Difference between revisions of "Fear Of A Brain Dead Planet - Deadline, July 1991"

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There are three sorts of people in the world — those who are excited about the Manic Street Preachers, those who are ignorant of the Manic Street Preachers and those who despise the Manic Street Preachers — groin-dead, boring bastards.

"I've heard it all before when I were the cloakroom attendant at the 100 Club back in 1876 when the Pistols were just starting..."

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN!
By sending beautiful letters to certain music hacks and by being well fuckable and having at least three good chewns and by slashing their wrists in front of a photographer, the Manic Street Preachers.

"I mean, I've heard that they don't even play their own instruments on the records....

B000000RRRRRRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG!

They have got to the stage where they can fill the Marquee. One of them, a giant orange gonk-freak with his mum's sperm-crusty scarf wrapped around his feeble, unmanly chest drools in sticky welsh camp: "Tenessee Williams was the most beautiful homosexual who ever lived.."

And another Manic, a huge scar across his throat where doctors unsuccessful-ly tried to neuter the overactive thyroid gland that floods his shuddering, stammering. blinking, rigid frame with nature's amphetamines, he says "If there are any young men in the audience who'd like to fuck me then I'll see you all in the dressing room afterwards." He's never sucked a cock in his life, what he's doing is cupping the audience's balls in his hand — there are few women here just as there are few women reading this comic—and smiling and asking them just how rock'n'roll they really are.

Young men dressed in the crowd in the shit-in-your-parent's face riot rags of radical, revolutionary rock and roll folk- devils blanch and shake.

"AAAGGHH! UUUGH! FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!" Dumb homophobic prematurely middle aged boring bastard Tory scum.

On the steps outside the toilets a bunch of rock'n'roll hairies — one wearing a leather jacket bearing the legend, "NOT JUST ANOTHER PUNK ROCK JACKET" — are verbally crucifying the prettier and younger and much, much, much, much more fuckable boys on stage —

"Just wait until the backlash starts..." "What are you talking about??" rages a bald fury on his way back from a piss wearing a fluorescent lime green DRUGS MAKE YOUR EYES BLEED t-SHIRT.

"This IS the backlash! Everybody hates this band! Everything about them is WRONG! The clothes they wear are WRONG! The songs they steal from are WRONG! And still they go from strength to strength whilst you sit and sneer instead of LEARNING..."

Every music hack I know that's set out to see this band has gone to hate them. Every single one has come back in love, all their fears and prejudices confirmed.

Four Oxfam shop fops from the arsehole of Wales who look like a downmarket Generation X on a diet of ugly pills. A band who when the rest of pop grooved to vibeful optimism ran in exactly the opposite direction. WE'VE HEARD IT ALL BEFORE!!!

To an awful lot of people —baggy E kids in particular — the very idea of totally sincere smash-the-system melodic attack pop is I00% new, but the punk bores, same as the hippy bores, drone on and on about when they were lads it were all fields around here. God, you boring bastards are the gravediggers of anything fresh. you've always been around...

The Sex Pistols? Load of hype man, anyway they're not doing anything that MCS and the New York Dolls haven't already done loads better and anyway they've nicked their entire look from Richard Hell and they can't play their instruments properly and the lyrics are just bald slogans.." BORING BORING BASTARDS DIE! DIE! DIE! This is not some Birdland (Snap their little legs) or Windy Jamsandwich and Transvision Wankbag corpsefucking outing. Birdland are on a nostalgia charabanc trip to some imaginary rock and roll old folks home cum theme park where they can grovel and lick the boots of their heroes. Wendy James — for all she talks of cheekbones and tight arses — is peddling a similar faked dream, FROTH. They're in love with and