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James, 6 Music, December 2004: Yeah we threatened to split up on our first album but since then it's been offered to us that we should split up, many times by many different journalists, and also the rumour is perpetuated by young, whipper-snapper journalists that we are splitting up, in the faint hope that we are splitting up in reality. But you know, the closest we've ever come to splitting up was on the Holy Bible for obvious reasons. Other than that, it's never really occurred to us really. I know when it first happened, before I'd even played the re-issue. It was the BBC 6 Music week and I think the first night or quite early on, they played the Astoria gig. I wasn't looking forward to it as it was something I knew I wouldn't enjoy, especially for the context of the concert. Then something totally unexpected happened. When 4st 7lb came on, I was overcome with emotion. It took me back to a time and a place. My own private video played in my head. I wasn't expecting that. I had no idea it would happen. That was the first time. It wouldn't be the last. 
I watched the interview clip on the official site. At the time I was tired so didn't really register what I saw. I'd played the song clips and was especially taken with the intro to the US version of the Intense Humming Of Evil. That was the real start of it all. It stood out, more than the others - the intense drumming of Sean - I played it on a loop. Perfect. I was getting the Holy Bible re-release for Christmas, very fitting, because I hate Christmas. I'd written in my online journal, "The Holy Bible will never be my favourite Manics album". I said it with utmost certainty. Although Sean had answered a question on the BBC 6 Music site saying how good the US Holy Bible was, it hadn't gone in as I was too busy trying to keep track of the 6 Music week and being seduced by his choice of tracks (hope you enjoy it he'd say teasingly)Sean on the Holy Bible re-release: Putting this package together has hilighted us to some of the things we'd forgotten especially with the American mixed album. I remember being very surprised at the time that anyone could make something sound so finished dare I say it, although we admire the UK release then as we do but there's always that perfectionist within us that's sort of always striving for that perfect mix, and it pretty much came close to it, and hopefully people hear it for the first time and can appreciate it maybe a little bit more than the original. The day before Christmas day arrived (I never celebrate the day) I opened Morrissey's new album, something by Placebo I haven't yet got into, Ocean Rain by Echo & The Bunnymen (as recommended by Sean on the 6 Music week) and The Holy Bible re-release. I didn't really feel anything opening it. I played the DVD that day, every song on there, and the interview just once. I remember Sean talking about Reading, that they wanted to come on snarling and biting or something. I'd already played the Revol footage and saw it a few years ago on a Terrible Beauty video compilation and it scared me. He's wearing a back to front baseball cap and looks crazy. I had distant memories of them trashing the stage at the end, from somewhere. The next thing I removed from the white box was the US Holy Bible, never being taken with the sound on the original version (apart from She Is Suffering) I don't remember when I realised I loved it. I repeat played it, for hours, til the batteries ran out, then I'd get some more. I know at the time of writing this it's over a month and it's hardly been off my player. These things happen without you realising, like Sean in Empty Souls with GATS hair and an army coat. Like 1996 to 2003 never happened. Nicky said Lifeblood's The Holy Bible for 35 year olds but I think the US Holy Bible is. It's more my kind of thing. The original has never left the box. My appreciation began with the music which to me sounds a million times better than the original. One review said it has an improved sound on the rhythm section and I wondered what it was. Do they mean the drums? I don't know, Sean said something about it being closer to perfection. It is. I am not, and never have been, and was sure I never would be, a Holy Bible afficianado, but that's like saying you'll always be fat. And I was, once. Then I did the 1,000 calorie diet for a while, while popping the prozac (why deny it, everyone thinks I'm crazy anyway but I'd rather be in the same boat as Richey Edwards than someone who's perfectionism personified) But I wasn't proud of it, especially not the fact I can give diet tips: no white bread, no margarine, skimmed milk, low fat chips. There's no going back. A bit like The US Holy Bible. But it's not just the music. It's the lyrics too. But for me, at the moment, they're not extreme enough. The reviews say, you have to be in a certain frame of mind to listen to this album. No, you don't, you just need to live in this horrible world. 
