Take the Skinheads Bowling

Some people say that bowling alleys got big lanes

At the time of writing I restrict the cover songs I feature on this project to ones with some greater meaning or context that makes them noteworthy in the Manics-verse: ones that made it as singles or album tracks or those which have other reasons to be considered important for the band themselves. “Take the Skinheads Bowling” has no such greater meaning or importance, but it’s here because it’s clearly a song the band love to play – so much so that they’ve recorded it twice.

The original Manics take on “Take the Skinheads Bowling” was released in 1997 on the “Australia” single. After three singles with an EP’s worth of original Manics studio tracks each, the final single of the campaign broke the trend and featured three covers (of which one had already been released on a compilation): this was ostensibly due to Wire’s writer’s block and the band having started to prepare for the next album. All the three covers chosen have a certain degree of levity to them, none so much as Camper Van Beethoven‘s “Take the Skinheads Bowling” with James’ thrilled yelps and backing vocals throughout. The original was written as a song that purposefully had no meaning, consisting of non-sequitur lines with no connecting tissue apart from a strict desire not to make any sense together – for a band as literate as Manics, this must’ve been hilariously anarchistic for them and it’s likely the reason the cover sounds like the band simply had a lot of fun recording it.

When Lipstick Traces was released in 2003 and its second disc compiled together most of the band’s covers to date, “Take the Skinheads Bowling” was found on the tracklist together with the other “Australia” b-sides. But, for reasons never alluded to in the press release and never explained since, the version on the compilation is a complete re-recording rather than the 1997 original. The general approach remains the same – still wildly energetic, still chaotically jolly in its backing vocals, still audibly a barrel of fun – but the production has changed completely. It’s punchier and more muscular than Manics’ original take, with a heavier emphasis on the electric guitar riff and a more in-your-face drive going on for it. Where the first take sounded like a group of friends playing an old favourite in their practice space, the 2003 version is ready to take the center stage. And that might just be why it was beefed up: since the re-recording, “Take the Skinhead Bowling” has become a semi-regular appearance in the band’s setlists whenever they have a random covers slot pencilled in them. Despite its innocous presence it seems to be a genuine favourite of the band’s judging by its continued cameos throughout the years. A moment of self-awarely dumb, fun rock to blow off some steam to?

If there’s a version to choose, the more readily available Lipstick Traces version would be my choice too. Like most Manics covers it isn’t going to change anyone’s world but it’s genuinely just a fun, pogoing ditty where the band sound elated themselves, and the 2003 version emphasises all those aspects and the inherent energy.

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Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

I’m free / Nothing’s worrying me

This quaint, lovely cover of B.J. Thomas‘ 1969 original, written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David for the film Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid, is significant in the Manics history for being the very first song the band recorded and released as a trio, still uncertain whether they could continue following Richey’s disappearance, on the 1995 The Help Album, a various artists charity compilation for the benefit of the War Child charity.

Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid was a favourite of Richey’s and the band had spent many tour bus trips watching the film over and over again, so in the wake of Richey’s disappearance it was likely a song that was in everyone’s minds and made it a natural choice to record. Though it’s easy to make the assumption that it was half a tribute to Richey and half a disguised message to the wider world that the band was OK and this was a new beginning (given the lyrics’ theme of triumphing in the face of adversity), James has demystified this since by stating that it was the pragmatic option: the compilation’s gimmick was that each chosen artist had a single day to record the song once given the green flag, and the chosen day turned out to be the day after the band arrived in France to begin recording Everything Must Go. In an unfamiliar environment with an unfinished setup, a familiar cover was deemed the best song to pull off.

As is Manics tradition the cover doesn’t stray too far away from the original, with the key difference being the replacement of Thomas’ classically 1969 easy listening orchestra arrangement with a sound more befitting to the Manics, giving greater emphasis to James’ guitar playing and pushed forward by the muted guitar shuffle in the background. The Manics’ version also sees the grand debut of Sean’s trumpet which gets the solo spotlight, which may or may not have been the wider inspiration for it to make further appearances throughout the era. It’s a lovely version with a resonance that the original admittedly lacks, thanks to the context that the band brought it out in – whether it was intentional or not.

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Horses Under Starlight

(instrumental)

The original Manics instrumental. It took a good decade until the band released another and since then they’ve become a regular appearance on and off albums. “Horses Under Starlight” is still a careful dip into the territory, with James’ “ba ba ba” vocals being so central to it.

