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In Search of Richey Edwards
For Carolyn
'What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that he's working when he's staring out of the window’ – Burton Roscoe
One tap of your finger on the drum releases every timbre and founds the new harmony. You take a step and new men materialise; they march out. You turn your head away: the new love! You turn back: the new love! 'Alter our destiny,'you hear these children sing. 'Stamp out plagues! Stamp out time, for a start!' Everyone begs you: 'Raise the substance of our fortunes, our desires, whatever you can.' You - fresh out of forever. Making for everywhere.
– ‘To a Reason’, from Illuminations, 1886, by Arthur Rimbaud
PREFACE
If the whole of his poetry am be read as a denial of die values of the present civilization, as I believe it can, then [his] disappearance... becomes as symbolic an act as Rimbaud's flight or Crane's suicide.' – Donald Justice
The day that he left was shrouded in mist and gloom. The conditions weren't unusual for this place at the time of year. This weather seemed to fit the ambience of events quite well. He was interested in T. S. Eliot and often spoke of Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano, but there was a dark beauty to his own writing, too. Some of the texts he'd written meant that his life would be analysed, but after that day this interest was amplified. If his car hadn't been found abandoned near the bridge, then the theories about what happened to him might all be very different. He was unusual for a man in his position. He was interested in writing, reading, art, and was even a bit of a musician. When he couldn't be found in the morning his friend spent the day thinking what might have happened the night before, because when he'd last seen him all seemed well. His fri knew that He hadn't been eating well recently, but better than previous. He was also taking prescribed drugs. James Reidel, in Vanished Act, noted that he looked 'so gaunt that sometimes, from certain angles, be seemed to be almost bodiless inside his clothes'. Some overseas work was lined up but perhaps he wasn't as keen about it as he'd seemed. The next morning, his door was locked. The police were called and his apartment was searched for cluet but they could find nothing conclusive. The books he left behind were scanned for subtle hints but this only complicated matters. Later, when his car was found by the end of the bridge, there was still no note. His bank account was never used again. Years later, there is still no sign of this man - a man regarded more as a writer than a musician. This was the mystery surrounding the poet Weldon Kees, not Richey Edwards. The bridge in question was the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, not the Severn Bridge in South Wales. Kees was last seen on Monday, 18 July 1955. The following day, a highway patrolman spotted his car parked at the Golden Gate Bridge. The keys were still in the ignition. Nobody has seen or heard from Weldon Kees since. Before vanishing, he'd told some friends of his desire to commit suicide but he'd spoken to others of his plans to disappear and start a new life in Mexico. Which did he choose? History repeats itself. Forty years later, on the other side of the world, the similarities were chilling.
'He was a loveable person and I think it's sad that some of our fans don't even know he existed. Maybe it's time we re-educated all those Mondeo drivers in Northern Europe’ – Nicky Wire
AUTHOR'S NOÒÅ
When you were young
I first really heard about Richey Edwards after my girlfriend and I split up. I'd had glandular fever - no, really - but I won't go into that. There was something about him that I couldn't put my finger on, and yet for a while I kept away from immersing myself in the band. Now it's too late: Richey's long gone and I've spent the best part of two years thinking about almost nothing else. Just like now. There's been this photo staring down at me whenever I sit at my desk. I stare back, but inevitably I'm the one that blinks first. Then the spell is broken and I glance around. I wonder if my environment would tell a voyeur anything about me or my writing. I often spend a few minutes looking at the Writer's Room picture in the Saturday Guardian, wondering why each particular writer sets out their writing space in the way that they do. Maybe I'm looking for inspiration or an insight into the brains of the authors that I admire. I reckon, after months of these pictures have passed by, that my writing room is a mish-mash of all the clutter that I've viewed. Full of books, magazines, music, notes, am my wife insists - a fair amount of junk. I don't have as many Post-it notes stuck up as Will Self does, but I have a lot. There are hots of pictures on the walls, but this particular one is looking down its nose at me, presenting me with an almost palpable challenge. Daring me to go on. Of course, this is a picture of Richey Edwards. Taken by the elusive Japanese lens-man Mitch Ikeda, this picture shows Richey crouching at the side of the waterfront outside his Cardiff apartment in the months before he disappeared. His arms casually arose at the wrists, his sleeveless T-shirt extil four tattoos - two on each upper arm - his head is slightly back, his expression borderline contemptuous as he stares into the camera. The image captivated me from the first moment I saw it in Ikeda's book Forever Delayed. I always planned to find exact spot and take a picture of the exact same view, but of course without Richey in it. In the summer of 2008, I did just that. Now there are two pictures looking down at me: a kind of 'before and after'. One monochrome, one colourfully lit by a sunny day. Not much has changed between the images, apart from the obvious. Do ghosts cast shadows? Didn't someone else say that you don't have to die to become a ghost? Well, the shadow and the man are both gone. And I'm tired of being asked by well-meaning friends who are trying to be funny, 'Have you found him yet?'
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
Press 'Rewind': now I'm sitting here in the middle of France, and I can really appreciate how easy it would be to disappear. And I thought that before my copies of How to Disappear Completely and Never be Found and Cover Your Tracks Without Changing Your Identity arrived through the post. Robert Louis Stevenson disappeared here for twelve days over 130 years ago, the same year in which he published The Suicide Club. With just a donkey to carry his luggage, he crossed the Cevennes before dropping into the valley and arriving at Saint-Jean-du-Gard. Today, the roads are beautiful to drive along, with swooping, majestic bends that dip into lush valleys and run alongside rushing We've been listening a lot to The Killers, especially Sam's town which is the perfect, if slightly clichéd, driving accompaniment. Each late-summer morning I've been driving rented house, perched up on the steep hillside, into the small town for fresh bread, newspapers and sundry supplies. The pale-blue-eyed sky is spectacular, and the only wispy clouds are far away on the mountain-framed horizon, Each and every day I've spied a chap walking in the opposite direction out of town. There are no pavements so he's always on the roadside gravel or grass verge. He's always wearing shades and a hat, always has a small backpack. He has a bit of grey in his stubbly beard and is quite slim. For all I know, he could be Richåó Edwards. He doesn't look 'French' to me. One day I almost stopped the car to ask for some fake directions. Just in case. Richey Edwards has been gone for years and could be absolutely anywhere. The longer I spend here the more I appreciate that I could just melt into the landscape if I really wanted to. If I hadn't told anyone back home where I was going, would I be found? The rental house isn't in my name so that wouldn't show up on any searches. I've been using only cash. The Channel Tunnel ticket was the last time any trace of my name would be noticed. I could be anywhere by now. And today I am. Brandon Flowers is telling me that the hurricane started spinning when I was young. Back in 1995 I was young.