Empty Souls video, the Manics in fake glamorous surroundings, the most uncomfortable thing I've seen in ages, James expression said it all. Me, a staunch supporter of The Other Three, found myself wishing Richey would come back and feed Nicky oysters. I cannot explain my reactions, but they're real. And they're mine and you can't take them away from me* It made me think there should be a sequel, but fans say they can never make another Holy Bible. I played it for hours, then Lifeblood, and it follows on sentimentally. And then Empty Souls, on repeat, it made more sense than ever.* (that's me being melodramatic) I don't understand all the lyrics, my favourite song She Is Suffering makes no sense to me. I don't like the video but I love Butt Naked. Try and ignore that Nicky looks ill. But you can't. Sean looks so good, but Nicky... In the album lyrics, you hear the names of a thousand websites or fanzine titles. I know one thing, it's the only thing that kept me calm lately but when those songs are worn out, what next? I can't move on to Everything Must Go. I'd prefer another Holy Bible. It's terrible, but it's true. But I don't want James singing about cutting the feet off ballerinas. And I don't want Sean to cut his hair. And I don't know what it'd do to Nicky's head. He'd look round, and he wouldn't be there. The US Holy Bible is now my favourite of the first 3 albums. By a long way. I don't know how I could've ever preferred GATS after hearing this. And when The Guardian questioned its relevance I knew they hadn't even heard it. I'd quote lyrics but you know them already. You've been playing it for 10 years. But I don't think it's extreme enough for this world. We've had 911, the Iraq war and the Tsunami. I know they'd never write about these things, directly, but Collapsing like the Twin Towers from the uncensored Empty Souls says it all. A fan of the New Manics, falling in love with the Old Manics, it's all the same. I can't make any distinction anymore. Or maybe they finally found their way home - where that is, they only know... (after writing this, and reading it again, the last line made me feel quite emotional) Nick on his favourite album: I think purely in an artistic place and time obviously it would be The Holy Bible 'cos the 4 of us were completely on the same wavelength. But I think if you're 35 then Lifeblood gives a good run for it's money. Date: 9 March 2005 I Don't Wanna Talk About It: My Dirty Secret, My So-Called Mother The only certain thing that is left about me There's no part of my body that has not been used MSP, Yes I have been very recently coming to terms with something terrible that has happened in my childhood (besides my childhood itself). This is a terrible secret that I have been keeping from myself since I was six years old. It is only now, at twenty-seven, that I can say this. I am an incest survivor. I was sexually abused by my mother's uncle beginning when I was six years old and ending when I was about eight or nine (when we left Florida the first time). I was also molested by an adolescent female cousin who basically used me as her anatomy dummy while experimenting with her sexuality. I was seven at the time. I was nearly raped by a distant male cousin when I was fifteen years old. We were at a family reunion which was being held at a park on the Intercoastal Waterway. My parents always drilled it into my head that no family member could possibly hurt you (despite what happened when I was younger), so I gullibly went along with him to run someone home. We pulled up in a different part of the park, and he started to get heavy. It was when he had me on my back in the front seat that I saw my chance. I jammed my knee into his groin as hard as I could, opened the door, rolled out, and ran as fast as I could to a more populous part of the park. I ran into a ladies' restroom and stayed in there, rolled into a ball, until nightfall. I only came out when I heard the familiar sound of my father's car engine. I had to endure my mother's yelling at me for disappearing (all the way home), and then I took Dad aside and told him what happened. Why couldn't I have done that with my mother's uncle and the female cousin? I was afraid. My mother spent most of her time trying to make me out to everyone as a liar and starved for attention. She was jealous of the attention my father paid to me (probably because his being away affected me more and he felt guilty). This pettiness plays into exactly why I never told Dad about her uncle. I am not going to go into details here, but my mother knew what her uncle was doing. She knew his tendencies, and given that she was on the outs with her "precious" family, she would have done anything to get back in his good graces--including sell out her own child. She left me alone with him, she made me go on trips with him and his grandchildren (I suspect he molested one of his granddaughters, but I can't be for certain. I haven't spoken to her in years), she made me go to his house every week whenever he wanted to see me (which was quite often). If I had told my father what was going on, he would have gone to my mother...and she would tell him what she always told him about me: that I merely wanted more attention. I hate her for this betrayal, and this contributes to my general disgust. I'm not sure whether my father would have believed me, but his reaction to what my cousin did was a good indicator. He wanted to kill the bastard. I don't know what he'll say now about what happened when I was little. I don't know if he'll believe me. I don't care. I used to be able to make myself forget such unpleasant subjects. I used to be able to blank my horrible childhood out of my mind. I used to delude myself into thinking that my childhood was better than most people's; at least I had the necessities. And I got to travel the world, meet people, learn foreign languages, get a good education...I was clothed and fed and cared for. I can no longer do it. My bad memories won't go back in the boxes I've created for each trauma. I can't make the bad thoughts go away anymore, and I'm tired of trying to deceive myself. I can no longer blind myself. Do you want to know the kicker? If I actually come out and tell my immediate family members what happened to me, no one would believe me. My so-called mother had them all thinking that because of my depression (onset at eleven) I was crazy and made things up just to get attention. Hell, this woman thought that my suicide attempts were simple bids to garner attention! They were cries for help, yes, but I wasn't going for a pat on the head. I was actually trying to rid the planet (and her) of me. The fact that I am taking medication now doesn't help. Everyone just treats me with kid gloves, as if I'm a walking time-bomb. How patronizing. This is why I despise people. I can understand that her reason for being so cynical about depression and its effects is because my oldest sister was/is bipolar and gave her immense grief (being the youngest, I was dragged along on her excursions to mental hospitals and group homes to visit my sister). Fine; your oldest is kid is nuts and she refuses to take her