It still stands as one of the band’s best instrumentals. Sean’s trumpet gets the rightful centre stage after its cameo in “Kevin Carter”, exchanging the lead with the aforementioned wordless vocals. There’s a gentle, suave chill-out groove to the song that’s not a million miles away from the late 90s lounge and bossa nova trend about to make its appearance round the corner – Manics on the forefront of trends for once. There’s a lot of lovely instrumental touches throughout from the gentlemanly guitar to the shimmering keyboards of the chorus: it’s a song that was devised as an instrumental from the start and revels in the opportunities it presents.

The final kick-off and the song’s sudden twist into a more familiarly rocking Manics territory was something I used to find detrimental to the established mood of the rest of the song, which I would’ve been happy to float in for a good amount more. While I still think it’s a little abrupt and perhaps even unnecessary (it has the striking feel of the band not knowing how to close off the song so they just shake it apart), it does close off the song with a cheeky burst of energy and gives it a bit of a surprise shake-up. I’ve made my peace with it, and it doesn’t take the shine away from the lush wonders of its main body. Manics have rarely sounded this elegant and it works beautifully for them.

Amusing musical detail: the random drum roll at the very end when the rest of the instruments have quieted down.

[edited 01/05/2022]

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Dead Trees and Traffic Islands

This purgatory for beginners

A song where the music and the lyrics feel like they never met.

The lyrics to this are, in all honesty, baffling. There is a thoroughline of paralysing depression, perhaps even physical illness – loss at words and meaning, body not behaving right, being left (or stuck) to drift in one’s thoughts – which is a common enough Manics subject. It’s how the song has been written that makes it so peculiar. Amidst all the relatively straightforward if colourful lines you find lyrics that feel practically nonsensical: “clandestine brain finished period”, “yellow moral unclean decay”, to name a few. In all their elaborate floweriness they resemble Richey’s writing and the overall impression the song leaves is that this feels like Wire is trying to imitate Richey’s style. It’s why those more surreal lines sound so off too, because Richey always had some sort of a meaning to his words even at their most purple prose, no matter how obscure or oblique the reference was. “Dead Trees and Traffic Islands” reads like someone trying to copy that style but not the meaning.

You would be forgiven for not even realising any of that, mind you – the song sounds so lush and simply gorgeous that all attention goes to the sound. Fluttering woodwinds are all over the song just as much the strings are all over the A-side “A Design for Life” and they’re in charge of all the main melodies. James’ vocals through the verses are sung in falsetto which masks away most of the actual words. Towards the end of the he forgoes all words and finishes with a flurry of “sha na nas”, a rare Manics wordless vocal and somehow both sweet and sarcastic coming from James. If it weren’t for Sean’s insistent, driving beat this would be an impeccably graceful song, almost pastoral: Moore’s backbeat turns it towards more familiar Manics territory, and more towards Everything Must Go in general.

The lyrics, even if they do not fully register, still leave a sinister feel all over the song. Despite its sugar-sweet appearance “Dead Trees and Traffic Islands” is not an upbeat song and all the countering elements across the track work well to give that sense of unexplainable unease. It makes for a very intriguing b-side. And a catchy pop song as well, to boot.

[edited 26/04/2022]

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Black Garden

All this whiteness blinds

Some of that The Holy Bible era darkness still resides in the Manics, as the gloomy “Black Garden” suggests. Unlike the wistfully anthemic rock anthems that otherwise dominate Everything Must Go and its b-sides, “Black Garden” is bleak and cold, making it very much an outlier for the period.

The musical language used is still vastly different and the off-kilter groove of “Black Garden” is much more in line with the rest of its parent period; the fading snippet of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” in its intro (unless you’re listening to the 10th anniversary box version which crops it out into its own song) also forms part of the “American Trilogy” referential undercurrent that ties together some of the era. Its darkness is a slow creep rather than aggressive nihilism, forebodingly crawling forward like it’s emerging from a bog or appearing as a mirage in a nightmare. Despite the sharp guitar stabs throughout “Black Garden” is in its core a pure bass song, with Wire showing off his own advancement in his instrument through the jaunty little runs and lively fills that pop up throughout. For all its general excellence – the murky verses, the brief glimmer of light in the halfway-anthemic chorus which sound like a desperate gasp of air before getting pulled underwater again – my favourite part of the song is surprisingly the intro and outro which feature primarily just the bass. The atmosphere is at its thickest there, and Wire’s spookily murmured “swing, swing” just adds to the delirium.

