The Pains of Being Pure At Heart

It pains me to admit that I only recently (today) discovered a band that released its first album in February.

We’re approaching October’s end, so maybe this review is a bit after-the-fact. Well, better late than never.

The Pains of Being Pure At Heart’s self-titled debut album was a suggestion of the Manic Street Preachers. Their Web site, www.manicstreetpreachers.com, hails it as one of the best albums of 2009.

Turns out they were dead-on.

The band has been hailed as sounding similar to The Jesus And Mary Chain, and has even drawn comparisons with The Smiths (some deem them the American version of Morrissey et al).

“Contender” is feedback-laden with a quick-paced shoe gaze chord progression. If you close your eyes for a moment, you might find yourself transported back to Manchester in the late 80s.

The vocals lilt with the same quality of Morrissey’s distinctive style, yet I would hesitate to condemn the group as “derivative.”

“Hey Paul” finds the band in a bit more rollicking mood. The heavy guitar parts, coupled with female harmony vocals, keeps the sound interesting.

Pardon the clichéd analogy, but it’s like taking the best ingredients of your favorite soups and throwing them in a blender, putting it on the highest speed and drinking the liquid through a silly straw.

One part The Smiths. One part The Jesus And Mary Chain. One part Ride. And finally, one part The Stone Roses.

Yet the taste is something altogether its own, the combined ingredients creating a flavor that can only be described as The Pains of Being Pure At Heart.

If you love late 80s and early 90s pre-Britpop, this band is right up your alley.

Check out The Black Atlantic

The Black Atlantic’s “Reverence For Falling Trees” should be in your musical library.

Trust me.

“Fragile Meadow” shifts its tender vocal line between plaintiff and pastoral, bordering at times on melancholy but with a touch of hopeless optimism.

Backed by a tenderly plucked acoustic guitar and soft harmonies, it embodies the style of songwriting on the group’s 2009 album, “Reverence For Fallen Trees.”

Like a dying man’s last gasps, gently vindicating his existence through the beauty emanating through a hush, the album has the potential to be one of the best released this year.

The style is minimalist, yet each note planned to fade in ephemeral beauty. But it’s also one that requires some attention. Nuances are lost if you listen to it with “background music” intentions.

“I Shall Cross This River” sounds somewhere between CSN’s “Our House” and the best bits of the Beatles’ “White Album.”

Wistful, it builds beautifully.

The album doesn’t offer a lot of variety in style, but like a “real looker” you pass on the sidewalk, a shared glance is sometimes enough to fall in love.

Some might find the music understated and boring. But if you’re looking for something with depth and clarity, check out The Black Atlantic.

Manic Street Preachers take on Chicago

I’m soaking wet with a stomach full of Irish Whiskey, fish and chips. My ears are still ringing a little bit.

And I can’t wipe off the grin on my face after witnessing what I can only describe as sheer delight.

From the very first time I heard Manic Street Preachers when I was 19, I knew this was the type of band I wanted to see live since I first started listening to music.

Tonight I got my chance.

The Manics started their set with “Motorcycle Emptiness” off their debut album, “Generation Terrorists.” It was a solid start, and a proper kickoff as James Dean Bradfield announced that it had been nearly a decade since the band had played this country.

The band launched into a set that lasted more than an hour and a half, with minimal chit chat and banter. Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore delivered with an energy that would not relent.

Songs skipped around from album to album, from “No Surface All Feeling” on 1996’s “Everything Must Go” to “Gold Against The Soul” favorites like “La Tristesse Durera” and “From Despair to Where.”

Several songs from their latest release, “Journal For Plague Lovers,” were interspersed throughout with Bradfield and Wire pausing before the newer songs to announce the lyrics were penned by original rhythm guitarist Richey Edwards (who mysteriously vanished in 1995 after his car was abandoned near the Severn Bridge in Wales).

Even at the end of the set as Bradfield introduced the band members with snarky descriptions of their various personas and personalities, he introduced Edwards in spirit - as if he was still on the stage - with a sense of reverence.

If one thing was evident, the Manics have been able to overcome the trials of losing one of the greatest lyricists in rock history without bemoaning the past. Instead, like truly great Welsh artists, they celebrate in elegy.

The set slowed down in the middle with Bradfield taking to the stage solo with only an acoustic guitar. High point of the concert? Bradfield singing “This Is Yesterday” from “The Holy Bible” after hushing the crowd and crooning as if in a mournful lullaby.

It sent shivers up my spine.

The band would have been remiss had it not ended the set with the DIY ethos-bearing punk numbers of their formative years. “Motown Junk” and “You Love Us” had the front 10 rows of the audience pogo jumping along with the band.

It was truly a great show and one of the few where you'd be hard pressed to hear a song you didn't instantly like. Whether they will find fan bases in other cities will remain to be seen, but a man in his late 30s standing in the fifth row summed up the sentiments of many who attended the Chicago show at the Metro. As the opening band, Bear Hands, was about to close, they told the audience it wouldn’t be long before the Manics took the stage.

“It’s been too long!” the man in the fifth row exclaimed.

Bradfield promised the crowd at the beginning of the concert that the Manics would make it up to them for waiting so many years. The following hour and a half more than did so.

Hopefully we won’t have to wait ten more years to hear them again in Chicago.