The Sound of Detachment

I’ve used all my words and metaphors

Let’s address the main event here first – that unhinged bass riff. I am having a really big internal debate whether it is actually a bass or simply a heavily processed guitar, but I’m leaning towards the former – and if that’s the case, it is one of the most singularly bonkers Manics bass parts in their catalogue. It becomes the lead riff over the guitar whenever it appears in the verses, bouncing wall to wall like a rubber ball, with a suitably elastic and warbling sound to match – it’s the sheer deftness of it that makes me question whether it is actually a bass, simply because it’s so uncharacteristically Manics-like. For most parts “The Sound of Detachment” bears none of its parent album’s creative insanity, but then that riff appears and it becomes clear which period this is from – it’s practically cheeky.

Underneath The Riff, there’s a straightforward and perhaps a little predictable, but a damn solid Manics rocker. This feels like another border case between Rewind the Film and Futurology, adapted towards the latter when it didn’t find a place in the former – the choruses in particular sound like they could have fit the misty melancholy of Rewind the Film perfectly once slowed down and stripped out of its flashy arrangement. It also bears the very Rewind-esque self-hatred and Welsh references in its lyrics – and whilst it doesn’t add anything new to Wire’s growing ouevre of anthems to self-defeat, I do love the self-aware snark of the line quote above about running out of metaphors, given Wire’s fondness for “like a ___” similes.

But as said, “The Sound of Detachment” is a solid song – remarkably so, and it makes an impression because of how spirited it sounds even when it’s just a simple verse-chorus ditty. The bass is its star, but James sings the tune with a fire in his belly and the chorus lifts off in a proudly Manics-esque fashion. It never stops to take a breather and that works to the song’s benefit, as it sustains the rush it’s on. It’s nowhere among the band’s most creative songs and not even among their most interesting b-sides, but it shows that you can go a long enough way with some tried and tested songwriting elements played really well.

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Caldey

So you tell me man is an island / Stuck between sanity and asylum

The notion of packing up your bags and escaping society to somewhere at the edge of the world is a theme that keeps cropping up time and time again in Wire’s lyrics. “Caldey” is another one in this line of songs, and it’s a stay-cation version of “Australia”.

Caldey Island is a teeny tiny island (about a mile long, around 40 inhabitants) off the coast of Wales, mostly famous for its monastery and wildlife. Where the fascination with “Australia” came from the sheer distance, it’s precisely the size of Caldey that’s inspired Wire this time: more specifically the isolation and silence that it implies. There’s also a very striking finality to the travel fantasy this time; besides namechecking Leonard Cohen and Wire wishing he could meet his end with the same grace as Cohen did when the time comes, the lyrics make it clear that this withdrawal from society is intended to be the last you’ll ever hear from him. Say goodbye to anxiety by becoming a hermit on a tiny rock in the sea.

As a song, “Caldey” is striking in the sense that it moves around in a stumbling fashion, deliberately. The honking harmonica (organ, keyboard sample? I struggle to tell) and the heavy-footed drumbeat give “Caldey” a curious, almost plodding mannerism that hides the tone of its lyrics. If we once again make the comparison to “Australia” which practically ran away atop its soloing guitar lines, “Caldey” is a calm but uneasy ferry trip over a quiet sea to its destination – it’s too late to change your mind but the journey’s taking long enough that you’re starting to doubt your decisions. It’s also one of the handful of tracks across the Futurology period which sounds like repurposed Rewind the Film cut, where this kind of more contemplative pace was more at home: now it’s covered with a futuristic production instead.

“Caldey” somewhat feels like it goes nowhere – it’s clear why this ended up as a bonus track rather than an album cut – but despite that it’s one of the more arresting b-sides from this period. It’s specifically because of its peculiar waddle which at first confuses, then amuses, then sticks. It also gives James plenty of room to sell the song with his performance, and so you end up with a quaint song that ends up doing a lot more than the sum of its parts would imply. It sounds practically fixated to its goal, and which leads to an unexpectedly hypnotic track.