Rob Jovanovic Saint-Jean-du-Gard, France ÂÎÎÊ 1
‘I would have thought that it would be almost impossible for anyone to “disappear” nowadays.’ – from Poirot Investigates – ‘The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim’ [1924]
Hold steady now boys! Revolt, Revolt. Revolution it in the air!’ We're marching. Marching through Wales. And there I stand. Îwain Glyndwr. Village by village I'm taking back the country. Ever since Richard II’s death in February 1400 when the country's future seemed so bleak that revolution was the only way out. By In 1401, it spread – but it had to. If you were Welsh you were outcast. If you were Welsh you couldn't buy land in England. If you were Welsh your children were barred from education. By 1403, village by village had become castle by castle. A year later 'Owain Prince of Wales' became 'Owain IV King of Wales'. The Cynulliad called for a Welsh state and a Welsh church. In six hundred years a 'rock band' will write a song about me.[1] In six hundred years there still will not have been another Welsh Prince of Wales. The French withdrew their support in 1406 and I was hunted. Suicide was an option, or rather a suicide raid, but still I did not die. I was captured, ransomed and that was the end. Wasn't it? Owain Glyndwr then vanished in I415. Some said he was dead, others that he was alive and that he had withdrawn into himself. By the time English rule had been restored, much of the Welsh farming land had become neglected and was now a wasteland. There were many rumours of sightings of Glyndwr under assumed names or in disguise, but ht had effectively disappeared. After that, no one knows what happened to him or where he went No one turned him in. No one captured him. He was offered pardons but never surfaced. Now he is seen as a myth, a caricature, his humanity stripped away. But he knew his history, he knew what the prophecies said and when they gave him the best chance to succeed. His followers would cling to his side with an almost religious fervour, it was almost the cult of Glyndwr. He bridged the gap from reality to literature when Shakespeare penned him as Owen Glendower in Henry IV, Part One.[2] He wasn't the only Welshman to follow this path and only they could decide when they wanted to be found, when they wanted to return. I a prologue to history Ðrå-1967
Blackwood? Where the fuck is Blackwood? Sounds too like 'back woods' for comfort. Blackwood. Coed Duon. Blackwood. Backwoods. These names spin through my head while I wait for Google Earth™ to load. I want a bird's eye view of where I'll be going. The town has almost as many bastardised names as the reason for my crusade. Richard James Edwards. Richie. Richey. Ritchie Vee. Richey James. Richey Manic. Richard. Titch. Android. The last Generation Terrorist. I used to be a scientist, maybe I still am and always will be, so I know a little about space and time even if I used to hate physics. I know that a scene in a book is dependent on the writer giving the space and time to the reader; in non-fiction it's best for the writer to be able to inhabit one or both to be successful. One should also know their history. It affects the people you write about in ways that you might not otherwise understand. Time is sometimes hard to handle. The zenith of this book involves man walking out through a door. The man and door are in the past. While I think about the man and the door I see the man’s life pass before me, approaching like the proverbial express train. Me standing on the platform as it hurtles ever closer. Then in a blink it has passed and is miles away in seconds. I'm left standing with clothes flapping in the slipstream. Now I have to recreate the journey, walking back along the tracks, noting that some small elements of the journey expand to fill a whole chapter. Other chapters cover many years in just a few pages. The whole effect is a concertina of time: contracting and expanding as moments accelerate away out of reach. The day of Richey's disappearance glows brightly in people's memories because of the intense emotion attached to the events, while the months afterwards blur into forgetfulness. And so I start back to history.
***
Despite his high intellect, Richard James Edwards of Blackwood never did study at Oxford, but Geoffrey did. Like Richard, or Richey as we shall call him throughout this volume, Geoffrey was from South Wales; in fact he was said to have been born in (Sweat Geoffrey wrote several famous texts, in a language that many would struggle to understand, and in later life he inhabited a priory. Although Richey knew of Geoffrey, the two never met, mainly because Geoffrey died i n 1151 after writing one of the earliest known histories of Wales in his Historia Regum Britanniae. If Richey – who had a keen interest in history — had been born eight hundred years earlier, he could have been Geoffrey. Geoffrey wrote that Wales was first inhabited in 1170 BC when Brutus, a descendent of the Trojans, arrived by boat. Geoffrey decided that apart from the few giants that already made Britain their home, Brutus was the first human to live there. Of course Geoffrey was using a large portion of his own imagination to stir this truth, but it was his own truth, his own version of Wales and how it had all began. This book is my version, but like any non-fiction it becomes a kind of fiction as soon as I begin deciding what to include and what to leave out, what should be highlighted and what should be downplayed. As soon as I start making those choices it becomes mine alone. Someone else would make different choices. That fact can't be escaped. Time is a large factor in this. I know exactly what happened to Richey Edwards on certain days and during certain weeks, but there are months and, in his early life, even years where virtually nothing is known. Inevitably the dreadful parts are swollen by import as they slow right down under my magnifying glass, hour by hour, and then the story flies off at an ever faster pace. We know that the first real recorded version of Wales comes from an account of a Roman battle with local tribes in AD 48. As far as I can tell, there weren't any giants involved. Wales, with about 70 per cent of its border being coastline, has changed considerably over the years because the sea level around its shores has varied up and down by over 150 metres across the millennia. The area we now know as Wales came into existence with the building of Offa's Dyke around ad 790, the name 'Cymru' had been in use for around two hundred years by then. Richey knew history. He knew what it meant and how to use it. He knew that you had to understand the past in order to decipher the present.
