Richey Edwards 1967-2008

The Manics legend was a breath of fresh air in a world where stupidity is admired.

Richey Edwards, lyricist (and it has to be said, third wheel guitarist) of the Manic Street Preachers was declared dead last week, after being missing for almost 14 years. He wasn't just an anorexic, tortured Welsh bloke who cut himself up a bit once. To a few people, including myself as a Manics fan, this bloke was more than just a troubled young man. He was one of the most important lyricists and artists in recent history.
He was no Pete Doherty, despite the Guardian's inaccurate and hasty comparison. He was no drug-addled, bumbling mess. He was an eloquent and charismatic genius who deserves to be remembered.

I got into the Manics in 1996, after hearing A Design For Life on the radio. I admit, initially I hated it. I found it rather OTT and completely misinterpreted the lyrics as some sort of geezer-anthem, wheras in fact the message was the complete opposite. However, after listening a few times, I realised how fantastic it was, and became hooked. I bought the entire back catalogue and became obsessed.

For me, the Manics inspired creativity, eloquence, an interest in literature and pride in having a brain and knowing how to use it (and not being ashamed of it). They were a breath of fresh air in a world where stupidity is admired, and, not to put too fine a point on it they showed people that reading books and learning about things doesn't make you a geek or pretentious. How can a band make reading sexy, I hear you ask? The Manics made it sexy. They had the power to open up a whole world to me. Listening to their music was like putting two invisible fingers up at souless garage, and puce indie like Oasis and the Verve, where lack of intelligence, downing 8 pints on the trot and boasting about being thick was a virtue.

Hearing them reference an artist, author, poet or film made me immediately find out about them and in many cases buy their work. Through them I discovered the sheer genius of people like Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs and J.D Salinger. I bought flowery blouses from Oxfam, leopard print and glittery everything and scrawled them with glitter glued and stencilled slogans. "Culture Slut", "All Rock & Roll is Homosexual" and "Lonesome Aesthetic". Cringeworthy now, perhaps, but at the time another anti-establishment two-fingered salute. Those situationist scrawls which were perhaps a little too much of a Clash-copy in '91 had some proper relevance against the early noughties sloganeered-trendywear of Tommy Hilfiger and Ralph Lauren. Your shirt says 'CKone', mine says "Death Camp Palace", so fuck off. Being arrogant was a large part of being a Manics fan, however it was also combined with shyness and sensitivity.

Their lyrics of alienation appealed mostly as I too was from a small and depressing ''piss town'' like Blackwood. I lived in a crap seaside shithole with hardly any jobs, nothing to do, and I was also surrounded by pathetic, ignorant townies like they were when they were teenagers. I could completely relate to their songs, especially their early singles, which were odes to teenage boredom and wanting to escape.

So, in 2008 and still a faithful fan, the news of Richey being 'laid to rest' comes as no surprise. The most important thing is that he will live on through his lyrics and his band.