There comes a certain moment in the life of a music fan when the realization hits that you've crossed the line from being merely interested in a band to being a collector, a bit obsessed maybe-- scouring magazines for a curiosity fix, digging in dollar bins, scanning instrument credits in used shops, making long lists of great songs for driving past lakes in the moonlight, buying things by bands that look like they might sound kind of like the Smiths, and...well, half a decade after you cross that line, you look around your home and the teetering piles of discs you've barely had time to listen to, clear the liner notes from the second Nuggets boxed set off your coffee table and think to yourself, "is this what I've become?"
For those of us most woefully afflicted, the answer of course is "yes." The music-- which I like to think remains more important than the objects-- makes itself part of your fiber through repeated listening, and indeed informs your personal composition, perhaps your philosophies and your picture of locales you've never been to, like Jamaica, Wales, or Brazil. One of the dozen or so albums that pushed me to that point was The Holy Bible by Manic Street Preachers. Being an American, the record was not easy for me to find, and I bought it at the first record convention I ever attended, in a ballroom at the Boston Radisson, for $9.98 plus tax. It was worth the search, and it quickly became a favorite.
Had I been British, the story would have been different, of course. The record hit No. 6 on the album chart and spawned three top 40 singles, while the band briefly occupied a side ring in the UK pop circus as lyricist Richey James-- notorious previously for carving "4 Real" into his arm on Steve Lamacq's BBC television show-- dropped completely off the face of the earth as the band neared completion of their follow-up, Everything Must Go. He still hasn't been found. In the intervening years, the band, as a trio, have become bona fide superstars in the UK, scoring back-to-back No. 1 albums and constantly turning up in those annoying UK rock mag features where about 80 otherwise respectable musicians are goaded to talk about whether they smoke after sex or how many times they've mooned the opposing side's fans at a football match, but when they made the album they were still hungry, pissed off, and discovering their powers. Their previous album, Gold Against the Soul, was a labored, sophomore-slumping hard rock turd that had them looking washed up early, and there was really no preparation for the intensity, perversion, and genuine darkness of The Holy Bible.
In a way, the story of Edwards' spiral into some unknown oblivion is tied to the experience of The Holy Bible, which in retrospect has become a sort of horror-show eulogy for a man who couldn't live with the world around him. Meanwhile, in the U.S., Tom Lord-Alge prepared a slightly different U.S. mix of the album that never saw release, and when years later mentions of the album in conjunction with other things I liked popped up in a couple of magazines, I decided I would procure it any way possible (like I said, it pushed me over the line), unaware of the context of its creation.
Flash to 2004 and to celebrate the album's 10-year anniversary, Epic has given it the royal, double-disc/single-DVD reissue treatment, remastering the UK mix and adding live tracks (different live tracks from the ones on the Japanese version, if you're wondering) and finally shedding daylight on the abandoned U.S. mix (the band's favorite mix, actually), which is included on disc two along with a couple of unremarkable demos and three radio session recordings.
It's best to approach the record from two angles: the political and the personal. Bassist Nicky Wire's lyrics cover the band's socialist propagandizing and soapbox grandstanding bases but it's Richey's songs of intimate torment that elevate the album beyond unbearable self-righteousness. The band's far-left politics range from platitudinous ("Prejudice burns so much brighter when it's all we have to burn") to boneheaded ("Fuck the Brady Bill"? Come live in an American city for a few months, guys.), but anorexia diary "4st 7lb" brims with genuine anguish drawn from Richey's own personal struggle with the disease. "I want to walk in the snow and not leave a footprint" sings James Dean Bradfield on his behalf, pulling you into the head of someone who knows he has a problem, and not only can't he fix it, he grows to lord it over others, twisting it into a sort of superiority complex. It's harrowing stuff.
The remastering on the UK version does its job well, adding some extra punch, bulking up the low end, and rightfully clearing up Bradfield's superlative vocals a bit, but it's easy to see why the band was so taken with the U.S. mix. Aside from the occasional over-addition of reverb ("4st 7lb" especially) and a bit at the end of "Yes" where the guitar just doesn't sound right at all, it really beefs up the rhythm section and injects a little needed space into the band's tightly coiled arrangements. And Sean Moore, the unsung Manic, finally gets his due on "Ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayitsworldwouldfallapart" when Lord-Alge rams his frenetic, excellent drumming straight up your nose. Wiry, explosive rockers like "Faster" and "Mausoleum" naturally benefit from the new emphasis on the band's inventive riffs and rhythms.
Back when I found this album at the record convention stall, I figured it would be lost to American ears for good, and quite frankly, Epic's decision to finally put it out over here in this deluxe edition is an odd one. Though it's had plenty of time to marinate in critical acclaim, the Manics are no more popular here now than they ever were-- perhaps less so than five or six years ago, actually-- and most Americans who were interested got their hands on imports long ago, rendering this purchase unnecessary to all but a select few. Still, a late arrival is better than none at all, and this reissue proves that the band's undeniable apex (only Everything Must Go even comes close) still retains the visceral power that made it so great to begin with.