***
The world of rock music has its own private universe of myth and legend. The stories of the deaths of Jimi, Janis, Jim, Ian, Kurt and the rest are well told. The fact that a guitar player can become an icon for a generation - a soothsayer for the masses — when he dies, but not before, is quite confusing to those with no interest in the genre. Wales, with its Celtic heritage, is also a land of myth and legend. King Arthur and Owain Glyndwr will rise again to save the country in its darkest hour. Another of these ancient stories involves the Welsh prince Madog, who disappeared from Wales and supposedly turned up in America several hundred years before Christopher Columbus. Though there is no hard evidence that this actually happened, there were later reports of Native Americans being able to speak Welsh. In 1669 a Revd. Morgan Jones was captured by a tribe, which was going to kill him, until the chief heard him speaking Welsh and understood what he was saying. This saved his life. Another story had an explorer finding a tribe that owned a copy of the Bible written in Welsh. This last point might not be quite as astounding as it seems. After rejecting the church of Rome in the sixteenth century, Wales, on the whole, turned to Episcopalian values for the next 250 years. John Wesley first spoke in Wales in 1739. Methodism then spread in part due to the large numbers attending its Sunday schools, which were an integral part of religious teaching. Both adults and children would attend to read the Bible, and this was the major function of the schools. Because so many attended, by the late 1700s Wales was one of the few countries that had more people who could read than couldn't. Early in the nineteenth century, twenty thousand Bibles were printed in Welsh - a massive print run for the time - and these slowly disseminated around the world. These chapels and meeting rooms gave people a sense of community and the preachers provided leadership - things that had been missing since the English lost interest. In an entry in his journal dated 27 August 1763, Wesley wrote a description of a sermon given by fellow preacher William Williams: 'It is common...After the preaching is over, for anyone that has a mind to give out a verse of a hymn. This they sing over and over with all their might, perhaps above thirty, yea, forty times. Meanwhile the bodies of two or three, sometimes ten or twelve, are violently agitated and they leap up and down. In all manner of postures, frequently for hours together.’ Religion wasn't the only thing to transform Wales. Soon, industry was growing at a pace never before seen anywhere in the world. Coal mines were dug into the ground, copper and tin plate industries expanded, and ironworks grew to meet the demand for tram and rail lines. The tramways spread across South Wales to move the people into work and the goods that they were producing to market. By 1840, South Wales was mining 4.5 million tonnes of coal a year. About three million tonnes were used locally: the majority of this went into the local iron works, while the rest was exported - leading to the building of a massive dock in Cardiff.[3] Between 1850 and the start of World War I, the population of Wales more than doubled from approximately 1.1 million to approximately 2.5 million, with workers flocking in from other parts of Wales and all over the British Isles. Wales' agricultural workers shrank to number as heavy industry called. By the start of the war, Wales was exporting thirty-six million tonnes of coal annually. During this period, Wales was turned from an almost forgotten backwater on the world stage to an important financial power. This new wealth helped to fund museums, a national university and a string of new libraries. 'Libraries gave us power.' Nicky Wire wrote the words. James Dean Bradfield sang the words. I sat in Blackwood library thinking about the words. On a Tuesday afternoon the library was pretty quiet. A couple of pensioners browsed the new novels, and another was slumped asleep on one of the chairs. I looked for some in-depth local history but could find little. To make matters worse, the photocopier was out of toner and I had to write out everything by hand. The ordering of new supplies seemed to be the highlight of the afternoon for the staff. The building was smaller than I'd imagined, nestled at the end of the shops on the High Street. I thought about all the trips Richey Edwards made here while he was growing up and I realised that I was still closer to the beginning than the end. Prior to the building of the Sirhowy Tramroad, which opened in 1805, there was not a single building in what is now known as Blackwood. A chap called John Moggridge from Wiltshire settled in the area and eventually owned 450 acres of land, on which he built cottages with one eighth of an acre each of land and rented them out at the equivalent of eight pence a year. This social experiment gave local people some advantages but also made a bundle of cash for Moggridge. The Beer Act of 1830 saw a massive increase in the number of places that were allowed to sell beer and by 1842 there was one tavern for every five inhabitants of Blackwood. In response, Temperance societies sprung up to cater for those disgusted by the excessive drunkenness, the beaten housewives, the employers with missing workers. One such society allowed members to drink two pints a day, but manual workers would save up during the week and then neck fourteen pints on a Saturday night. At the same time, there were thirty collieries within two and a half miles of Blackwood, and the biggest local deep pits – Oakdale, Wyllie and Markham - were still to come. At its peak in 1908, Oakdale was supplying a milium tonnes of coal every year and employing two thousand men. When it closed in 1990, it signalled the end of two hundred years of mining in Gwent. The Blackwood Miners' Institute was built in 1925, and still stands at the opposite end of the High Street to the library – these two buildings providing the only cultural refuges to the townsfolk and book-ending the strip of shops. The impressive multi-storey Institute included a stage and dance hall, library, music rooms and areas for the use of local clubs and societies. Its completion coincided with the onset of a crushing depression: by 1932 unemployment was running at 43 per cent and continued to cripple South Wales until World War II, when most other countries had been over the worst, five years earlier. The transfer to oil from coal caused many of the Welsh problems. This was an area, and a town, that had endured its fair share of hardships before the Marries were born.
