When exiting Webster Hall after Faith No More’s show on May 13th, I noticed spots of blood on the stairs. I didn’t see what happened, but imagined two dudes in black t-shirts getting into an argument and then getting rough enough to draw blood. They should have remembered the music is pounding enough. While I had arrived at the venue dressed casually as I would for almost any show, apparently black was the recommended attire. The color marked those who were hardcore fans; those people there to see the band they first loved decades ago.
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For the Manic Street Preachers, America has always been a sort of last frontier. It’s strange. Never mind that 1994’s The Holy Bible is a towering achievement in nihilistic despair, that its follow-up—Everything Must Go—is a shimmering Britpop record that’s as glorious anything with Oasis’s name on it, or that guitarist/lyricist Richey Edwards’ disappearance is one of the great tragedies of the alt-rock era. The Welsh group’s success never translated. A Yankee myself, I only discovered The Holy Bible by chance, thumbing through British magazines like Q (which heralded the Manics album among the best of all time) as a teenager and ordering an import copy online.
So I wondered who’d be at the U.S. stretch of the band’s tour playing the now 20-year-old album in its entirety. The event attracted huge demand across the pond. And rightly so—the Manics never played the full thing prior to 2014. (The original Holy Bible tour was cut short by Edwards’ vanishing; there was no reason to think the remaining three members would want to revisit that painful era.) But the New York show didn’t even sell out, leaving me unable to unload an extra ticket. And this was Webster Hall (capacity: well under 2,000). Week-of-show boasting brought me blank stares. Would anyone even show up?
Short answer: Yes—and many of whom seemed to have traveled far for the opportunity. Aging goths, younger punks, expats, junkies, winos, whores… If it wasn’t sold out, it looked pretty close, and by the end of Jennie Vee’s sweetly energized opening set, ticket figures didn’t matter. Flanked by bandmates and fog, frontman James Dean Bradfield took the stage with a terse, to-the-point “New York… This is The Holy Bible!” Anticipatory exhilaration bubbled over. All were gathered in eager appreciation of one particularly frightful expression of art/music/sociopolitical despair.
And that’s what was delivered, from its first spoken sample (A pimp: “You can buy her. This one’s here, and this one’s here, and this one’s here”). The Holy Bible is not an especially breezy sequence of songs to approximate, shrieking riffs and weirdly rendered time signatures and all. But the band managed with both true-to-LP faithfulness and caustic abandon. Rarely were there any noticeable discrepancies with what was recorded in ’94. (Can I single out a single guitar wail on “4st 7 lbs.” that took longer to kick in?) Prerecorded tracks provided the spoken-word snippets. Bassist/lyricist Nicky Wire, clad in dark sunglasses and decorative regalia, stomped and jumped about the stage, channeling bits of Richey Edwards’ glam-inspired stage presence. And Bradfield, an under-sung guitarist, handled both rhythm and lead parts, nailing every menacing riff. (I’d never noticed just how metallic and riff-heavy The Holy Bible is—“Archives of Pain”, with its searing military march of a bass line, in particular—nor how full of guitar solos.)
There is something gleefully strange about hearing a crowd sing aloud en masse with songs you never imagined hearing a crowd sing aloud. Holy Bible falls squarely into that category, for reasons both thematic (these are chilling odes to anorexia, prostitution, the Holocaust, and other dark corners of Richey Edwards’ mind) and musical (wordy and overstuffed, it’s clear the lyrics were written before the tunes). It’s an album mostly listened to alone, in quiet desperation. But there we were, hundreds of us, yelling along with the Reagan-bashing “Ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayit’sworldwouldfallapart” and the pummeling “Faster.” The latter track’s concluding yelp translated into a cathartic crowd refrain (“So damn easy to cave in! / Man kills everything!”), as did “Of Walking Abortion’s” accusatory sneer of a send-off (“Who’s responsible / You fucking are / Who’s responsible”). It was the aural manifestation of what was until then only an abstract awareness: Other people know these songs by heart. It’s not pop—Bible’s M.O. is to “rub the human face in its own vomit”—but let nobody tell you that record’s not anthemic as hell.
