This One's For the Freaks

The other week, as I was passing, I popped into me mate's mam and dads house, just to make sure that everything's tickety boo and that they haven't been pillaged by vikings. While there I was presented me with a carrier bag of Dave detritus that'd accumulated over the years. Most of this was notebooks full of my witless ramblings and photos from the magical before time, when you had to go round boots and give them monies before you could see that half the pictures you'd took were of some random dude's out of focus chin. In addition to this there were also several doodles and cartoons, because I am me and that's a thing I do.

I'd guestimate the above dates from the early 2000's (Jesus shitting Christ, I'm old) and, sad to  say, probably represents the upper limits of my draughtsmanship at that time. I've posted it above, not just as a bizarre act of flagellation/confession/egomania, but also because, serendipitously, yesterday also saw the release of No Manifesto a documentary film by Elizabeth Marcus about the Manics and the various Manic Street Preacher Fan Men (and women) what follow them. 

I believe I've indicated previously that I've got a bit of a soft spot for the occasionally popularish Gwent beat combo. This however is from the perspective of me now. From the perspective of me back then, when it was still possible to come across a new album, film or piece of art and still get excited about them as if they mattered, the Manics were the greatest band in the history of the universe ever and ever signed God. Or, to put in a slightly more measured  way, they were a philanthropic chain letter*: introducing me to more writers, musicians, poets and thinkers than any other artists I can think of and framing the pursuit of knowledge, critical thought and a predilection towards the arty as things that are not just broadly positive, but actively glamorous. If only for that reason I'm prepared to give any release of theirs at least a cursory listen - although for what it's worth, of the bands last four albums I'd rate at least three of them as being very good to fantastic.

The film itself has a sort of choppy, patchwork structure (which feels appropriate, given the band's fascination with collage), switching between subjects, time periods and mediums at will. It gives a nice overview of the band's history up until 2008, without going into any real depth. I'm not sure if non fans would have any interest in James Bradfield''s mastery of the all day breakfast or Sean Moore's frankly alarming firearms collection, but there's something satisfying about watching the band's creative process in the studio. The film also does a good job of sketching out the central tension between a pretentious rock 'n' roll romantic id and down to earth artisan superego that helps keep the band interesting. It's also refreshingly up front about some of the group's bigger failures, such as their making much more of a splat than a splash in the American market.

While the film's home-made, fanzine nature is part of it's charm it does weaken it in some ways. It could certainly have done with a few less interviews with fans,who all seem plenty nice, but hardly provide much in the way of insight beyond what could be gleaned from five minutes googling. There's also an animated sequence that looks like it was made using Microsoft Paint.

Like a lot of these of these things, No Manifesto kinda lives or dies on whether you've any interest in the artists being discussed. As it stands, I like Manic Street Preachers, so I liked the film. It's very much a portrait rather than an in depth analysis, but that is in no way a criticism. If nowt else the music's good. Also, through it, I found out you can still get Wimpy Burgers in South Wales. Who knew? 

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

*I think I might have nicked that from James Dean Bradfield, although I can't be sure, so sod it, it's mine now