If you reached adulthood around the early 2000s, finding yourself an avid fan of the Manic Street Preachers as you went, you’d have probably gotten familiar with the term ‘polarized opinion’. These days, the Manics sit comfortably as one of Britain’s most respected rock institutions, sustaining critical praise through a run of albums now stretching over three decades. But it never used to be that way. In the years before their acceptance into the mainstream around the late 90s, the band’s career seemed as volatile as the acidic soundbites they initially earned notoriety for.
Even when they did break out from their underground status - largely thanks to their 1996 decade-defining album, Everything Must Go - they were never quite big enough to rival Oasis or Blur (and certainly weren’t a ‘Britpop’ band, anyway). But at this same peak of commercial and critical success, they were never second-tier either. Instead, the band maintained a curious space: one of both adoration from a hardened core of fans old and new, and bitter dismissal from long-time critics who still found them all too ‘depressing and miserableist’ (like catharsis ain’t a thing). Certainly, as bands go, they never fail to kick up furious online debate about their legacy over the years I’ve listened to them.
Whatever you think of Everything Must Go - and it is undoubtedly an all-time classic - there’s no denying that this legacy is also shaped by their early work. Specifically Generation Terrorists, their sprawling 1992 debut double album that attempted to unite the swagger-metal of Guns n’ Roses, the articulate political fury of The Clash and unabashed, provocative glam-punk aesthetic. It was a project as aspirational as it was brazen, earning further hype thanks to a series of incendiary interviews with the instantly attached NME, where the band seemed to take aim at everything around them - palming off a vast amount of their contemporaries, culture and life in general, as genuine shit.
They had good reason to be indignant, too. Emerging out of the South Wales town of Blackwood in the late 80s as a four-man operation (singer-lead guitarist James Dean Bradfield, drummer Sean Moore, bassist-lyricist Nicky Wire and rhythm guitarist-lyricist Richey Edwards), the Thatcher-driven destruction of the Welsh mining industry had made them first-hand witnesses to the decimation of their own community. Rebels with a cause and a lot to get off their chests, it did also help that at least some of them were pretty talented, musically. And after a string of singles on indie record label Heavenly Records, they were primed for a shot at the big time.
The ideation of Generation Terrorists, aspirational as it was absurd, was only eclipsed in the ego stakes by the band’s own declaration that it would go No. 1 across the world, coincide with a sell-out global tour, and be punctuated by their subsequent breakup. Whatever their political manifesto contained, humility clearly wasn’t a core issue. One thing was for sure, though: it was a hell of a manifesto. Socialist and pro-feminist in tone, it was both a love letter to their influential heroes (both political and musical), and a firework up the backside of UK social culture. Plus, Guns n’ Roses were still dragging out the production of Use Your Illusion I & II, and the British music press hadn’t yet acquainted themselves with a certain grunge band called Nirvana. They had to hedge their bets on at least somebody to shake things up. Who better than the Manics, a band capable of producing a song like Motorcycle Emptiness: beautiful rock lament layering existential consumerist anhedonia (‘Culture sucks down words / Itemize loathing and feed yourself smiles’) over Slash-inspired guitar riffs? Certainly, that extravagant double album was going to do all the band said it would. A No. 1 album all year, no question.
To considerable music journo hype, Generation Terrorists would release in February ‘92 - and limp in at No.13. The band promptly got on with writing a follow-up.
Many albums followed. Accolades, controversy, tragedy - the latter including the disappearance of the talismanic, charismatic co-lyricist Richey Edwards in 1995. But eventually - and with a bit more humility than their debut - the Manics got that acclaim. They’re also now a completely different band to the one that started. But in the decades and anniversary special editions that have followed its first release, Generation Terrorists - all its hard-rock bombast and staunch-left lyrics - continues to captivate an audience.
It unquestionably could not have been made without the inputs of Edwards and Wire, who together constructed an irresistible and intense lyrical landscape - one, by their own words, of ‘culture, alienation, boredom and despair’. Sure, the four of them were cocky bastards when this album initially launched, and their needlessly vicious takes on their peers of the time didn’t do them any favours. But the political messages resonated. And most critically of all? The music fucking rocked.
At least it did for 1992. How does Generation Terrorists sound now, almost 35 years on since its release? Can such an ambitiously contrived debut album - GnR meets The Clash, 18 tracks in total - still pull off such an impossible ideal?
Let’s dig in.