***
In 2007, the Independent printed a picture of the Blackwood Miners' Institute. It was an article about yet another TV Top Ten list. VH1 had listed Blackwood, which has produced one nationally known act, as number eight in its Top Ten of influential music towns in the UK. Someone must have been having a laugh. Somehow the town got listed ahead of, for example, Sheffield, home to acts as diverse and influential as Arctic Monkeys, ABC, Pulp, Richard Hawley, The Human League, Def Leppard, Joe Cocker, The Long Blondes, The Comsat Angels and Heaven 17. Despite all that the Manics have achieved, there are suprisingly few bands that are overtly influenced by them. Until the 1990s, the rock and pop music of Wales was decidedly ‘oldschool'.Tom Jones, Shirley Bassey, Bonnie Tyler, Shakin' Stevens, Badfinger, The Alarm. As Britpop took over the mainstream in 1995, a sub-cult of Welshpop gained a wider following too. Catatonia, 6oft Dolls, Stereophonics, Super Furry Animals and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci led the way. When Melody Maker changed to a shiny magazine format to try and stave off its demise in 1999, it pulled off a publicity stunt of projecting huge images of Catatonia's Cerys Matthews and the Stereophonies' Kelly Jones onto the facade of Buckingham Palace with the headline 'The New Prince and Princess of Wales'. But the real 'Cool Cmyru' only emerged in 2008. The broadsheets were all over themselves proclaiming 'Wales Swings'. 'Dragon Force' and ‘A Good Time To Be Welsh', with celebrities draping themselves in the Welsh flag at every opportunity. Why? Because the rugby team won the Five Nations, Cardiff City got to the FA Cup semi-finals and Duffy was at number one. Add in Gavin and Stacey, Joe Calzaghe, Catherine Zeta Jones and Rhys Ifans, and you had a veritable cultural phenomenon on your hands. 'In Wales at present,’ claimed the Independent, 'no matter what your line, you're feeling pretty confiden.’ This was all very different to the Wales that Richey Edwards knew and grew up in. 'Where we come from there is a natural melancholy in the air,’ he said. 'Everybody, ever since you could comprehend it, felt pretty much defeated.’ In the early 1990s, it was reported that Gwent had the highest rate of alcohol poisoning in the UK. When the mines closed and the jobs vanished, there was little else to do. 'It's a museum, everything is closed, it's like a long walk down a graveyard,’ said Edwards. '[Wales is] a soul destroying place; we'd rather say we were from Europe.' He had nothing positive to say about his hometown at all: 'If you built a museum to represent Blackwood, all you could put in it would be shit. Rubble and shit.’ From these initial interviews, Edwards' world-view became clear: rather than look for a sliver of positivity, he chose to accentuate the negative. It might have been bad, but it wasn't Somalia. Today, Blackwood is a shopping centre and a site for light industry. Sony, Toshiba and Unilever all have factories in the area. With a population of over twenty thousand (and growing), Blackwood is now merging into surrounding villages. It even has a cinema again after the previous one closed down in the 1980s. Even the Miners' Institute has undergone a rebirth. After being left to rot in the 1980s, it was bought by the local council, and reopened in 1992. Jasper Carrott and the Welsh National Opera have since performed there (not together). It is presently under the umbrella of the Arts Council of Wales and thriving once again. But the damp stigma of melancholy remains. Wales seems to have a high rate of suicide, whether it's backed up by statistics or not. Going way back in time, Milly 'Peg' Entwhistle left Wales to act on Broadway and then moved to Hollywood in the 1930s hoping to get work in the movies. She famously committed suicide by jumping from the top of the letter 'H' in the giant Hollywoodland sign up in the hills. Alun Lewis, the poet whose works included 'The Suicide', shot himself while serving in Burma during World War II. Some speculation argues that it might have been accidental. These are just the many Welsh suicides from the arts world. While this book was being written, more than twenty young people killed themselves in nearby Bridgend. Why was the South Wales suicide rate so high? Many other areas of the UK have been through depressions when the primary industries died out, but few seemed to take it so badly. Despite there being no proof, the story of Richey Edwards is often reported as a suicide. Should that be expected? You would be forgiven for thinking that the Richey Edwards book had already been written, the mystery explained and it all nicely wrapped up. Surely this was such a story that it had already been told, and would not be sitting around waiting for its author? But it hadn't. So why not? It hasn't been an easy project to research, as I noted to myself at one point, 'When one door closes, another one is slammed shut.' Some Manics fans have been helpful, others haven't. There is certainly a cult surrounding the memory of Richey Edwards and some take it as their duty to 'protect' his name. They, thankfully, are in the minority. Many Richey fans are too young to have experienced his place in the world of pop first-hand. Maybe it's the generation gap of fourteen years and counting between Edwards' disappearance and now. Looking at the age of people posting on various internet forums tells its own story. Looking down a random page I noted that the comments were being written by people who were three, two, nine, three and two respectively when Richey was last seen alive. Like Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison, there are conspiracy theories revolving around this story and I had to try and work through them. It was highly unlikely that I would literally find the man himself, but I hoped to find his version of reason.
I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a jar, and when the boys said to her, Sibyl, what do you want? she replied I want to die. – Petronius, The Satyricon
Writers often compose their best work when they are suffering times of personal upheaval or difficulty. Or maybe it isn't their best work but it is the work of these times that the critics and public at large are drawn to in hindsight when they discover what the writer was going through. It makes them seem more human to know that the text has been felt by the writer first-hand. 'The Waste Land' was one of Richey Edwards' favourite texts. When Thomas Stearns Eliot was writing it after the end of World War I he was experiencing difficult times. His first marriage was felling apart and he was struggling. During the many years that he worked on 'The Waste Land', these things contributed to the despair of the poem and the perceived disillusionment of his generation. His life was grim, his writing was grimmer. He wasn't just writing of personal hopelessness but also of the wretchedness of modern society and the loss of order and faith. Chaos was king, death was everywhere. Flowing water replaced by hard rock. A 31-year-old woman with no teeth. A dead tree. Bad sex and gladness when it's over. Edwards was drawn to Eliot's obscure, sometimes pedantic, Grail mythologies that reached into the core of human despair; he could relate to Eliot's almost prudish outer being, which was at odds with his writing. Edwards found that someone so calm on the outside could spew out writing of such horror from within. When Edwards later studied the abominations of the concentration camps he lost faith in humankind; to him the whole world had become a waste land, where the fortunate lived blinkered lives and pretended that the horror didn't exist while he grappled with a conscience that couldn't bear to live such a life. Similarities between Eliot and Edwards are many. Eliot was able to use a wide range of different literatures and religions in his writing; Edwards also drew on various religious texts and holy books for his lyrics. Eliot was not averse to pursuing populist culture, just as Edwards did. Eliot was given three months' leave from his job to recover from a 'nervous breakdown'; Edwards was given similar leave in the summer of 1994. Eliot abandoned his childhood religion and turned to the Anglican church when he settled in England; Edwards rejected his Methodist upbringing. Both remained virgins until relatively late (Eliot was 26; Edwards 21), both smoked heavily (Eliot died of emphysema, which was at least exacerbated by his heavy smoking; Edwards was smoking upwards of sixty a day before he vanished), and both were fixated on producing the perfect work. There were parts in 'The Waste Land' that Richey Edwards could relate to, even reaching back to his teenage years when he first read it. The general mood of decay was around him in everyday life as the industry of Blackwood collapsed in on itself in the wake of the miners' strike; the text hinted at night terrors and problems with sleep and of thinking too hard about things, and these were problems that Edwards would wrestle with his whole adult life. Many pieces of literature held important places in Richey Edwards' psyche. In later life he became so engrossed in Dante's 'Inferno' that he had his arm tattooed with connected imagery, as his own self-worth dipped and his thoughts turned to an eternity of damnation while musing over the loss of youthful innocence. Edwards' later interest in religion would have a real Old Testament ring to it; he discovered that 'The Waste Land' alluded to Dante in the section starting 'Unreal City'. In the Bible verses referenced by God warning the people that they must remember the days of their youth (for, in their old age, 'fears shall be in the way'), it became almost a self-fulfilling prophecy as Edwards - from his late teens onwards – carried a possibly unhealthy view of his childhood being the best, and only good, part of his life.
