Manic Street Preachers 
PLAGHUE JOURNAL FOR LOVERS (2009)
There was a time in the days that I woke up in a bad mood groups resorted to very dense, powerful, filled with steel wool, to cite some examples, Korn, Tool, System Of A Down, Ministry, Pyogenesis ... but with a requirement that dye had minimal melodic, not to make noise for no reason, thing he did that over time, softening a tad outside my preferences for situations like this and happen to switch to other more accessible like At The Drive-In, Refused, Boris or Queens Of The Stone Age. Today I've noticed that since I do not go to disk in times of poor emaciated shadow, because after a night of dogs because of an unfortunate friend of a neighbor who was devoted to shout until late in the morning and finished the job retaliate of drunkenness slurry casting to the last on the ladder, the first thing I did to my feet has been seeking so far is the penultimate album of this, and clearly dedicated to, banda Blackwood (Wales). It is possible that I have come to mind the image of the cover, all a visual statement as he should have left the face soplagaitas that, if I had not minded that this would not solve anything, but the fact is that as the disc more rock of their discography and it needed to hear roaring guitars, I have been clear, and that you want to tell you, I was sitting fable. I do not even remember what little I've stayed because of that tanned binge (he was Dominican, but that does not really matter to me, would be just as annoyed by his attitude if the subject out there, in Beijing or in Talavera de la Reina ), I've gotten into this album with all five senses and I liked the experience. Manic Street Preachers was never one of my favorite formations or anything, but always drew resultón hits that had just catching me curious, because in this 'plague Journal for lovers', is a total absence of that virtue, everything here has to take as a whole, have made the proposal to renew and restore the lost glory after the publication of that distant 'Everything must go', an album that could still enjoy the talent of the late James Richey, then leader of the group, whose loss (it was given up for lost after years of intensive searching, hoping to continue with life, but knowing that it was difficult because the last time saw him hanging around a bridge walked where they had often suicides) was a slab for a group that was always counter, because when they shouted anti-poetic proclamations in the United Kingdom began an era of hedonism and fun that lasted from the Madchester sound to the end of the brit-pop. Were successful years which preceded that event, but never reached the absolute inspiration is more, they settled with decent jobs but somewhat empty, as the suggestive 'This is my truth tell me yours', which remains remarkably high, it lacked a halo and a bit nostalgic rage. Now installed in the maturity and dedication, the Welsh have broken that neglect and eleven studio albums behind her hair fall out with a trilogy (after this they released 'Postcards for a young man' and is on track 70 songs of hatred and failure ') that rrevuelve the foundations of its inception. Much of the blame lies with the choice of the renowned producer and component Shellac, Steve Albini, who was in charge of putting all eggs in one basket after the controls for that instrumentation package sounds more than ever, and the fact that All lyrics are written by band mate missed since recovered old writings of the artist. A treaty accelerated songs full of rabid, half-times glorious and an attitude and would like to if many young Englishmen who have spent the rehearsal to the first line in a whisper by the grace of the business. Interesting where prime cuts a youthful, brash, irreverent and, above all, without any hint of melancholy in her sixties granting minutes. Proof is, the dazzling "Peeled apples," overwhelming prologue spoken word included where noted greatly hand flagship producer Pasadena (California), in a flash hard rock that reminds us at times to Thin Lizzy in Iron Maiden instrumental development and vocal in the chorus, giving an example of the innate ability of his vocals, can apparently successor to Freddie Mercury and the second to give the impression of being at the head of the voices of the eighties metal, "Jackie Collins existential question time", more luminous and accessible, flirting with the glam-rock with a melody that seems borrowed from ' everything seems a shit 'our Astrud (like someone you think you just drop an aberration, but if you listen carefully you will not see as far-fetched simile), "Me and Stephen Hawking, my favorite of the lot, somewhere from Foo Fighters, the power-pop of the late last century and more animated Dinoasaur Jr, a truce with the delicate acoustic "This joke sport severed", "huge in the final part with the precious parcel orchestrated, the eponymous "Plague Journal for Lovers", in his masterful rhythmic tour de force of addictive atmosphere, "She herself Bathed in a bath of bleach", to take the pulse on what best has given in recent years, creating hits undeniable, as the song in question is quite a catchy pitch such that you keep in your head all day if you start the day with her, "Doors closing slowly", honors the elegance of David Bowie and Pulp, reducing subtle energy, "All is vanity", lightening the course to cross the goal of a somersault to modernity, as the guitars are the heirs of the new British rock is so popular today, that that practice (To name a few) Biffy Clyro, "William's last words," honest and timidly folkie, owes much to Lou Reed even in the way of singing (this time in charge of this exceptionally bassist Nicky Wire), and the shocking version the brilliant Felt "Primitive Painters", which lead to their land with good taste, love and most commendable respect, extending their good feelings to exceed ten minutes. A surprise that James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore recorded with the help of Katherine Thomas, Joanna Parkhurst, Nathan Stone, Andy Walters and Bernard Kane.