Slash N’ Burn - Always go big on your album opener. Better yet, make it sound like a lost track off of the Appetite For Destruction recording sessions. The opening fifteen seconds - that gloriously uplifting guitar riff with the drums kicking in after a few bars - promise a great time. And then lyrics taking aim at debased human desire for celebrity (‘You need your stars / Even killers have prestige’), corporate greed and environmental destruction all kick in. A quintessential Manics one-two punch. **** ½ out of 5
Natwest / Barclays / Midlands / Lloyds - This time, the anger is a bit more focal than just capitalism and corporations. Now it’s the banks’ - four of the UK’s biggest at the time of the album - turn to receive some ire. Some of the lyrics do come off as overblown, even doom metally in nature (“Black horse apocalypse! Death sanitized through credit!”). Besides, where were they going to put all the money from their No. 1 album and sellout tour? Still, Bradfield and Moore keep this an engaging track, which feels a bit Megadeth-y in parts. ****
Born To End - Hands down, the best of the first three tracks. This is young ambition in full flow - bound-for-hell punk rock n’ roll that goes nuclear with its unbridled sense of freedom. Again, it’s a song whose upbeat energy is anchored by the nihilistic malaise of Edwards’ lyrics (‘Got some pain and I feel alive / Close my eyes, overdose on hell’). You’d also think that additional mentions of ‘H-Bomb / The only thing / That would bring a freedom to life’ and ‘Nagasaki dolls are burning’ would have upset Japan. Instead the song helped make them a beloved cult band over there. *****
Motorcycle Emptiness - the first single that the Manics gained widespread critical praise for, and a fan favourite to this day. Of course this song still holds up. As previously mentioned, it’s another lyrical lament of a song. But Bradfield’s key riff, and the stellar mixing work of producer Steve Brown, adds a piano backing that makes it sound almost spiritual. Fantastic closing solo - beautiful in every sense of the word. *****
You Love Us - The first pure punk track of the album, and an intentionally rambunctious introduction from the band and their insistence of their place in your lives. ‘We are not your sinners / Our voices are for real’? ‘You love us like a holocaust’? Not exactly lyrics that suggest diffidence. But from start to finish, this song is an absolute banger - even with the silly GnR-influenced guitar-soloing at the end. You can forgive the arrogance. *****
Love’s Sweet Exile - A subtle change of pace after the nonsensical climax of ‘You Love Us’. That said, it’s an over-produced one as well. It’s got drum-machine beats and amplified buzzing guitars that all sound turn-of-the-90s, but it is nonetheless a ear-friendly track. Not sure on the exact lyrical meaning - ‘Rain down alienation / Leave this country’ - oppression of minorities and the working class? Dated, but packed with enough variety to remain a good listen. ****
Little Baby Nothing - A song with a hell of a background. Initially penned with the hope of doing it as a duet with Aussie pop star Kylie Minogue, Wire and Edwards’ vignette of a woman in the sex industry (‘No God reached me / Faded films and loving books’ … ‘Used, used, used by men’) was instead picked up by ex-adult film star turned musician, Traci Lords. Traci’s voice on this is still great - not raw but packed with emotion. The song’s lyrical blinding of the male gaze also remains strong. But musically it tries way too hard to be Springsteen. All that piano sounds like it’s echoing off the top of a church roof, forever tethering it to its early 90s origins. *** 1/2
Repeat (Stars and Stripes) - With the first seven songs of an eighteen-track album ranging from good to great, there was bound to be a dud somewhere. Step forward this collaboration with American hip-hop producers The Bomb Squad, known for their work with Public Enemy. The Manics made no secret of their love for the Enemy, but this attempt to combine one of their own early punk tracks with the drum n’ industrial sampling their hip-hop heroes were famous for is a far cry from Run D.M.C meets Aerosmith. Less ‘Walk This Way’, more ‘Just Walk Away’. *
Tennessee - An attempt by the band to pull one of their early B-sides into 1992 via Steve Brown’s production acumen. While the song retains its punk structure and its lyrical content of being down and out in the state of its title, the saturated 90s sound dulls the anarchy. Nonetheless, it remains interesting thanks to Bradfield’s enthusiastic vocals and a jolt of a key change at the bridge. Wire and Edwards’ lyrics also provide a variety of ambiguous (‘Tennessee nights just zip-code love / Comanche becomes as maggot’) and acidly clear (‘His heart P.M.R.C / The white man is disease’) meaning. ***
Another Invented Disease - One problem with having an album that’s this long, is keeping it interesting. Or to put it blunt: don’t repeat yourself. Unfortunately, this song marks the point where the Manics’ ambition outweighs their musical education of the time. It’s another track where Bradfield lays down more Slash-worthy work and supplies a great vocal. But at this point, you’ve already heard Slash n’ Burn, Natwest / Barclays et al. This song does not stand out from any of those. ** 1/2