II THE GREEN, GREEN GRASS OF HOME 1967 to 1979
On my second day of researching in South Wales, I set out from my Cardiff hotel to drive north under virtually cloudless blue skies. Despite this being a capital city, it didn't take long for me to escape from the grid-locked traffic and I was soon zooming along the green and leafy M4. In the car's CD player was the Manics' best-of, Forever Delayed. Now, listening to 'A Design For Life' while driving along hillside roads gives the song more meaning, and perhaps a little more insight, just because this is where the song comes from. You could almost feel the music echoing around the valley. It was the same when I'd previously driven around Memphis listening to Big Star, around northern California listening to Pavement, or rural Georgia with any of R.E.M.'s first three albums playing, although I doubt I'd have felt the same while driving around Liverpool with Yellow Submarine on the stereo. On this beautiful day it all seemed so positive and I found it difficult to relate to all I'd absorbed about the place before I arrived. Down through the years, South Wales has had some unofficial titles bestowed on it that it probably didn't want. 'The divorce capital of the UK', 'the alcohol poisoning capital of the UK', it had some of the country's highest unemployment after mines closed and now - just down the road in Bridgend - the national press was hunting out the reasons why the local youth population all seemed to be killing themselves. All these negative connotations seemed a light year away as I wended through green valley after green valley. This was really pleasant. Up the valley off the motorway you reach Risca, which seems to have more well-tended cricket pitches than I ever see back in England. I passed the Crosskeys college with its wooden façade. The large wall of high-ceilinged windows was where Richey Edwards would sit looking out at the traffic on the main road while doing his A-Levels here in the 1980s. The next sign said, 'Blackwood 7 Miles'. The thought occurred to me that I was tracing Edwards' life in reverse during this sunny morning. From Cardiff and his flat, which was the end of his documented life in 1995, past his sixth-form college, heading to Blackwood where he spent his teenage years and eventually to the other side of the valley known as Woodfieldside where his family lived when he was born in the 1960s. In all, I travelled his twenty-seven known years in less than ninety minutes. Graham Edwards was thirty-one when he married Sherry Davies in 1966 at St Margaret's Parish Church in Blackwood. Sherry, who was eight years Graham's junior, lived with her parents at the tint while Graham shared a house on Church View with his mother. The house had been in the family for generations. At the end of 1965, their first child was born – a boy they called Richard, commonly known as Richey. At least one book places Richey Edwards' birth as being in 1966, The Times said it was in 1969, while other source claim it was on 27 December 1967. It's no wonder that his later life seemed almost mythical when simple things such as a date of birth couldn't be accurately pinned down. In fact, Richard James Edwards made his first live appearance on 22 December 1967. If you believed him in later interviews, life was all downhill from there. 'The only perfect circle on a human body is the eye,’ he explained. 'When a baby is born, it's so perfect, but when it opens its eyes, it's just blinded by the corruption and everything else is a downward spiral.' Despite this, Edwards' childhood was a happy one; in fact, it was pretty much the happiest time of his life. He initially lived in a terraced house on Church View, just a short walk from open fields he could play in. Also living there was his paternal grandmother. Shortly before his second birthday he was joined by a sister, Rachel. She was born in the same year that Neil Kinnock became Blackwood's MP. Richey’s earliest memory was watching his father Graham put coal on the open fire. Graham's father had been a miner but rather than follow in his footsteps, Graham had served four years in the parachute regiment before setting up a hairdressing business with Sherry on Blackwood High Street. The family unit was close and spent Sunday mornings at the local Methodist church, somewhere that the family had attended for as long as anyone could remember. Richey also started going to Sunday school as soon as he was old enough. Being around his grandmother and organised religion was something that he was presented with from his earliest childhood. The long days that his parents spent at work meant that Richey would spend many hours in the care of his grandmother, which was just fine by him. ‘All I remember is green fields,’ said Edwards, 'blue skies and Carks shoes with the compass in the bottom.'
***
In the late 1970s, it wasn't quite jumpers for goal-posts on the Gossard factory playing held. This was a scene replicated on thousands of fields across the country every evening after school. Small groups of boys would gather at different ends and sides of the held to have a kickabout, and they'd gradually meld into one or two matches depending on age and size, lines would be drawn up with everyone dreading being picked last. The matches would usually last until just before dark on a school night, but this was a Friday – no school and a licence to stay out until dark. On this late spring evening, that meant games running from just after tea time until after eight p.m. At dusk on this night the game was evenly balanced at 12-all, and someone called out that 'Next goal wins!' Defending wasn't really an issue and young legs chased the ball up and down the pitch with endless enthusiasm. Despite this being South Wales, the players being emulated were the stars of Liverpool and Nottingham forest, with the occasional Leeds United fan pretending to be Peter Lorimer. Just as with their heroes, there was a trophy up for grabs. This one was a battered old crown green bowling trophy that the father of one of the kids had found tossed into a skip, but it was prized nonetheless and the victors would inevitably parade down the road home with it after the match. With the last rays of the sun disappearing behind the factory, a final hurst of energy gripped the players as they knew the end of the game was fast approaching. One of the tallest players, a gangly lad called Jones, skipped ðast an attempted tackle from a bespectacled kid called Bradfield, and I then another from Bradfield's cousin, before slipping a pass to his on-rushing winger. 'There you go Teddy!' called Jones as the winger collected the ball in his stride and slipped it under the on-rushing goalkeeper, before wheeling away in a mock celebration that would have graced the luscious striped turf of Wembley îr even the Arms Park. The losing side looked on dejectedly as the winners took turns passing around the knackered old silverware before the winning goal scorer - beaming from ear to ear – hoisted it above his head. Richey 'Teddy' Edwards was so-named by his friend because of his 'cuddly' nature and the fact that his surname matched that of the Teddy Edwards children's television character. At school, he was also known as 'Titch' because of his small size. The Jones that towered above him was Nicholas Allen Jones; he was just over a year younger than Edwards, having been born on 20 January 1969. The pair had known each other since junior-school age, as both lived on the Woodfieldside estate side of the valley. 