Manic Street Preachers - Wolves Civic Hall, 01/06/09

Some bands may be permenant, yet non-essential, fixtures in my music collection; others may come and go with the winds of change. However, a handful manage to make it into what is tentatively known as RobinPlaysChords' Hall of Fame - a place for the bands that I would take to a desert island. From this, I normally champion two bands in particular; Placebo, who are officially the band to help anyone through the minefield of teendom, and Sigur Rós, who give me the sensation of floating in an alternate reality which is made up entirely of bubbles (or something like that). They've been with me for a fair while now; Placebo first hit my music collection in 2003, Sigur Rós in 2004 - but only one band has been a fixture of the RobinPlaysChords' Hall of Fame for over a decade, and that band is the Manic Street Preachers.

From dancing to 'Australia' whilst watching the band playing on TOTP, to car journeys accompanied by This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours; from my first Manics gig (Birmingham's NEC Arena on the Lifeblood tour; the only gig I've been forced into seats for) to the return-to-form-comeback-extravaganza that was Send Away The Tigers (and the gig at Brum's NIA was mindblowing); from devouring The Holy Bible during my mid-teens to the anticipation around the band's ninth studio album, the Richey James Edwards-penned Journal For Plague Lovers, this band has never gone away for me.

For the beginning of June, temperatures of 25^oC are fairly rare, but walking from Wolverhampton railway station is stifling, so to be queuing in the shade of the Civic Hall is a god send. As with most Wolves shows, the hardcore queuers are pretty much alone until 6.30pm, when the rest of the night's audience seemingly appear from thin air, and everyone gets ready to be crushed in the race for the front.

Inside, there are warnings of the floor not being of the non-slip variety; to my chagrin, the heel of my shoe fails to stay grounded as I make my way to the front row and I take a blow to the knee as a result. Ouch. Manage to get to the front without any more disasters and wait for the support act to arrive. Being the opening act for the Manics seems to be like being a Christian being thrown to the lions, and tonight's guests, The Answering Machine, struggle by falling into too many pitfalls that support bands can fall into. It's obvious that for all the enthusiasm they show and the flair in their otherwise fairly economic, indie-by-numbers music, they come off as trying too hard to impress with little substance to actually do so. Too much directionless (or misguided) banter between songs doesn't help matters. That said, new single 'Obviously Cold', with its restless energy and sugar-sweet harmonies, would fit nicely onto a good indie mixtape.

So to the night's main course of music - which turns out to be two. For this tour, Journal For Plague Lovers will be played in its entirety and running order as one set, and then after a 10/15-minute break, the band will play a second, 'greatest hits' set. How much you'd enjoy the gig depends on how much you like the new album; no one would dare argue with a back catalogue of the Manics' stature.

The core trio come on and hit their stride with 'Peeled Apples', James Dean Bradfield's Les Paul Custom sounding particularly vicious. 'Jackie Collins Existential Question Time' gets people jumping from front to back, hands raised in the air, the words "Oh mummy, what's a sex pistol?" ringing around the venue. The raw emotion that seeped off the record is a testament to Edwards' skill as a poet, but is also a great endorsement for Bradfield's arrangement skills; the punky assault of 'She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Bleach' leads into 'Facing Page: Top Left', a song that Bradfield quips about finding difficult to sing; the delicate acoustic finger-picking, coupled with a spellbinding vocal melody and lyrics no other singer would dare touch (try finding an alternative way of putting the line "this beauty here dipping neophobia" to music), help cement his reputation as one of the most gifted singers and guitarists of his generation.

The JFPL set is closed by 'William's Last Words'. With lead vocals by bassist Nicky Wire (who begins by recalling a night on The Holy Bible tour which ended up with him and Richey getting pissed at the city's Novotel - "That was one rocking hotel that night!"), it pulls on your heart strings as it reads like a pre-meditated goodbye from one of the '90s greatest lyricists, as sang by his best friend who is seeking closure. There aren't many dry eyes in the house when Wire's voice cracks as he sings "I'm really tired/I'd love to go to sleep/And wake up happy".

So the first set ends, JFPL raised in stature, and about 15 minutes pass before the full band - including former Thirteen:13 guitarist Wayne Murray, and keyboard player Sean Reid - come back to the stage, and bring the house down with rousing renditions of 'Motorcycle Emptiness', 'Your Love Alone Is Not Enough', and the recently resurrected 'No Surface All Feeling'; all three are suitably epic as intended. 'You Love Us' is as brash and as anarchic as it was when Heavenly first put it out 18 years ago. 'Faster' sees Nicky talk the famous intro with a hint to the current scandal reverberating around British society - "I hate purity. I hate goodness. I want everyone corrupt - just like our fucking politicians!" before the inevitable onslaught of guitars, bass and drums; Sean Moore's drumming is of Titan-esque proportions all evening, with precision timing throughout.

With Nicky Wire suffering from a prolapsed disc in his back, which means he has to sit through 'You Stole The Sun From My Heart', it's up to James to lead with the on-stage shenanigans and he doesn't hold back; during the hits set, he's on the lip of the stage, bouncing up and down behind the same security guard, or spinning on the spot a ridiculous number of times whilst still keeping his guitar leads untangled.

The evening ends, at 11pm, with an obvious contender for the title of greatest song ever written, 'A Design For Life'. By this point, the heat in the venue is unbearable (despite the security kindly handing out bottles of water to those in the front), my mouth is about to dry up and my legs can barely support me, yet I'm still singing at the top of my lungs - 3,000 people join as one and belt out "We don't talk about love/We only want to get drunk/And we have got a lot to spend/As we are told that this is the end" like their lives depend on it.

Before James leaves the stage, he throws away a guitar plecturm that lands between the stage and the barrier. I desperately reach out and practically beg the security guard to bring it my way. He does so, and thus I have my first real Manics souvenir; a guitar pick from James Dean Bradfield. There are other souvenirs of sorts - I'm overwhelmed with exhaustion, and standing next to one of the main PA speakers has blown my left ear to kingdom come. But I'm on top of the world, and the Manics are at the top of the RobinPlaysChords Hall of Fame.

Why? Because they got me through my teendom, whilst giving me the sensation of floating in a bubble, and they fucking rock hard.

Set list:

Peeled Apples
Jackie Collins Existential Question Time
Me And Stephen Hawking
This Joke Sport Severed
Journal For Plague Lovers
She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Bleach
Facing Page: Top Left
Marlon J.D.
Doors Closing Slowly
All Is Vanity
Pretension/Repulsion
Virginia State Epileptic Colony
William's Last Words
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Motorcycle Emptiness
Your Love Alone Is Not Enough
No Surface All Feeling
You Love Us
Tsunami
La Tristesse Durera (Scream To A Sigh)
Faster
If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next
Little Baby Nothing
Australia
You Stole The Sun From My Heart
Sorrow 16
Motown Junk (w/Stop In The Name Of Love intro)
Autumnsong
A Design For Life

Journal For Plague Lovers is out now internationally via Columbia Records.