Lyrically this too has the aura of Wire attempting to channel Richey, with lines like “remember the feeling of a frozen embryo” coming across very un-Wiresque. Ostensibly this feels like a more elaborate take on depression and the ensuing feeling of helplessness, but the last chorus seems to be about something else entirely and I’m not exactly sure what, with its sudden very forceful imagery and reference to “white trash”. It’s creepy though, I’ll tell you that.

[edited 30/04/2022]

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Dead Passive

Let’s fall asleep to a plastic lullaby

Some of that old venom still burns within the veins. Manics circa 1996 had calmed down and had already started to turn their vitriol inwards rather than at the world, and so “Dead Passive” acts like one of the last moments of rage against the dying of the light. It’s a Generation Terrorists era sentiment brought back for revenge, with Wire bitterly and spitefully taking a stab at the world of deceit and hedonism known as celebrity relationships. All the relationships named were popular gossip magazine fodder in the mid-90s and Wire’s calling them out on – in summary – not belonging together but keeping it up for appearances and publicity. Adam Clayton and Naomi Campbell had a whirlwind engagement that started and ended in a year, Hugh Grant was outed having an affair while together with Elizabeth Hurley, as did Michael Hutchense when together with Helena Christensen, Johnny Depp and Kate Moss were frequently arguing in public while at the same time vouching for their passion towards eachother. “They are together but do not belong”.

And had this been a Generation Terrorists cut I’m sure it would’ve sounded just as vicious, but we’re now into the orchestral rock territory and so “Dead Passive” receives a lush, flourishing arrangement full of elegant woodwinds. Sean’s drumming cycles between a march and a more graceful, almost dance hall-esque little tilt that James’ sarcastically angelic vocals ride so sweetly. It’s a suave and polished chamber pop moment, hiding its barbed wire behind the scenes. It’s really quite unique in the band’s back catalogue, and whilst not one of the all-time greats it’s a great herald of the kind of weird secrets the b-sides back catalogue contains.

And of course, Wire being Wire, he can’t finish the song without having a good jab at himself too. “We’re so passive / do our bit for charity / From Bosnia to London / We do it all for free” – a year earlier, the Manics had taken part in the first War Child: Help compilation for the benefit of war casualties in Bosnia and Herzegovina, which had also been the band’s subtle premier as a three-piece.

[updated 25/04/2022]

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Mr Carbohydrate

Cynicism is the only thing that keeps me sane

I love thinking about Manics fans in 1996 buying the “A Design for Life” single; they’ve experienced The Holy Bible just a few years before, the new single may have a new sound but the band’s classically biting political commentary is still intact, and then they hear a Britpop anthem about how crisps and cleaning are better than being in a rock band.

Manics have a sly sense of humour to them but usually it’s reserved for off record settings, and along with “Miss Europa Disco Dancer” this is one of their very few obviously humorous (and genuinely funny) songs. Of course it all stems from Wire laughing at himself, tongue firmly in cheek: “they call me a boring fuckhead / say I might as well work in a bank” is one of the most beautifully anti rock ‘n’ roll lyrics ever crafted. It is all genuine, of course – Wire has talked about his love for simple domestic bliss a number of times over the years, but from the start he’s also acknowledged its absurdity given the track his life’s ended up taking. Part the reason “Mr Carbohydrate” works so well is because it’s got that heart of truth to it while Wire keeps taking jabs at himself.

The Manics never were a comfortable fit in the Britpop crowd that they ended up coincidentally being filed in by the wider media when Everything Must Go took off, but “Mr Carbohydrate” shows that they could exist alongside it comfortably if they wanted to. The sound and feel of the song are about as classically mid-90s British as rock music can get – perhaps as a way to accentuate the relatable mundanity of its lyrics, but I’m sure that’s already a stretch. It is therefore perhaps a little less remarkable sonically than some of its other period b-side peers, but in no way does it pale in comparison to them in any other way. If the Everything Must Go b-sides were an album onto their own then this would comfortably be the lead single both in immediacy and its strength, once again highlighting how strong this band’s cast-off game is.

And it’s blessed with a brilliant outro, above all – the rev-up finale with the ever-more-frantic acoustic rhythm guitar and James’ vocals breaking into wordless whelps and falsetto quips is simply joyous and glorious.