PLAGHUE JOURNAL FOR LOVERS (2009) 
There was a time in the days that I woke up in a bad mood groups resorted to very dense, powerful, filled with steel wool, to cite some examples, Korn, Tool, System Of A Down, Ministry, Pyogenesis ... but with a requirement that dye had minimal melodic, not to make noise for no reason, thing he did that over time, softening a tad outside my preferences for situations like this and happen to switch to other more accessible like At The Drive-In, Refused, Boris or Queens Of The Stone Age. Today I've noticed that since I do not go to disk in times of poor emaciated shadow, because after a night of dogs because of an unfortunate friend of a neighbor who was devoted to shout until late in the morning and finished the job retaliate of drunkenness slurry casting to the last on the ladder, the first thing I did to my feet has been seeking so far is the penultimate album of this, and clearly dedicated to, banda Blackwood (Wales). It is possible that I have come to mind the image of the cover, all a visual statement as he should have left the face soplagaitas that, if I had not minded that this would not solve anything, but the fact is that as the disc more rock of their discography and it needed to hear roaring guitars, I have been clear, and that you want to tell you, I was sitting fable. I do not even remember what little I've stayed because of that tanned binge (he was Dominican, but that does not really matter to me, would be just as annoyed by his attitude if the subject out there, in Beijing or in Talavera de la Reina ), I've gotten into this album with all five senses and I liked the experience. Manic Street Preachers was never one of my favorite formations or anything, but always drew resultón hits that had just catching me curious, because in this 'plague Journal for lovers', is a total absence of that virtue, everything here has to take as a whole, have made the proposal to renew and restore the lost glory after the publication of that distant 'Everything must go', an album that could still enjoy the talent of the late James Richey, then leader of the group, whose loss (it was given up for lost after years of intensive searching, hoping to continue with life, but knowing that it was difficult because the last time saw him hanging around a bridge walked where they had often suicides) was a slab for a group that was always counter, because when they shouted anti-poetic proclamations in the United Kingdom began an era of hedonism and fun that lasted from the Madchester sound to the end of the brit-pop. Were successful years which preceded that event, but never reached the absolute inspiration is more, they settled with decent jobs but somewhat empty, as the suggestive 'This is my truth tell me yours', which remains remarkably high, it lacked a halo and a bit nostalgic rage. Now installed in the maturity and dedication, the Welsh have broken that neglect and eleven studio albums behind her hair fall out with a trilogy (after this they released 'Postcards for a young man' and is on track 70 songs of hatred and failure ') that rrevuelve the foundations of its inception. Much of the blame lies with the choice of the renowned producer and component Shellac, Steve Albini, who was in charge of putting all eggs in one basket after the controls for that instrumentation package sounds more than ever, and the fact that All lyrics are written by band mate missed since recovered old writings of the artist. A treaty accelerated songs full of rabid, half-times glorious and an attitude and would like to if many young Englishmen who have spent the rehearsal to the first line in a whisper by the grace of the business. Interesting where prime cuts a youthful, brash, irreverent and, above all, without any hint of melancholy in her sixties granting minutes. Proof is, the dazzling "Peeled apples," overwhelming prologue spoken word included where noted greatly hand flagship producer Pasadena (California), in a flash hard rock that reminds us at times to Thin Lizzy in Iron Maiden instrumental development and vocal in the chorus, giving an example of the innate ability of his vocals, can apparently successor to Freddie Mercury and the second to give the impression of being at the head of the voices of the eighties metal, "Jackie Collins existential question time", more luminous and accessible, flirting with the glam-rock with a melody that seems borrowed from ' everything seems a shit 'our Astrud (like someone you think you just drop an aberration, but if you listen carefully you will not see as far-fetched simile), "Me and Stephen Hawking, my favorite of the lot, somewhere from Foo Fighters, the power-pop of the late last century and more animated Dinoasaur Jr, a truce with the delicate acoustic "This joke sport severed", "huge in the final part with the precious parcel orchestrated, the eponymous "Plague Journal for Lovers", in his masterful rhythmic tour de force of addictive atmosphere, "She herself Bathed in a bath of bleach", to take the pulse on what best has given in recent years, creating hits undeniable, as the song in question is quite a catchy pitch such that you keep in your head all day if you start the day with her, "Doors closing slowly", honors the elegance of David Bowie and Pulp, reducing subtle energy, "All is vanity", lightening the course to cross the goal of a somersault to modernity, as the guitars are the heirs of the new British rock is so popular today, that that practice (To name a few) Biffy Clyro, "William's last words," honest and timidly folkie, owes much to Lou Reed even in the way of singing (this time in charge of this exceptionally bassist Nicky Wire), and the shocking version the brilliant Felt "Primitive Painters", which lead to their land with good taste, love and most commendable respect, extending their good feelings to exceed ten minutes. A surprise that James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore recorded with the help of Katherine Thomas, Joanna Parkhurst, Nathan Stone, Andy Walters and Bernard Kane. 
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