'I first met him playing football when we were little,’ recalled Jones in 2008. ‘I lived on the different side of the street and we'd go on the field and play for this little crappy trophy my dad had found in a skip. He was a decent right-winger. That's my first memory of him.' Jones' father, Alan, had also served in the army, then worked down the mine before becoming a builder. Nick had a brother, Patrick, who was four years older. In his teenage years Nick Jones would become almost universally known as Nicky Wire due to his tall, gangly, wiry frame. He had a wide, cheesy grin and a quick mouth if he saw something he didn’t like. Other regular players on the Gossard pitch mxt the pair of cousins from a mile down the road in Pontllanfraith. James Dean Bradfield was almost christened either Clint Eastwood Bradfield or John Wayne Bradfield by his carpenter father, Monty, but his mother, Sue, intervened and they settled on a third-favourite film star: James Dean. He was just a month younger than Jones (born 21 February 1969) and suffered a number of school-yard nicknames due to an early eye injury which necessitated a pair of thick glasses – ‘Radar', 'Crossfire', 'Beaker', and so on, were the usual taunts. 'We played football together and did all the things friends do,’ said Nicky Wire. 'I've known James Dean Bradneld since I was five and I think that's why we've stood the test of time. It's very rare that a group of very close friends form a band together.’ Bradfield's cousin, Sean Moore, rounded out the quartet. To this day, Bradfield has the geography of his childhood etched into his mind's eye. ‘A long terraced street,’ he told Q magazine in 1996. 'Steps down into the valley. Football field. Swimming pool. Then to the left was a big disused slag heap with trees growing on it. We played there, everything happened there – Bonfire Night, Halloween, a lot of people lost their virginity there. If there was a fight between Pontllanfraith and Springfield it happened on that slag heap. It's gone now, levelled. When I go back what strikes me is there's less places for people to hide. Hide and just be innocent. Lose their innocence too.' The mid-1970s were probably the last generation of kids that could really be kids without the all-permeating fear and suffocating protection of their parents against drugs, knives, abductions and guns. All four of the boys have since recalled how their childhoods were almost too perfect. They spent long, hot summers building dams, playing games, watching films, reading and playing football. The closest thing they experienced to trouble was when an aunt of James Dean Bradfield had her pony stolen from a local field. Bradneld cried his eyes out when he heard the news and although local suspicion hinted that gypsies had taken it, this couldn't be proved. Even here, the inference was that outsiders must have perpetrated the crime: locals just didn't do that kind of thing. Richey Edwards started attending Pontllanfraith Junior School not far from the massed allotments at the back of Woodfieldside in the early 1970s. As did Wire, Bradfield and Moore. Just a short walk from home, the junior and infant schools were imposing, Victorian brick monuments that still loom over the main road. Nowadays the school's side gates are all securely padlocked, a simple sign of the difference between Edwards' school days and the present-day precautions that are written in statute. Exactly how Richey enjoys junior school was relayed by his classmate Maria Gibbs. She recalls that he was a quiet, intelligent boy who kept himself to himself. He enjoyed a third-year project about Concorde and a trip to Bristol Zoo, but otherwise the minutiae of these years might as well have been eaten by locusts. The imposing facade of the school is still impenetrable today, with nary an acknowledgement to repeated phonecalls, emails and letters. Most of the teachers from back then are likely to be retired or dead anyway. This is all quite different to Oakdale Comprehensive, which they all moved to at the end of the decade. The secondary school is situated just up the leafy Penmaen Road past the funeral directors in Oakdale. It's a modern-looking school, which now has I boundary of high chicken-wire fences all around its perimeter These wouldn't have been in place when Richey Edwards first walked through the doors in September 1979. 'Endeavour' is displayed proudly on the large school crest above the entrance building. A group of girls were playing hockey when I popped by to take a look and so I didn't think it was a good idea to start taking photos of the buildings. Both schools are on the far side of the valley from the Blackwood High Street so any trip over there would have to be worthwhile, especially for the kids. One such trip in 1978 allowed Richey to buy his first record, ‘It's Only Make Believe' by Child. In a funny way, that was an apt choice for young Richey. He was a deep thinker from an early age; it was a problem that would plague him throughout his life – he could be overly sensitive and prone to thinking about things too much. Even before junior school age, this was affecting him. 'Maybe I think about things too much, but everything that happens to me I do feel is deliberate,’ he said. 'And that's been the same since I was a child. If something happened in Infants' School I'd be convinced everybody was against me. Which is self-obsession, because the world does not revolve around you. People don't give a fuck. People don’t do things because it’s you. When I’m driving in my car and traffic lights turn red, I think it’s because I’m in the car. I feel persecuted. I feel that if anybody else had been in the car they’d have gone through.’ Edwards would always have a different view of the world and his place in it. He would struggle with finding any value in himself and would despair at how he perceived the rest of humanity to be acting. He would think about things so intently that the knots his brain tied him up in became more like a noose. He also had off-kilter views of the world around him, which he seemed to get from books, and would refuse to explore new places for himself. In later years, he spoke to one interviewer about the imagery in his lyrics. ‘If I tried to write a Springsteen-esque lyric about Wales, I’d be, "I went to the Pontypool factory/Then drove up Caerphilly mountain/ And drank tea from a plastic cup." You can't do it.’ In this statement Edwards revealed his lack of insight both into Springsteen’s lyrics and the similarities between the working stock of his home and New Jersey. Both were blue-collar areas with iron works and oil refineries. Springsteen would often invoke the common man and his exit from the factory or road gang on a Friday night. Perhaps Edwards just needed to get out more.
