Depending on who we all are, we will all come across different challenges. Mothers-to-be in the church of Scientology are advised to not scream while they give birth (an impossible task since most people can’t even go for a poo without grunting a bit); sword-swallowers in circuses have to suppress their gag reflexes while they shove a blade down their throats and do a “ta-dah” pose; Brian Blessed has to try not to ruin every funeral he attends by jollying the place out. Yes, it’s a hard and cruel world out there. To a nineteen year-old, single, childless, atheist student with a respectable savings account, this may be one of the most difficult day-to-day decisions I’ve ever made. How the hell am I supposed to decide my favourite album? If you think this is a frivolous question, you clearly haven’t grasped the gravity of the situation.

I have a total of 531 CDs (and no food – I’m not good with money) and I love most of them so I’ve had to set some criteria. If we’re going by reliable time-and-again pleasure, it’s ‘Thirteen Tales…’ by The Dandy Warhols; if we’re going by emotional dependence, it’s probably ‘Oh You’re So Silent Jens’ by Jens Lekman; while those were the two contenders from the offset, I settled on a curve-ball – an album that not only bowls me over every time, but also opened my eyes.

The Manic Street Preachers taught me how to think on their third album. They were one of the first bands I was a true, dedicated fan of. I was only nine or ten years old and I didn’t get much pocket money, but every time I had enough, I would go to the local MVC and get whatever Manics album I didn’t have. Eventually, ‘The Holy Bible’ was the only one left. I took it home and put it on. I liked it from the off, even though it was far harsher than usual; it was different and fresh, but at the same time it was raw and I felt something wasn’t right. It was only when I looked at the lyric sheet that I realised exactly what was wrong. The opening song, ‘Yes’, is about prostitution, but this wasn’t the melancholy, slightly romantic portrayals of Minneapolis hookers we’ve come to expect from the likes of Tom Waits. This was the true underbelly; a trough of misery, pain and humiliation. Frontman James Dean Bradfield once said that ‘Yes’ was a contender to be a single, but they couldn’t release it because of the use of the word “c*nt” – personally, if I was considering releasing ‘Yes’ as a single, the word “c*nt” would be the least of my worries since the chorus seems to depict child-rape. I was a sensitive kid and was appalled to the point that I had to take it back to the shop. I don’t think I had the mental capacity to understand the band’s intentions, so I genuinely thought that the band were condoning what they were describing. To this day, it’s the only album that has given me nightmares. Fairly soon after I returned it though, I stumbled across a short biography about the band and read about Richey Edwards, the band’s second guitarist who wrote nearly all the lyrics on this album. While his mental state was merely hinted at on their first two, ‘The Holy Bible’ may as well be his last will and testament. It was only then that I began to understand.

When I was mature enough to confront it again, I felt like I had taken the red pill in ‘The Matrix’; this album tore off the bandage and revealed every wound and scar on the face of our arrogant species. The sound-bites from films, documentaries and author interviews that are scattered throughout the album only suck you in further and seem to provide a running commentary on the songs. ‘Yes’ closes with a backstreet pimp reading out his pricelist (“$2 you can rub her tits, $3 you can rub her ass…”); ‘Archives Of Pain’ opens with the mother of a victim of the Yorkshire Ripper, speaking directly to the man who killed her daughter. The latter, which approaches our morbid fascination with serial killers, also features one of James Dean Bradfield’s most incendiary guitar solos: it starts out fairly calculated, but gradually seems to over-boil, kicking and screaming. The music itself on ‘Bible’ is far removed from almost everything else the Manics have done (before and since). The guitars are taut enough to cut glass, but muscular enough to carry these searing melodies (and to remind you that the music is still made by humans). It’s almost as much of a harrowing listen musically as it is lyrically: how can anyone hear that chilling, industrial clanking at the beginning of ‘The Intense Humming of Evil’ without shivering? The fact that that song is about the holocaust (and written after visiting Dachau concentration camp) only makes the noises that surround it horribly appropriate. The anorexia diary ‘4st 7lb’ (named after the weight at which death becomes “medically unavoidable”) seems to weaken as it progresses, moving from determined self-destruction to resignation. The lyrics to the album’s one moment of relative peace, the numbed ‘This Is Yesterday’, were written by bassist Nicky Wire and embraces nostalgia as an escape from reality, which is a gently depressing thought in itself.

Yes, it’s extremely dark stuff, but the triumph of ‘The Holy Bible’ is that it refuses to rely on darkness alone. The band were exploring new territories; they stopped listening to Guns N Roses and Alice In Chains and started listening to Public Image Ltd., Wire and Magazine. Reading the lyrics on paper, it seems like a miracle that James Dean Bradfield managed to write music that would match them and yet, despite that, he managed to write the best set of harsh, memorable and powerful melodies he’s ever laid down. More importantly than anything else, the Manic Street Preachers never sounded this passionate before or since. This driven, no-nonsense approach was reflected in the recording; while their second LP ‘Gold Against The Soul’ was recorded in a Surrey mansion, ‘The Holy Bible’ was recorded in a cheap studio, without management interference, with the band and engineer working thirteen-hour days, seven days a week for four weeks. On the last day, the band gave Alex Silva, their engineer, a bottle of champagne; he took it home to his girlfriend who promptly told him she was leaving because he had been neglecting her while working on the album.

When Joy Division’s ‘Closer’ was finished, head of Factory Records, Tony Wilson, got a phone call from Ian Curtis’s girlfriend. When he asked her what she thought about the new album she said “I’m terrified… don’t you see? He means it.” Like ‘Closer’, ‘The Holy Bible’ does not flaunt depression and disgust as trophies, but approaches the subjects with a disarming frankness and often with jet-black humour. Just like the fact that Ian Curtis didn’t have to kill himself to make ‘Closer’ an unsettling listen, the fact that Richey Edwards disappeared without trace barely six months after ‘The Holy Bible’ was released is almost irrelevant: with or without its history, it’s a monumental piece of work because absolutely everyone involved “means it”, none more so than Richey. You don’t need to be told that he was in a downward spiral; he had spoken openly about self-harm and alcoholism, but this album speaks for him. At a time when I had a very easy life, ‘The Holy Bible’ showed me a glimpse of true pain and it still amazes, thrills angers me today. It was there when I didn’t understand it, it was there when I felt it for myself and it will be there for everyone who hits rock bottom, or even those who just want to understand. Life is hard enough even if you’re not a sword-swallower or a pregnant Scientologist; when the monsters are in your head, you need all the help you can get, even if it’s someone who says they’ve been there too. Joe Hill