THE STATE OF THE WORLD
by Brendan

Here is what I know about the state of the world:

1. We are rich.

2. There are no wars or anything (real wars, that is).

3. Ummm. Very little continental drift going on (that's probably normal).

4. Somewhere, the president's daughter is "like, totally wasted" right now.

There. One minor problem. Otherwise, things are swell. I haven't really researched this much, but if something major was going wrong, I'm sure someone would have told me. So what are these Manic Street Preachers bitching about?

They've certainly got as solid a basis for their angst as anyone else. To briefly rehash the requisite facts that every Manics review must by law contain: on the cusp of fame, after courting British stardom for years and releasing the critically acclaimed The Holy Bible, the band's famously unstable lyricist Richey James suddenly and completely disappeared, leaving the band stranded. Although they went on to fulfill all expectations, releasing the huge-selling (in Britain, at least) Everything Must Go and This is My Truth Tell Me Yours as a trio, that's sure to leave some personal issues.

As personal as the songs on Know Your Enemy may be, there's always a definite political thread tied up in there, too. Though the band's agenda can get mighty opaque at times, the album feels throughout like some sort of call to arms. And they're not just preaching to the converted. Rather than aiming stylistically at a certain audience, Know Your Enemy finds the Manics attempting to write a protest song in just about every genre. This project, stretched out over 16 tracks and 75 minutes, quickly reaches epic proportions, with an ambition approached only by the magnitude of its flaws.

The range of the album makes it difficult to discern where the band's stylistic allegiances really lie. While punked-up anthems like the opening track, "Found That Soul" and "Intravenous Agnostic" make the most immediate impression, the band seems to be at its most sublimely confident in the jangle-pop of tracks like "The Year of Purification" and "Epicentre." Even some of the songs that initially sound like goofs have a core of sincerity. Ignore the sleighbells and "So Why So Sad" sounds like a genuine Beach Boys homage. The ballad "Let Robeson Sing," while flirting with parody in its brazen, throaty admiration, positively drips with honesty, cutting closer to the heart of the band's politics than any other song on the album. Some of the more interesting tracks paste together a number of styles: "Wattsville Blues," with its collage of drum machines, acoustic guitars, organs, and Fall-ish speak-singing, finds the band wearing their influences as prominently and distinctly as their varied politics.

The band spreads itself thin, for sure; but, amazingly, it doesn't spread itself too thin. With the exception of an annoying anti-European Union disco number, the music is delivered with energy and ability. The songs aren't uniformly memorable, however, and with the better songs clustered toward the front of the album, the Manics have started repeating themselves by the time "Dead Martyrs" and "His Last Painting" roll around. But what a beginning-- "Found That Soul" distills all of the band's exhortations into a concentrated blast, while "Ocean Spray" takes a more melodic and compassionate approach without losing any of the passion. The excellent trio of "Let Robeson Sing," "The Year of Purification," and "Wattsville Blues" follows two songs later. It's not until "Epicentre" that they reach the same heights. The tracks in between are nothing to trifle with; however, perhaps because of the album's length, they tend to get lost in the shuffle.

Of course, the words should be on par with the music in an album like this. Nicky Wire, though he may never live down the "replacement frontman" designation, is fairly well spoken, even at his most vehement. Most of his projectile bile is directed at America ("The Devil's Playground," as it's referred to in "Baby Elian"). While there are moments of clarity, as in the near-narrative anti-McCarthy recountings of Paul Robeson's political activism, most of the invective comes buried under layers of imagery and allusion. Again, however, it's not buried too deep.

While the references can get a bit dense ("Little Guernica" contains the line "Alfred J. Prufrock would be proud of me," which might dip a bit too deeply into the Modernist well), it's usually not too difficult to figure out what he's getting at. Even though, in a song like "The Convalescent," I'm not sure what "Brian Warner has a sweet little ass" signifies, the Luddite message comes across in the chorus: "DNA means do not accept." The album's final song, "Freedom of Speech Won't Feed My Child," gives the Manic's benediction in its eponymous chorus, a warning against complacency, self-righteousness, and lax activism.

As a statement for the entire album, this works fairly well-- it's provocative, well done, but not quite focused enough to take the listener anywhere in particular. So, the world's fucked up, and these guys can write pretty good songs about it. What am I supposed to do? Like, what about that Bush girl? 'Cause man, she's fucked up.

-Brendan Reid