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Blistered Mirrors

The best of times now fill me with tears

A late period Manics b-side that abruptly ends after a few verse-chorus rounds, with a central melody hook that’s decent enough to make it a good listen but not strong enough to warrant a place in anyone’s favourite Manics b-sides lists, and which comes with a set of lyrics where Wire lists just how devoid of hope and happiness he is. What else is new? But it sounds great, at least.

“Blistered Mirrors” is a fine song that largely warrants the slightly ambivalent tone above, but I love the way it sounds: the sturdy bass riff and the scraggy guitar, those brief piano melodies with a brightness that contrasts against the rest of the song’s intentionally rigid and cold tone. Sean’s drums are a particular highlight, with a simple but deep sound that really allows the snare rolls shake things up every time they bombard through the speakers. It’s not a song I find particularly arresting due to its writing, but each time it’s on I find myself drawn to its production, keeping my ear out for how each instrument comes to life so clearly. There’s some lovely little vocal layering too, and the way the background vocals are given such distance from the lead vocals gives them an eery edge. Compared to most of the Futurology period this is very light on the programmed and electronic elements that otherwise define the era, but “Blistered Mirrors” still comes across robotic due to how sternly it advances, and the sharp instrument production really drills it down. It works really well and it’s the song’s saving grace.

Because, quite frankly, there isn’t much else that would raise “Blistered Mirrors” as a particular highlight. Even the lyrics feel like a faded out photocopy of Wire’s general lyrical themes across the Rewind the Film/Futurology duology – though “it’s virtual anarchy / that’s the real crime” comes a little too close to Wire whinging about the internet again and stands out in a sour way.

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Empty Motorcade

All the politicians have left the stage

Chronologically it has been a while since we had a Manics b-side that was – no ifs or buts or quirks – a straight-up banger that not only could have made the album but which could potentially even have been an A-side proudly. Enter “Empty Motorcade”.

The one thing I want to say time and time again from “Empty Motorcade” is how it’s so cool it’s downright commanding. Futurology was about European highways, glass-covered urban skyscrapers and technology, and this radiates it all through an ice cold attitude. The steadfast drums are like a speeding car, James’ voice is loaded with tension and detachment, and the spurring electronics churning in the background keep you on your toes. When the chorus hits, the glimmering pianos accentuate one of the best and most powerful vocal melodies of the entire Futurology period. It also simply sounds stunning, with the production detail of Futurology shifting a little closer towards pure gold-eared hi-fi bliss, like a Lifeblood song gone berzerk.

I babble in nonsensical infatuation, but really “Empty Motorcade” is a great song through and through. It seizes and grasps attention through a few straightforward but incredibly effective means, and the song keeps the listener in its hold like a great Manics anthem does. It has none of the underdeveloped structures, haphazard stylistic experiments or repeated verses that feature in so many of the b-sides from the band’s latter years – nothing that would clearly indicate why it was a bonus track. “Empty Motorcade” is a reminder of the band’s peak b-sides years, when their discards were just as golden as their album cuts.

It does have some dents in its armor and it loses some footing for the chorus lyrics, which may be incredible in their melodic qualities but full of wishy-washy nothingness in content – it’s a lot of rhyming opposites that do not paint a particularly meaningful picture and feel like a writing exercise more than a lyric. Which is a particular shame given how evocative the rest of the lyrics are in a downright haunting fashion, particularly the first verse which describes the desolate high streets of post-financial crash towns in the UK so accurately – and in a post-COVID world, it’s even more eerily familiar.

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The Last Time I Saw Paris

J’ai dansé le tango à Paris

Another fine entry in the Manics’ growing catalogue of secret agent film themes. The suaveness, the smoothness, the mystery in those guitar licks.

