Review Summary: Despite a few small flaws, the band's best since their mid-90's peak.
Right off the bat, and as fair warning, this review may come off as incredibly gushing. It certainly isn't unjustified, subjectivity being taken into account and all that, and the accolades it shall receive, and as already received from countless other sources still stand, but there is a degree of fanboy glee here, to be certain.
Copious volumes of words have been devoted to the rather tragic story of the Manic Street Prechers, such that their music is seemingly no longer mentioned without its context. That story won't be rehashed in full here both for space reasons and because said information is easily obtainable in a thousand other places. Very briefly, and the context of this album, though: Guitarist/lyricist Richie Edwards disappeared in 1995 and has never been seen since, he was classified legally dead this year and, as such, his remaining bandmates decided to pay a tribute to him. A folder of various poems and ideas was given to the band by Edwards a few weeks before he disappeared; some of the words contained therein were made it onto the band's first album as a trio (1996's Everything Must Go) and the words herein represent the rest.
Now, this idea could go very sour, very quickly, in two main ways: firstly, it could come off as very exploitative of Edward's memory and legacy, a cheap marketing to garner attention from those who may have otherwise dismissed the Manics in recent years. The album does carry a faint whiff of this, but, the band seems fairly aware of this potential pitfall in interviews done on the promotional circuit for the record and they were, of course, careful to get approval from Edwards' surviving relatives before going ahead with the project. But, even if they weren't aware, the Manics have never really been capable of being anything other than 100% sincere at all times and they've always kept a 25% cut of their profits sitting around for Edwards should he ever return, so, it seems fair to say that the use of his words comes more out of love and respect for their lost bandmate than as an attempt to grab ears.
However, if the lyrics weren't any good this would still be a misfire from the get-go. Therein lies the second big problem with the idea: what if the words that weren't used yet are simply the rancid table scraps that never deserved to see the light of a recording studio anyways? Edwards wasn't always on, the way a lot of people like to believe he was. He was certainly one of the more astute and clever lyricists of his time, and his affinity for packing his songs full of historical and literary references remains admirable and unique within the rock cannon. However, he also had a tendency to speak in grand pronouncements, that sometimes contradicted themselves, and to artificially pump up the melodrama in his words for effect. He's still certainly miles ahead of 99% of rock lyricists (who, for some reason, still can't seem to reach beyond "I'm sad because this chick broke up with me" and "I want this chick so bad") but the comparisons he's often afforded (Sexton, Plath, etc.) aren't really warranted. With all that said, however, this is a sturdy set of words: mostly less bleak than the towering monument of nihilism that was 1994's The Holy Bible (though that says more about just how bleak The Holy Bible is than anything else), it still probes a lot of interesting ideas and concepts, mostly about the falsehoods and insecurities of modern society, rarely heard on rock recordings.
There is a slight problem that comes from the band's approach, though. Namely, some of the songs consist of only one verse and a chorus which are repeated twice. It isn't that big of a deal but it does prove somewhat distracting at times. There are also a couple clunkers and groaners here and there (the chorus of "Me & Stephen Hawking" is particularly eye-rolling) but they're far outnumbered by the genuinely intriguing ideas (the brilliant martyrdom deconstruction of "Doors Closing Slowly"), intentionally horrifying character portraits (the love-as-masochism of "She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Bleach") and tangled word-salads ("This Joke Sport Severs") that Richie, with slight posthumous editing from Nicky Wire, presents here. Even when the words don't work in totality for a song, there's always at least an ear-grabbing phrase or two in there ("Marlon, J.D.'"'s opening of "he stood like a statue/as he was beaten across the face", for example).
Of course, all the great lyrics in the world wouldn't mean very much if the band didn't bring it musically; this is a rock record, after all, not a poetry collection. The band recorded (most of) this one with legendary studio rat Steve Albini but it's not quite as raw a recording as that may suggest probably because they had another man mix the album later. It still does come across with Albini's standard dry drum sound, scratchy guitar attack and overall "live" feel, despite occasional embellishments like the swooping string section on "This Joke Sport Severs" and the light piano twinkles on "Facing Page: Top Left". Unlike the racked post-punk/industrial/hard rock nightmares conjured up on The Holy Bible, Journal For Plague Lovers sticks relatively close to the arty, but hard-hitting, arena rock formula that the band has travelled in since Everything Must Go, albeit a rawer and more emotional form thereof. This is a good thing; that formula is quite a sound one, with its focus on memorable hooks and guitar riffs, but for the last couple of albums the band seems to have been rudderless and lacking in passion. Journal welds these two crucial points of the great Manics songs (the professionally-constructed songcraft and the raw, bark-at-the-moon passion) together for a truly brilliant set.
One of the more curious things about the record, though, is its, in relative terms for the fairly sonically static group, willingness to stretch that sound out, not in deeply radical ways, mind, but, it's still there and, for the most part, it works. The two-stepping funk rhythm underlying "Marlon, J.D.", the contradictory cheery refrain on "Jackie Collins Existential Question Time", the gut-punch bass on "Peeled Apples" and the slowed-down chorus of "Me & Stephen Hawking" are certainly departures but the main fact of the band's growing sonic maturity is evidenced by the slower tracks here. If they had been included on The Holy Bible, such songs as "Facing Page: Top Left" and "Doors Closing Slowly" likely would've been musically rendered as sharp blasts of punk-ish energy, but, here they are a shimmering acoustic ballad and a twisted funeral march, respectively. I'm not saying one manner is necessarily better but the variety showcased is certainly cause for celebration (and for people who'd complain, you still have full-tilt rage like "All Is Vanity" and "Pretension/Repulsion" to mull over). It's this sonic variety that allows the record to work in a multitude of settings; at the gym, while typing, and just lying in bed, it works equally well for different reasons in each context. In addition, James Dean Bradfield's voice is as good as ever, he's still coming up with clever ways to digest post-punk jitteriness into bludgeoning hard-rock riffs and the Sean Moore/Nicky Wire rhythm section proves rock-solid and dependable.
If the album does have one major flaw,though, it's Wire's lead vocal turn on "William's Last Words". He's very, very shaky as a singer and the song doesn't do a whole lot to justify being the record's longest by a good minute and a half. That said, since the lyrics to it read like a suicide note from Richie (and Bradfield was apparently, and understandably, too shaken-up to sing it), the band can be given that one little over-indulgence.
One could, of course, level the complaint that this album is simply The Holy Bible's little brother, but, in all honesty, that's not really an insult .It's another chance to hear a great band be driven on to create genius music by an at-times-brilliant lyricist. In fact, that approach towards songwriting can also be termed as a throwback to an earlier era where one person wrote the words, another wrote the music and another sang it.
In that case, a proposition: Richie James Edwards is the Cole Porter to the Manics' Nelson Riddle and Frank Sinatra.
Food for thought? Perhaps. A great record? Definitely.