[edited 27/04/2022]

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Sepia

For the first time ever I don’t understand my television

Most Manics eras have a b-side that feels like a stand-out single that somehow got away. “Sepia” is the one for Everything Must Go.

This beautiful acoustic-driven gem is one of the highlights of not just this period of b-sides but the entire era, including everything on Everything Must Go itself. “Sepia” is one of the earliest instances of Nicky being ready to process Richey’s disappearance directly, after only alluding to it throughout the entire rest of the ’96-’97 years. It’s the precursor to the deep-seated forlorn melancholy of This Is My Truth, with Wire starting to come to terms with how he no longer has his brother-in-arms around him and who he may never see again, and the agonising loneliness and regret of things not said out loud that comes with it. The direct reference to Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid’s ending – where the titular heroes face a rain of bullets before the shot freezes and fades into sepia, their fates left ambiguous – is almost certainly a nod towards Richey’s own ambiguous fate at the time, with Wire uncertain whether to mourn or not. The film was also a big favourite of Richey’s, and the band had already earlier on covered “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” which featured on the film for that very reason.

“Sepia” is the definition of wistful, carrying such great of amounts of ache on its back that it’s practically vulnerable. And yet, it’s impeccably beautiful and confident in its graceful demeanor. Its core is a weary ballad but its pace is brisk and determined, James’ gentle vocals almost hurrying through the verses to the understated anthem of a chorus. Wire was entering a new era of introspectivity in his lyricism and James makes it a case to prove that he was ready to deliver those lyrics earnestly and with the respect and emotion they deserved. Musically and tonally this so firmly defines this era of the band that the only reasonable excuse for it not to have been on the centre of the record is that it was written and recorded months after, as the band often approached their b-sides.

A stunner of a b-side and at the forefront of everyone’s lists when making the case that this band’s b-sides are a whole treasure cave of their own.

[edited 01/05/2022]

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Hanging On

I’m not real but I’d like to have a chance to feel

I could just leave a quote of the chorus – “Hanging on to nothing” – here and finish the entry at that. Handclaps, audience cheers.

“Hanging On” is, like many bottom-tier Manics songs, not actually a bad song, it’s just very uninteresting. James can still write a good hook – the exhuberant backing vocals in the verses, the simple earworm of a chorus – but otherwise “Hanging On” is bereft of inspiration or imagination. It’s a simple verse-chorus-verse-chorus call-it-a-day rocker that bears all the hallmarks of something the band could knock out in their sleep, and I can’t imagine much studio time was spent on it. Where many of the b-sides of this period have an exploratory feel to them as the band are stretching out their brand new wings, “Hanging On” (and its b-side brother “No One Knows What It’s Like to Be Me”) sounds like a bonus track they pulled out at last minute because they got told to record more. It’s a sweet, short and – to be frankly – basic little rock ditty that whoops for three minutes and then clocks out. It’s okay, but it’s not interesting enough to mention in the greater pantheon of Manics b-sides, much less to try and come up with something to talk about.

[edited 28/04/22]

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First Republic

We want to play in the burnt-out palace ruins

Probably one of the band’s most directly, brutally anti-monarchy songs next to “Repeat”. And probably one of their most fun, too.

If you just read the lyrics you can practically feel the aggression and frustration reach out and grab you by your neck through the monitor. The Manics have never hidden their distaste for the UK royal class but on “First Republic” that opposition reads out both violently and eloquently. The time for subtlety is over, we may as well just raze it all to the ground.

But “First Republic” is so jolly about it all – if they’re going to torch the royal palace down, they’re going to make a good ol’ romp about it. James is at his most brilliantly sarcastic in the verses and his falsetto quips finishing each line are like an imaginary backing vocal chorus you could imagine doing synchronised hand dance moves behind him. Despite that boisterous riff-loving lead guitar the song as a whole has a very vaguely 1960s feel to it, with that kind of jubilation to its hops and skips. The middle-eight with its bright and insistent piano and feel-good handclaps hammers the point down – it’s almost uncharacterically cheery but the fact that it’s on a song like this makes it unmistakably Manics.

I don’t think this is going to win anyone’s favourite Manics b-side contests but it is one of their most exhuberantly upbeat songs and I love that it’s in this context, making it quite possibly their stand-out queen dethroning anthem.

[updated 01/05/2022]

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