The Holy Bible alone is mighty enough to justify ticket prices, but maybe not lengthy enough. So the encore (really a second set) was a generous one. It mixed old with new but mostly old, and its tone was like daylight seeping in after “PCP” closed out the dark night of the soul. Of particular note: a shimmering solo performance of “Small Black Flowers That Grow in the Sky” from Bradfield, a triumphant rendering of early anthem “Motorcycle Emptiness”, and a nod to 1998’s This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours on the majestic “If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next” (if the track title looks to be lifted from The Holy Bible, the music is miles removed). That the only indication of post-2000 Manics was 2014 single “Walk Me To the Bridge” added to the nostalgia factor; the band exited for good after closing with the 1996 classic “A Design for Life”.
My lingering frustration from the show isn’t even music-related. It’s the merch table. On sale were plenty of sleek-looking souvenirs transferring full bragging rights to the buyer. But no records or CDs—not even The Holy Bible itself. It’s not easy to find Manics albums at stateside record stores (last year’s Futurology wasn’t even physically released in this country at all), and I’d hoped to remedy the holes in my collection while supporting an entity other than Amazon. No luck. Try the used bins.
The night ended early; we were kicked out to make room for a late-night EDM party. Janitors mopped up the sweat, blood, and near-palpable catharsis; cobbled together a DJ table. But Richey Edwards’ ghost haunted the evening until its end. “We know Richey is here ,” Nicky Wire remarked. His bandmate Bradfield spoke several times of the guitarist’s poetic genius, inciting the crowd to cheers. And he reminded us, while introducing “Small Black Flowers”, that Edwards co-wrote several of the songs on Everything Must Go, too, before he left. I half-expected the erstwhile performer to materialize right there, eyeliner aglow, and claim his rightful place.
But he didn’t. The show ended without incident or séance. Edwards has drawn retrospective comparison with another tormented genius who never made it out of the mid-nineties, and just 48 hours after The Holy Bible I wound up at a screening of Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck. So it’s official—icons of 1994 draw crowds in the Manhattan of 2015.
At both events there lingered a similar sort of sadness. Loss is personal, for those who knew Edwards or Cobain. But it’s also creative. And at the Manics show and the Nirvana film, it registered as a big, gaping absence: What have we missed out on? And what should have been?
Of Walking Abortion
She Is Suffering
Archives of Pain
This Is Yesterday
Die in the Summertime
The Intense Humming of Evil
Small Black Flowers That Grow in the Sky
You Stole the Sun From My Heart
Walk Me to the Bridge
If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next
You Love Us
A Design for Life
Photos by Sachyn Mital
I finished reading Patricia Highsmith’s Carol while waiting in the (very long) press line to see Todd Haynes’ much-anticipated adaptation of the novel, which premiered here at Cannes last night. It was one of those unforgettable moments. Already loving the novel, and hugely excited for the movie, I was blown away by the grace, poignancy and quiet power of the final chapter and by Highsmith’s brave, pitch-perfect resolution of the narrative.
I went into the screening equal parts thrilled and nervous. Could the movie do justice to the novel, and yet emerge as something fresh and distinctive in its own right? Well, as it turns out, it’s a complicated story.
Another year, another Woody Allen movie. Or, rather, should that be: another year, the same Woody Allen movie? The appearance on screen of those oh-so-familiar white-on-black credits may still generate a certain excitement for some of us, but the extent to which you consider Allen’s tendency to return to favorite plots, themes, and character types to be evidence of a filmmaker still grappling bravely with personal obsessions, or simply evidence of desperate recycling, will likely determine your response to Irrational Man, which is screening out of competition (as Allen always stipulates) at Cannes 2015.