There’s a few interesting facets to “The Last Time I Saw Paris”. One is that it’s the first Manics song that is primarily in a language other than English. “Europa Geht Durch Mich” comes close but still has its English verses and part-choruses, whereas there’s only a single sentence of English found on this song, which is the title itself – the rest of it is, appropriately, in French. It’s a language I didn’t necessarily expect to feature so heavily in a Manics song even with the Eurocentrism of the Futurology period (I would have picked Welsh, Russian or Japanese as the more likely candidates for this kind of adoption) and it definitely lends its own vibe to the song’s general smoky dreaminess. There are some interesting lyrics in the song as well even when mangled through Google Translate: it’s seemingly about a sense of alienation and failure when visiting Paris and confronting the ghosts of your past there, but there’s so little context to the song that it’s hard to say whether this is actually Wire speaking or if it’s another biography piece.

What heightens the mystery is that no one actually knows who sings 99% of the song. She’s not credited in the liner notes and the band haven’t alluded to the song at all so there are no official sources. The most popular guess is that it’s James’ wife Myléne Halsall, who’s part-French, but there’s no real support to that theory. It’s so strange given how open the band have otherwise been about their guest features, but then a part of me thinks it might just be the usual casual sloppiness that haunts the band’s lyric booklets and that they didn’t bother including any further details simply because this was just a bonus track.

Absolutely one of the best Futurology b-sides, and miles away from its parent album in tone. As mentioned before there’s a whole sly agent atmosphere to it, but most of all it just sounds so slick and refined that it’s impossible not to be charmed by it – like a stereotypical Parisian, it’s dressed to the toes and radiating opulence. The gorgeous piano flourishes in the bridge, the stylish guitar riffs throughout the track and the shuffling drums create a wonderful backdrop to its atmospheric production, creating a song that says and conveys a great deal even if you don’t understand the language.

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Antisocialmanifesto

I’m always happier to self delude

Wire starts his token solo b-side for the Futurology era by what sounds like like a bonafide solo track circa I Killed the Zeitgeist, with some scruffily plaintive guitar and melancholia to match. The first half of “Antisocialmanifesto” promises to be another quaint and surprisingly intimate Wire moment, but surprise surprise – we’re getting a revisited and updated version of “Wattsville Blues” instead.

The half-way transformation of “Antisocialmanifesto” is a curveball and its biggest hook, changing without warning from a cosy beginning to a thick, heavy groove while Wire shifts from introspective to actively misanthropic. The production on the second half is quite in line with the 80s art rock tributes of Futurology and there’s a lot to love in its heavily trodding beat and deep bassy rumblings, and it’s a lot of fun – but maybe not in the right place. I actually really enjoy the first half, wotj Wire lamenting over those beautiful processed guitars and touching upon something close and personal in the way he has learned how to do best, and the shift to the song’s second half feels almost forced in. And in the meantime, the deranged disco of the second half could have carried a whole song on its own and could have expanded into something mightier if it wasn’t the final half already. Within the space of the same three minutes, it does feel like two halves of different songs awkwardly mashed together. Plus, the “fuck everyone” attitude of “Wattsville Blues” worked because the song itself was so outrageous – “Antisocialmanifesto” on the other hand sounds too artful and tactful for Wire’s sentiment to sound little more than a grumpy old man trying to get back in touch with the fury of his younger self.

Despite the above, it’s still a striking and memorable song and both its halves have their strengths. It also gets another point for James shouting his backing vocals, really reversing the traditional Wire/Bradfield dynamic to a great effect.

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Kodawari

(instrumental)

Another thriller show theme song, as latter day Manics instrumentals tend to go about. It’s a weird tract but it’s also producing a number of good songs so who are we to question? Instrumentals seem to be the band’s way of expressing more atmospheric parts of their creative instincts, and “Kodawari” fits in that crowd well. It does does actually shake off its initial impression after a point: while the verses have the whole eery synth/processed guitar thing going on atop a click-track like beat, the “chorus” comes to life in an unexpectedly bold fashion. The 80s new wave/art rock influences around Futurology rear their head again in those bright keyboard stabs and James’ guitar riff, and it could’ve been an actual chorus to a mid-tempo stadium moment with a few tweaks.

