The Manic Street Preachers are about my age, and grew up some seven or eight miles down the road from where I did. The first time I saw them they were on TV, and I felt an acute - misplaced - embarrassment on their behalf. They were gawkily, earnestly pretentious, gabbling away in their broad valleys accents - the same accent I'd striven to mask and suppress during my student years in London. Their presence showed up the folly of my own pretentions to urbane sophistication.
This album, together with an unwise excess of alcohol, espresso and Toscanelli cigars, afforded a therapeutic catharsis that helped drag me from one difficult day to the next. Even then, I didn't like it all: churlish as it may be to complain about their presence, Richey Edwards' lyrics just aren't my cup of tea. Not all of the anthemic moments fully connected with me either, but the high-points, which, to my mind include 'Enola/Alone', the title-track, 'Australia' and 'No Surface All Feeling' more than made up for that. I'll always be grateful to the band for this record.
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