***
Through the 1970s, South Wales has been a Labour stronghold. By the spring of 1979 the United Kingdom as a whole was ripe for change, but the idea that you should ‘be careful what you wish for’ was never more true than when the area backed the Tory revolution. James Callaghan’ dying Labour government was casting around to find something that might allow them to cling onto power, but the Scottish and the Welsh referendums of late winter 1979 did little to help, in Scotland a slight majority voted in favour but the Welsh shouldn’t have made their thoughts more clear as only 12 per cent voted in support of a Welsh Assembly, despite the economic decline that had gathered pace through the decade. The years between 1973 and 1983 would see the number of working Welsh miners drop from 66,000 to fewer than 20,000. Things would get worse still during the 1980s under successive Tory governments. A couple of months after the Welsh referendum, all of Labour’s ideas were swept aside with Margaret Thatcher leading the Conservative march to Downing Street. 'Where there is despair may we bring hope,’ she said on her first day in office. The Tories had won eleven seats in Wales – their highest total since 1874. In the north of the country, Anglesey returned its first Tory member since 1784. While the majority were obviously pinning their hopes on the Tories, à minority set about putting their more extreme views into practice. The WAWR (Welsh for 'Dawn'), or 'Workers' Army of the Welsh Republic', were on the offensive against English holiday homes in Wales. The end of 1979 and early 1980 saw thirty houses go up in flames. There was also talk of a bombing campaign. It was a time of political violence in the UK. The IRA troubles were arguably at their height and an aide of Mrs Thatcher, Airey Neave, was murdered in a car bomb as he drove away from the House of Commons. Gwynfor Evans, leader of Plaid Cymru, said he would hunger-strike to death if no Welsh-language TV channel was broadcast. S4C finally debuted in November 1982. In 1979, Welsh unemployment stood at 8 per cent but by 1982 it had more than doubled to 17 per cent. So much for Mrs Thatcher's speech about bringing hope. Richey Edwards completed his primary school education in the summer of 1979, just as the unrest of anew decade was about to begin. At the time, he was still more interested in playing with his mates than he was in British politics. What would become apparent over the next few years, however, was how his parents and their friends would be affected by the changing political and social environments that the new leadership created in South Wales. Years later, Edwards would say that 'Blackwood is scarred industrially, economically and politically. Everything about Blackwood stands as a reminder of fifteen years of decay. That affects your world-view for the rest of your life wherever go.’ Nicky Wire explained in a Q magazine 'Cash for Questions’ feature that 'Our angst springs from coming from South Wales. It’s a longing encapsulated in the Welsh word "hireath". The Irish can usually see the better side of things, they have a sense of wonder. The Welsh don't. We think everything is going to turn out shit.’ For a while during the 1980s this was something that a lot of people in Blackwood and its surrounds would agree with and relate to.
Òo say that Richey Edwards’ teenage mind was like a sponge absorbing everything around it would be an understatement. It was more akin to a machine or super-computer sucking in influences, digesting them and then quickly moving on to the next book, film, album or philosophy. The Parisian uprising of 1968 became one of his touchstones. At its centre had been Guy Debord, who came close to proving that art can change the world – something Edwards acutely admired. Debord's 1967 book Society of the Spectacle was at the heart of Situationist International, a group with the view that if art was not revolutionary then it was worthless. Debord, who like Edwards had lived with his grandmother as a child, said that 'The remains of religion and of the family and the moral repression they assure, merge whenever the enjoyment of this world is affirmed – this world being nothing other than repressive pseudo-enjoyment.' Edwards couldn't have said it better himself, especially not in French. Debord, like Edwards, would polarise views; some thought him a genius and others à motormouth who deliberately made simple theories more complicated than they needed to be with the use of overly complex language. Situationist International's views on art struck a chord with Edwards just as they had with punk in the 1970s. Revolution and sloganeering would be central to his thinking, Edwards would also attempt to use some of Debord’s ideas more literally when he strove to have the Mastics' debut album sleeved in sandpaper so that it would slowly destroy the albums stored either side of it. Debord's debut book, Mémoires, had been bound in sandpaper to do the same with books placed next to it.[4] Once Situationist International was disbanded, Debord withdrew, Salinger-iike, to write in obscure isolation. Salinger's withdrawal was often mentioned by Edwards in interviews. Debord's chosen hideaway was in the tiny Bellevue-la-Montagne, a winding street no miles from my own hideaway in Saint-Jean-du-Gard. There, he was free from his past and could drink and write away from the public glare. He rarely left the ancient farmhouse. His alcoholism caused polyneuritis, a painful inflammation of nerve endings, and on 30 November 1994, aged sixty-two, he shot himself through the heart. After Debord's death, Edwards wrote about him for the NME: ‘True force. No copyright. No rights reserved. No motorcycle emptiness. No modern life is rubbish. No time. No history. The time of life is short and if we live, we tread on kings.’
III SCULPTURE OF A MAN 1979 to 1986
Bobby Sands had already served three years for the possession of firearms before he was found guilty for a second time in September 1977. This time he was sentenced for fourteen years and sent to HM Prison Maze, nine miles outside of Belfast. Sands was imprisoned in the infamous H-Block and became the leader of the numerous provisional IRA members incarcerated with him, IRA prisoners had previously been given Special Category Status, which meant they didn't have to wear prison uniforms or do prison work; they were allowed extra visits and food parcels, much like a Prisoner of War. When these privileges were gradually removed, the prisoners rebelled. First, they instigated the Blanket Protests In which they refused to wear prison uniforms and wore only blankets. Next, came the Dirtó Protests. After the beating of a fellow prisoner, many others refused to leave their cells even to use the bathroom and began rubbing shit over their cell walls. By late 1980, the first hunger strikes had begun. This seemed to have an effect and they were initially called off, but when it became apparent that the prisoners hadn’t won the concessions they had hoped for, these were started again – this time with Bobby Sands as their figurehead. Sands stopped eating on 1 March 1981, asking for several demands to be met; ultimately these equated to all IRA prisoners being treated as political prisoners. Not long after his fast had started, Sands was given the opportunity of standing for election in the South Tyrone by-election. On 9 April, Sands was elected but of course never had the chance to actually take his seat. On 5 May he died of starvationafter sixty-six days of his protest. He was twenty-seven years old. Richey Edwards, aged fourteen, had watched the unfolding every evening on the BBC news, sitting with his parents and sister. He viewed the story with a mixture of fascination and admiration. It was a protest that would resonate with him throughout his life, seeing that a person could take such severe action against their own body. He saw it as a method of self-control and to him that was an exquisite thing. 'My idea of purity is completely split down the middle,' he said. 'It's in denial with its own logic. The idea of not eating food, the idea of a political prisoner, say the Maze Block going on hunger strike, when I was young, I thought it was so beautiful, the best thing anyone could do. It's all about injuring yourself to a certain extent. But for a reason, for an absolute reason. That's why I liked Bobby Sands. That's why I thought he was a better statement than anything else that was going on at the time, because it was against himself.' This was the first indication of what would become a growing obsession through his adult life. Weight management equalled control to the extent that he would only allow himself enough food to survive as he became intent on keeping a 'perfect' body shape. But that was later in life – as a child and young teenager he had other things to worry about.