medication. That should not mean that you treat your other child who exhibits symptoms of an illness that runs in your accursed family like she is a leper. Then again, my mother was a bitch to me before I began to exhibit the symptoms of depression. She always made it very plain that she hated me; she should have aborted me, she only stayed married to my father because of me (she hated having to move all the time. You'd think that she would have considered what she was getting into when she married someone in the armed services). She was quite fond of telling me how stupid I was (though I was in Gifted classes), how worthless I was, and how I couldn't do anything right. Her family hated my father (snobs). Some of the more priggish would rub it in to her that they did not approve of him. They hated me (there is no love lost on my part, neither) because of my father. I didn't care about them; I just didn't understand what I did to make my own mother hate me, why she had to push me away when all I wanted to do was love her and for her to love me too. She died when I was twenty. I cried at first with the shock of it, but then I felt nothing. I felt guilty for actually being relieved that she died. If I do think about her death and cry, it is merely because it hurts so much that she wouldn't love me. All I wanted was her love, nothing else. With this withholding of her love came her withholding of protection (unless it benefited her) which led to what happened to me. When she died, I thought the torture would be over. It isn't. She haunts me through my memories of the sexual abuse that occurred because it feels like she sanctioned it. She knew what her uncle did to his nieces, grandchildren, and younger cousins. I found out later that two of her cousins told her what he had done and she had defended him. This confuses me. I don't know her reasons, and I'd hate to think that she went through the same thing that I did. I don't want to think that she was abused like I was and forced into the role of pimp as an adult. I don't think I'll ever know, neither. Death has turned that bastard and my mother into saints and no one in my family likes to rehash the past. Denial holds us together. It makes me sick. As a result, I feel like an absolute floozy. A whore. A cheap trick. I feel disgusting and disgusted. I want to crawl out of my skin. I feel dirty and I want to wash until my skin comes off. I can't live with myself though I know what happened wasn't my fault. I know intellectually that there was nothing I could have done to stop them. Even if I tried to fight my grand-uncle (which I did on several occasions), he still would have gotten what he wanted. I feel ashamed because what my female cousin did to me felt good, though I know it was wrong. I feel like a slut because feelings were aroused in me that no child should have to deal with unwillingly. I didn't try to seduce anyone, but ended up being seduced. A shot of boredom helps my mind Staring through a thousand dead eyes I guess my nerves are brutalized Lips I kiss just another plague Love can't fix the hole they made MSP, Condemned to Rock 'n' Roll Like I mentioned in my last article, Tabitha Talks About Sex, I embarked on a sexual research project in my late adolescence (age eighteen). I wanted to understand why people were so uptight about it. I was away from home and felt more comfortable indulging my curiosity without having to worry about my mother or Jehovah's Witness elders searching my room (yes, they actually did. They didn't like the music I preferred to listen to or the books I preferred to read). I felt impelled to get to the bottom of it. At the time, I did not understand why my curiosity was so strong, or why certain things made me cringe. Some memories of my childhood began to surface at the time, but I (a little too expertly) knocked them back. I should have listened to my own warnings, but I was too concerned with my "research". When I turned twenty-one, I was legally able to drink. So I started. My mother had died and I was taking care of my father by myself, having moved back home to help her with him (I only did this for him. I let her know that). I worked full-time and went to school full-time. I took care of everyone else but myself. I didn't drink much at the time. That would come later. My half-brother finally took over Dad's care (he has more money and time), which allowed me to move away. Now that I was back on my own, I was haunted more often by unpleasant memories. The pain of losing my best friend, several other friends, my grandfather, and my beloved Golden Retriever during my adolescence resurfaced, and I felt more hollow and depressed. My solution? Drinking. A lot. I had to numb the pain; I had to make the bad man go away. I didn't know about Demon Rum yet. I learned soon enough. Sitting alone in my apartment, I would encounter him again and again...along with Demon Tequila, Demon Bourbon, Demon Whiskey, and Demon Vodka. Cavorting with them helped me ignore what was really bothering me, not to mention enabling me to shed the wall that I had built around myself since that first encounter with my grand-uncle. I could feel safe and sheltered. I got to know myself. I had many one-sided conversations where I ranted against who I thought was God until I realized that the sky is indeed empty. I got to know myself a little too well. In the end, I grew bored with so much alcohol and pulled back a little. It didn't give me what I wanted. I still felt depressed, miserable, and...dirty. I don't remember much more about this period. My subconscious has locked it away and it won't let go, though I'm trying to get in there. Most of what I do remember is in a haze, but I do remember that I was running away from something. I would have inebriated nightmares where I was running from monsters who would grab me about the waist and pull me down into the ground (I didn't and still don't really believe in Hell as such. I think of this planet as Hell). I would come to screaming and reach for the bottle to knock me out again. I still don't know how I managed to hold down a job, but I did: several. No one knew. My drinking was a secret just like I kept most of my past a secret because of the shame. These days, I don't drink as much. I take Lexapro and I don't want the effects of contraindication. I wish that I had advice for those who, like me, are just now coming to realize the horrors of their childhood. I am reading books, seeking therapy, researching and learning about childhood sexual abuse. That's my way of dealing with it. I want to erase these feelings of shame. I want to be able to accept in my heart that I am not to blame for what happened. I can't. Not yet. I called myself a survivor in the beginning of this article, and I intend to be just that. I know I've only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg. I know that there will be more dark nights of the soul, more revelations, and rejection from my so-called family if I bring it up, but I have to do this. I have to get to the roots of what happened and take myself and my soul back. Face Your Truth Speak Your Truth Be Your Truth MSP, Judge Yourself |