Following the wildly overrated Blue Jasmine (2013) and the slight but quite charming Magic in the Moonlight (2014), Allen’s latest offering finds him mining his preoccupation with crimes and moral choices once more. The result proves moderately entertaining, but Irrational Man is too overt in its mash-up of bits of previous Allen features, and, ultimately, too obvious all round. You won’t be able to miss the themes that the movie’s dealing with, since not one but two voiceovers keep stating them.
Joaquin Phoenix stars as Abe Lucas, a philosophy professor who, as the movie opens, is arriving to take up a new post at a Rhode Island college. Sozzled and suicidal, Abe is blocked, depressed and impotent, suffering a major case of academic burn-out. But none of that matters much to Jill (Emma Stone), a bright, charming student who—“naturally”—is immediately smitten with him. “I wanted to be a world-changer and I’ve ended up a passive intellectual who can’t fuck,” Abe bleats, as Jill listens sympathetically. A turning point comes, however, when Abe overhears a conversation about an upcoming court case that leaves him with murder in mind—and, it turns out, the opportunity to get his mojo back in the process.
Allen has sometimes been too explicit in his approach to major themes, and a certain clunkiness pervades Irrational Man from the off. The movie actually begins by outlining what it will be about—“morality, choice and murder”—and ends by summing up. It’s like the work of a diligent, slightly insecure student who wants to make really, really sure we get the point they’re making. The notion of a dual voiceover—with Abe and Jill taking turns to chip in—is intriguing, and Allen used voiceover for some good, distancing effects in Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008).
Here, though, the device is disastrous. The characters keep telling us what we’ve already perceived, or else filling in details that haven’t been sufficiently dramatized. (“I was swept off my feet by Abe Lucas,” Jill declares.) This spelling-it-out approach feels especially lazy and embarrassing when one has just emerged from a film by Radu Muntean (One Floor Below, reviewed yesterday). Muntean’s movie actually approaches some similar thematic territory to Allen’s: both films pivot on overheard conversations and explore the responses of the protagonists to the information they’ve learned.
But where One Floor Below allows the viewer a great deal of interpretive space, engaging us as emotional and intellectual participants, Irrational Man turns into a Cliffs Notes on itself. Moreover, the movie’s philosophizing, seasoned lightly with a few short snippets of Kant, de Beauvoir and Sartre (he wrote that “Hell is other people,” we’re informed), can’t be said to cut very deep.
A paunchy Phoenix and a radiant Stone perform proficiently but an air of artificiality hangs over many of the exchanges here. The talk is awkward and unwitty. (“I love it when you order for me,” simpers Jill in a restaurant scene before she and Abe end up in bed together, after which she announces “I loved making love with you.”) Pity poor Parker Posey, who’s drafted into the movie to complete a patented one-guy-two-girls Allen scenario, and then given so little that’s funny or meaningful to say or do that the actress can only deliver a clenched and constricted performance.
To give him his due, Allen is in a way attempting something fresh here in terms of genre: the movie might be described as a sunny noir. Still, it’s hard to know what tone is being hoped for when the director includes a clue in the shape of a copy of Crime and Punishment that comes handily marked up with a victim’s name and a Hannah Arendt quotation. (You can probably guess which one.)
For all its shortcomings, the movie does keep up pace, though, even as it reaches an elimination-of-an-inconvenient-female plot element that will come as no surprise at all to those who’ve seen Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989) or Match Point (2005). While the film-making is occasionally shoddy (there are some bewildering dissolves early on), Allen, working again with the great director of photography Darius Khondji, does supply a couple of resonant images. The first is a terrific funhouse mirror sequence, and the second is a startling shot of Phoenix’s Abe, breathless with fear and exhilaration, as he walks away from the scene of his crime. That potent shot lasts just a few seconds but it makes the viewer aware of just how much the movie would have benefitted from more such genuine moments of irrationality.
Sweden’s José González and Iceland’s Ólöf Arnalds are both accomplished guitarists. With González currently supporting his new record Vestiges & Claws (Mute) and Arnalds supporting her fourth album Palme (One Little Indian), their decision to tour together in Europe and in the US this past March and April allowed audiences to listen to these excellent musicians create uniquely magical sonics on the same night.