***
When Richey Edwards walked through the gates of Oakdale comprehensive school as one of its eight hundred or so pupils for the first time in September 1979, he probably glanced up at the school crest. He did so alone as Rachel was still at primary school. Edwards was a voracious reader and hard worker. His only misdemeanor occurred when he jumped off a wall and was hit by a car, breaking his leg in three places and putting him in hospital. As Richey Edwards came to the end of his first year of comprehensive school, Joy Division's Ian Curtis hanged himself, it didn't make an immediate impact on Edwards, although Curtis would later become one of his musical heroes. Edwards would buy the odd single here and there, but music wasn't yet a massive part of his life. The other future Manics were also just making their first tentative steps into the world of 7" singles. James Dean Bradfield was famously ridiculed for making the Diana Ross single 'My Old Piano’ his first record purchase. ‘Everybody was into metal and Whitesnake, but I was into the Nolan Sisters and ELO,’ he admitted. 'I just remember bying that single and I remember walking to Blackwood, which is about a mile away, and I saw this bloke walking towards me called Dids, and he was a really cruel bastard. As he got closer he seemed to get bigger and bigger. At soon as I got close to him he just ripped the bag out of my hand and was like, "What have you bought? Ahh, you poof!”’ Around this time, Sean Moore's parents went through a divorce and his mother Jenny decided it was best for Sean to move in with her sister Sue Bradfield. Sean moved into James' room and the two would share a bunk bed until they moved out years later. Moore's father disappeared and only made contact with his son after seeing the Manics on Top of the Pops, which prompted Sean to smash up a dressing room with a snooker cue. BradfieId and Moore grew close and remain more like brothers than cousins. At the end of 1980, Edwards became a teenager and was a typical one in many ways. He suffered from bad skin until his late teens and was shy around girls, although he did have one girlfriend at Oakdale for just a couple of weeks. In fact, apart from a crush on Altered Images singer Clare Grogan he showed little interest in the opposite sex. On one occasion he and a group of friends found a stash of porn magazines under the bed of one of the boys' older brothers. After the gang spent a couple of minutes scanning the pages in stunned silence, Edwards ran from the room and was physically sick outside – an event that resonated through his life. He was always dismissive when asked about public nudity, saying that the human body was an ugly sight, and he mentioned the porn incident in a later song. 'It was one great bloody shock,' he admitted. 'It wasn't the nudity, as such, it was the depravation. They were the saddest pictures I ever saw. It wasn't the girls who were sad… I felt sad for the men. The fact that an appetite existed, out there and, I can't deny, I was part of that appetite… it was the violence of those pictures that upset me. It affected me profoundly and will always haunt me.' Well before his O-Levels, Edwards wat showing signs of being a conscientious student and insatiable reader. He had little time for many of his timetabled subjects, but English Literature interested him and his favourite early books were 1984 and Brave New World. 'When I was thirteen, I did a Shakespeare project that was 859 pages long,’ he said. 'Everyone else just did sex. I just had fuck all else to do but sit in and write.’ Às he turned thirteen, his life changed in many ways outside of the usual rites of passage. Graham, Sherry, Richey and Rachel moved across town; leaving his grandmother in her own house, he rebelled against going to church and Sunday School and gained the responsibility of a pet dog he called Snoopy. This was a lot for any thirteen-year-old to take in, especially if that thirteen-year-old wasbecoming more withdrawn and shy as the years passed. Looking back on his life from an adult perspective, he would often claim that his life had been happy until the age of thirteen and that it had all started to turn bad from there on. Was this because he had rose-tinted glasses for the days of no responsibilities? Fond memories of living with his grandmother? Or a later feeling of being lost after the close guidance of church? Even now with the advent of' global warming, the summers of our youth seem to be always sunny in the mind's eye – the summer holidays were always bathed in sunshine. 'Most people look back on their childhoods with more fondness than their early twenties or their teenage years which are pretty horrendous,’ said Edwards. 'As a child, you put your head on the pillow and fall asleep with no worries. From being a teenager onwards it's pretty rare that you don't end up staying awake half the night thinking about bullshit.' Richey's parents decided to move from the house that been the family home to a modern bungalow across the valley in a cul-de-sac off a steep hill that runs up from Blackwood Street. It was on the High Street that Graham and Sherry Edwards ran their hairdressing business. Richey didn't change school – it just meant he had further to travel to and from school – but suddenly had the library within walking distance and bustle of the High Street just under his nose. I know this because I cruised around the area. It was early afternoon on a weekday when I found myself sitting in my car outside the Edwards' family home. The descriptions were right. Up a steep hill from the centre of town then down a steep cul-de-sac to the modest – but not too modest – bungalow at the bottom. A car was parked outside; I surmised that Richey's parents would probably have both retired by now. Should I go and knock on the door? No, I'd promised myself all along that I would try and act with integrity on this project, just as I tried to do on all of my other ones. After all, what would I say if I found myself staring his mother in the eyes? 'Hello, I'm just here to quiz you about your long-time missing son, don't mind if I come in do you?' No, I'd had the feedback from the family already so why try it on and do nothing but cause them distress? Via the band's management I'd been told that they would never talk to anyone for a book about their son. They did send their best wishes, however, thanking me for my interest. My initial view had been that they would have welcomed any publicity. Surely any chance to keep his name in the public eye would be an extremely thin shaft of hope? But I guess that people have to move on with their lives, no matter how painful the loss. So I sat there trying to take in my surroundings. It would have been a lung-busting hike to the top of the road before a more leisurely stroll down the steep hill into town. As my mind drifted I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone was at the window. Making sure I avoided eye-contact, I self-consciously put the car into gear and broke the enveloping silence with a hill-start to facilitate my escape. I was in the region for a few days and later drove into town. True to form, it started to drizzle. I wondered if it ever stopped. When I thought about this place in my mind's eye, it was always 1992. Shell-suits and semi-mullets walked the streets, with the occasional lumberjack shirt open to reveal a Mudhoney T-shirt bene Date: 2015-02-03; view: 1293
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