It’s fair to start by saying that the Manics aroused a fair amount of suspicion in the early 90’s, not least with myself. Journalists for start thought they were too damn clever for their own good — or in other words they couldn’t explain and categorise the band; most rock / metal fans, barely touched by grunge, thought they were a bit too weird and a bunch of goddamned welsh fags; or simply, they were trying too hard. Not a bad thing — lyrically and politically they had an exciting suss about them which meant I read all their interviews; but musically they veered between Gn’R-isms and MOR / AOR rock plain and simple. They were just plain frustrating.

But come the beginning on 1994, you get the feeling the band began to frustrate themselves; sucked into the role of the record company rock band, they had ‘sold out’ (ugh, that phrase) on their early principles and, let’s face it, still sold fuck all. So it was time for the biggest Fuck You they could summon.

To their credit, they weren’t so perverse that they made an unlistenable album — many of the songs have the great melodies which are be familiar to fans of their later albums; but for a band who’d sworn they’d sell 20 million copies of their first album, it was commercial suicide. 

But artistic rebirth. Never mind Guns N Roses, The Holy Bible veers closer to Joy Dvision on a nasty dose of bad speed. It probably scared the crap out of all the indie kids who bought it BEFORE they listened to the lyrics. Riffs are still big and proud, but administered with sandpapered headphones; the bassline of ‘Archives of Pain’ broods its way off the CD. One reviewer described the album as ‘horrible’ — as a compliment though. Indeed, it’s a excitingly nasty album.

But the greatest achievement, and the thing the album is most famous for now, is its lyricism. ‘Guitarist’ Richey James — for guitarist read sonic cheese grater — infmaously reached his artistic peak at this point, before his legendary disappearance. The sleeve design — a grossly overweight looking down, into an imagined mirror with a look of disgust and contempt — fits the album perfectly. The Holy Bible was an album looking contemptuously at the worst, or the lowest ebb of humanity. Capital punishment, the prostitution of the self, anorexia, political correctness and ultimately despair are chronicled here — disgust and self hatred go hand in hand with finding strength through self destruction. Easy listening? Don’t go anywhere near it.

But it’s a strangely uplifting album — not one to listen to more than once a month for fear of it consuming you, but there is an understanding of the darkness of the human soul which anyone who is human can relate to. It may reach the pits of everything negative the mind can be possessed by, but it is still strong, still holding on, still resisting. Then, the music just fuels you with adrenaline, or comforts you even when it is beautifully melancholy. 

The latter day Manics, eventually dulled by a conservative music policy and undoubtedly by the loss of Richey’s extremity and passion, have increasingly tried to recapture the spirit of this album — which has led to increasingly lacklustre albums. But The Holy Bible is a place to return to, to see a band consumed and utterly dedicated to their mission, to sinking into what they do, to create as close to the perfect package of music, lyrics, art and person as they can. It’s a concept sadly lacking in bands of late, it’s got to be said.