, with serendipity intervening to construct another great work of art in the same mould as her work - the justly acclaimed Slumdog Millionaire - that raised her profile even further through her soundtrack work. Kala is an album of such absurd density and vibrancy, that it's hard to imagine an improvement upon it, but if it is improved upon, it will probably destroy stereos on contact.

Stylish German Boffins Having Fun

This is very very charming. It's often forgotten how funny (in an airless, alien way) Kraftwerk can be. Also, an education in how entertaining live electronic music can be when it's not just one man behind turntables, or four men behind laptops.

Album of the Week: 'Vintage Slide Collections from Seattle, Vol. 1'

There are a few reasons to hate the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players. They're 'quirky' (see above), and put one in mind of those students (female) who neglect to throw away the childish things, and prance about with Tigger pencil cases, making people watch Disney films. They're a family band, and there are few good examples of this almost-defunct genre. And, most annoying of all, the music is deliberately shoddy - the daughter, who plays drums, can barely sing. But, when you get past this, you're left with some of the best comedy music of the decade.

The album contains 5 'pop' songs, and a concept album based around slides from a McDonald's conference in 1977. This sounds like a hard-sell, but the songs are all pearls. The music is reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen and ABBA, but, as they write songs based on found slides, the lyrics necessarily veer between subjects in a jarring way. The opener, 'Mountain Trip to Japan, 1959', draws a line between the behaviour of tourists and capital punishment in post-WWII Japan. 'Eggs' looks at the American 1970s in the round, taking in the Brady Bunch and the brutal end of the Vietnam War. 'Fondue Friends in Switzerland' and 'European Boys' deal with the strained relationship between Europe and America, the latter ending with the staggering couplet "European wars, are American wars/Going to France, do you gotta wear those trousers?". Each of the songs mentions the problems of the late-20th/early-21st century's 'hyperpower' in a way that becomes in itself comic - you listen, waiting for them to return to the subject, and without fail, they do. By the time Jason Trachtenburg notes "Agent Orange, Blue, and Red" in 'Eggs', the point is well and truly made.

'The McDonald's Suite' provides a grimly comic experience - hearing the woes of one of the world's most ubiquitous corporations and their plan to dominate the market for crap food, you feel uncomfortably close to the inner workings of what was to become grand power. Most of the songs in the 'Suite' are funny because of the juxtaposition of grandiose pop with garbled CEO speak (one of the lyrics in 'What Will The Corporation Do?' is "We need more advertising to tell our story and keep hamburgers before our customers"). But the song 'Together As a System, We are Unbeatable', while a toe-tapping, good-time tune, is genuinely unnerving. It gives us, through a filter, the multi-national's private self-image, something that McDonald's keep well hidden, prefering nowdays to talk about the 'bits of real chicken breast' in their nuggets, which begs the question of what the fuck was in their nuggets before.

Oddly for this post-vinyl age, the album itself is worth owning, as it contains some of the slideshows used in their live performances, which helps make sense of the music (YouTube is a decent substitute for some). Some of the jokes are lost without these - the sadly unlinkable 'Fondue Friends in Switzerland' contains frequent references to pictures of a parade, which, without having seen the pictures, falls flat. All that, and only a penny on Amazon.