Stay Beautiful - Another track that probably should have been on the first half of the album, given it was their first UK Top 40 hit. Either way, it’s a long-standing fan favourite celebrating (or perhaps eulogizing) the chaos of teenagehood. Self-references (‘We’re a mess of eyeliner and spray paint / D.I.Y destruction and Chanel chic’) intertwine effortlessly with standard adolescent angst (‘Clinging to your own sense of waste / All we love is lonely wreckage’) over an irresistible punk track epitomizing young freedom, resistance and the inevitable crash-out. You can even overlook censoring the actual ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ chorus - still sung live - with the swear words comically ‘bleeped out’ by Bradfield’s guitar. *****
So Dead - The next of a number of early Manics tracks given the album treatment, lyrically polished to have a bit more bite. Wire’s astute capturing of tedium in the age of spectacle is particularly on fine form here: “No-one fucks as good as Marilyn / Plastic surgery sure cures your sins”, “It’s not that I can’t find worth in anything / it’s just that I can’t find worth in enough”. But the song itself is undone by its length, making it feel like a plod, even with some of the urgent guitar work throughout. ** 1/2
Repeat (UK) - Another track from the early days, and already present on here through the Stars and Stripes remix. It’s telling just how much the band had already moved on from its early foundations with this naive punk shocker - a piece driven through over-the-top, military march drumming and some high school band-level lyrics (“Repeat after me / Fuck Queen and country”, “Useless generation / dumb flag scum”). When you’ve already got something like ‘Motorcycle Emptiness’ on your album, this sounds like dumb pastiche in comparison. ** 1/2
Spectators of Suicide - Wire and Edwards clearly came out of Swansea University educated enough to write a lyric around Situationism - a French anti-capitalist movement from the 60s - and make it sound compelling. But this is another track where the band - in a bid to inject some diversity, no doubt - end up losing their direction. A dull, mid-tempo trudge, no amount of sorrowful chords from Bradfield’s guitar can lift this out of its self-imposed doldrums. Even more annoying is that there are far better arrangements of it (specifically the high-tempo demo version on the 20th Anniversary release). *
Damn Dog - An odd inclusion, this is a cover of a song from the cult 1980 movie, Times Square. As far as covers go, it’s at best serviceable. It doesn’t have the cool attitude that the original does, and sounds too rushed. Like it knows it shouldn’t be on the album and is just trying to get out of your way. Totally forgettable. *
Crucifix Kiss - More of those GnR histrionics back for one more rendition. Lyrically it’s a bit hard to define - a weird mix of symbolic Christian religious critique (‘Christen me, fuhrer nazarine’), authoritarianism and possibly Edwards’ own egomania (‘Fall in love, fall in love with me / Nail a crucifix onto your soul’). None of it really works, and musically it’s another song made bland by the first half of the album. ** 1/2
Methadone Pretty - ‘I am nothing and should be everything’ - so goes the opening line for this track, one that seems to pick up off the climactic narcissism of the previous song before immediately wading into the drawbacks of mental health care and how the cure can be worse than the disease (‘You’re methadone pretty / Surrender in pity’ … ‘They want a piece of your skin / And pump it safer than a suicide’). At this point in the album, staying attentive to all the ills that the Manics address is a challenge, but the minor-chorded melody of this one means it retains some emotional gravity and defiance. *** 1/2
Condemned To Rock N’ Roll - The final song of the album - with a title as ridiculous as the song is long - pulls out all of the stops to go out with a phenomenal bang. Any doubts that Bradfield is nothing but a world-class guitarist are laid to rest here in a six-minute dedication to figuring out how many over-the-top riffs you can fit into one song. Bradfield pulls off solo after ludicrous solo to the point that it is laughably insane. Edwards and Wire also sign off lyrically with more dysphoria (‘Misery and trauma making love / Best go shoot the fucking doves’). Eventually everything just kind of slows to a roll, and with the final chord dying out, we’re left with Bradfield sighing, “There’s nothing I wanna see / There’s nowhere I wanna go”. Me neither. I’m exhausted and need a lie down. ****
Adding the individual song star ratings together gives us a grand total of 59 and a half out of 90, rounding out to a low-end 7 out of 10.
Generation Terrorists is indeed a flawed yet compelling album whose firebrand rhetoric is eventually tamed by its own double-album ambition. The peaks, nonetheless, are immaculate. Motorcycle Emptiness, You Love Us, Born To End - songs that despite the clear influence from their own guitar heroes, could not have been written by any other band. But its main undoing is also that very same energy. Sustaining such rock n’ roll abandon for eighteen tracks is a big ask for any seasoned act, let alone a bunch of raw talented, hungry lads from South Wales with a point to prove. And despite some genuine flair on show, the second half of this album just cannot compare to the first. If they’d pruned a few tracks, though? Maybe that No. 1 album, sell-out tour and ever-dramatic breakup wouldn’t have been so far-fetched after all.