While instrumentals have become a more common sight in Manics albums, what shifts this into the obvious b-side pile is that it doesn’t really go anywhere. “Kodawari” goes through a few verse-chorus repeats but there’s only minor changes in each go-around – primarily how James get a little jauntier on the guitar in the second verse. It’s more of an ideas song than it is a song-song; that is, it sounds great and has a set of neat concepts to it, but at some point someone said “this’ll do” and the band left it at that. There genuinely isn’t much to say about this one, as pleasant as it is while it’s on, and perhaps you can take that as a positive towards the other Manics instrumentals – now that they’re more common, mere novelty is no longer enough to stand out and the ones that latch onto one’s memory are truly great songs. Thoroughly decent songs like “Kodawari” are the inevitable counterpoint.

Kodawari as a term is another Japanese concept that nutshells a few paragraphs worth of philosophical insight within a single word. It roughly translates as a personal strive for perfection, mastering your skills and doing the best you can for the sake of your own personal pride and honour towards your chosen craft. It’s a wonderfully Manics-esque attitude, but perhaps ill-fitting for the song they plucked it on.

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Mayakovsky

(instrumental)

Vladimir Mayakovsky was a Russian (or Soviet to be more precise) poet, and unsurprisingly to the album this song is from, a futurist. His poetry experimented with formatting and caused as much ire as it did awe, and he quickly rose into somewhat of a celebrity status in the Soviet Union. Mayakovsky died at the age of 36, officially ruled as a suicide but with plenty of debate around the actual circumstances, and following his death the Soviet leadership began to posthumously canonise his status as a national treasure for their own means. Mayakovsky’s poems frequently spoke for a revolution and criticised the Soviet bureucracy, but with selective censorship and editing, Lenin started to use his words as a propaganda tool.

Why Nicky Wire shouts his name in the otherwise instrumental closer to Futurology, who knows?

Futurology has a cheeky and impish sense of humour running throughout it and “Mayakovsky” is the ultimate example of this. “The View from Stow Hill” is a perfect closer – emotional, resonant, epic without bombastic, both resigned and somehow empowered in its melancholy. And just as it’s laid the album to rest, “Mayakovsky” swerves from around the corner and trashes the place, closing the album with a non-sequitur instrumental rock jam. It’s the kind of thing that would ordinarily appear as a hidden track after 10 minutes of silence from the actual closer, but “Mayakovsky” proudly boasts its place in the canonical tracklisting. It’s the official final word for the journey that Futurology carves, and while it’ll always be an abrupt closer (no amount of years between the release date and now ever makes it any less so) in retrospect it’s exactly the kind of curveball that befits Futurology, an album that’s one whiplash after another. You can practically hear the band having a giggle as they intentionally break the flow.

“Mayakovsky” isn’t the most inspired Manics instrumental, especially as the past few years before it have seen the band adapt into the wordless format with more nuance than before. It makes a lot of crashing noise, calms down slightly for some smooth bass riffage, before it continues with kicking down the walls. Wire’s repeated title drop sounds improvised on the spot, but given he does the same thing on the demo (albeit hilariously mispronouncing the name) it seems like an intentional shout-out – one more toast for the futurologists at the very end, as the band refuse to go quietly into the night. It is quite obviously the weakest song on the entire album, but the devilish glee of it is charming, and the more you click with Futurology‘s overall ethos the more the song sounds like the logical conclusion for the album.

“I’ve got blisters on my fingers” is of course a Beatles reference, a nod to Ringo Starr shouting the same thing at the end of “Helter Skelter”. Its placement as an unorthodoxical spoken word intro is another mystery; just another quirk in a song that packs itself full with so many of them despite having barely any vocals.

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The View from Stow Hill

Always caught between the capital and the other country

The clearest link between Rewind the Film and Futurology is found at the end of each album (brushing off the actual final song of Futurology for now). Where “30-Year War” was a preview of the electronic energy of Futurology, “The View from Stow Hill” moves back into the acoustic soundscape and overall resignment of Rewind the Film. You can listen to the demo on the deluxe edition and it could have perfectly slotted among Rewind the Film and maybe even been one of that record’s highlights.

The main thing with these songs is just how they contrast with their parent albums. “30-Year War” is the album picking itself up and gearing for war after the prevailing introspection of Rewind the Film, jolting up with fury and zeal. “The View from Stow Hill” is the complete opposite, because Futurology is all about that fury and zeal, and so then after that defiance and mania the record comes crashing down with “The View from Stow Hill”. It’s a sad, defeated song, moving back to the band’s homegrounds (Stow Hill is in Wales) after their Eurostar trip: the focus zooming back into the personal introspection, to the dark core that Futurology has spent so much time pushing off into the shadows. It’s no wonder “Mayakovsky” comes to disrupt the ending, but I talk about that in detail in its own entry.

It’s one of my favourite parts of the record, though. “The View from Stow Hill” is a haunting song, and nearly skeletal at that: the thin drum machine beat is practically barren compared to the vivid production hell of the rest of the record, the song basically has one verse and then a repetition of chorus between extended instrumental breaks, where the song gets even more haunting with those whistling synthesiser lines coming across like desolate winds over the acoustic melody. That contrast after the everything before is genuinely emotional: it brings the record back to the ground with a bang and reminds of the sadness that’s there. The rest of the record is almost like a party for me, but “The View from Stow Hill” brings that resonant gut hit feeling that you weren’t expecting from the record.

The lyric too hits in a personal way. For an expatriate, the adult sadness of the growing alienation from the place you grew up in after living somewhere completely different for so long, and seeing your old grounds transform into something different from what it meant to you when you were young, is tangible and resonant. While I have made it clear by now that I find Nicky’s takes on modern technology excruciating, the fact that he manages to sneak in the line “the discarded Tweets, the sad Facebooking” into the lyric and not only avoid it being a bit cringeworthy but actually making it nearly (nearly) poignant, is a twist I didn’t see coming.

It’s a really fascinating way to close off Futurology, and the whiplash gets me every time in the most impressed fashion.

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Misguided Missile

Society never made an effort with me

The self-loathing carried over from Rewind the Film, weaponised into a propulsive rock song to match the title. “Misguided Missile” is a glum song but it sounds dangerous, targeting with intent.

Up until the chorus that is, when that thrusting rhythm pulls back. The chorus is less dynamic than the verses and the song breaks to a halt. It’s an odd choice, but it’s one that pays off towards the end. “Misguided Missile” is a good song but doesn’t get great until its middle eight, with everything but James and the guitar fading away, soon spinning to an expanded version of the chorus. Now the section makes sense: the rolling snares, the escalating choir behind James, the music rising higher and higher. The initial choruses were just foreshadowing; oddly out of sync with everything going around them, until the last third of the song lifts the veil and connects the dots. It’s an off-the-cuff build-up that only really makes sense once you’ve heard the full song.

Despite the presence of an actual choir (Berliner Kneipenchor), the mixing really downplays their role. It’s my only real gripe with the song – as a big fan of big vocal sections, I think that if you bring in a choir, then let the choir bellow their presence known. They still work well behind James, but I am wondering if the more subdued presence in the mix is hangover from the gospel choirs of Postcards From a Young Man, which were in a much more audible role but failed to make the album a great success. Therefore they may have doomed any big choir activity on a Manics album forevermore, knowing how reactionary they are.

Wire’s lyrics in general across the 2013/2014 duo of albums have for the most part been excellent and a real return to form, and in that light I really want to highlight how great some of the imagery in “Misguided Missile” is. The second verse and the middle-eight in particular contain some brilliant lines, which James has fantastically arranged the song around. “I am a sky about to fall in / I am a sea about to part” sounds particularly chilling over the tense verse arrangement, the great twangy bass (or is it the guitar?) underlining the cold sentiment to sound even more chilling. When most of the music fades away and the spotlight is just on James during the breakdown, the imagery becomes more vulnerable as well. The whole marriage between the lyrics and the music is particularly brilliantly done on “Misguided Missile”, and is probably my favourite part of the song itself. For such a dynamic song it’s a big slow burner, but as the bombastic lead-in to Futurology’s twist ending, it serves an important role from the get-go.

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