Richie Edwards was a rubbish musician. So rubbish that his guitar was rarely plugged in during live shows. But that didn't matter ? he played a far more important role. As the Manic Street Preachers' chief ideologue he wrote most of the lyrics, inspired their unique combat-chique look, influenced their angular sound and, when a journalist questioned the band's authenticity, carved '4 Real' into his forearm with a razorblade.

He was such a major force in the group that those self-harming tendencies ? as well as his battle with depression and substance abuse ? all but overwhelmed the group's bleak masterpiece, 1994's 'The Holy Bible'. So when he disappeared a few months after its release, James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore lost more than a lifelong friend.

Certainly, the trio went on to greater success but even though the memory of Edwards lingered, they could never quite recreate the visceral power he'd once provided. So they've gone back to the source, using lyrics from the journals he handed over shortly before vanishing.

But this is no cheap cash in.

Production is by Steve Albini, whose work on Nirvana's 'In Utero' Edwards loved. The music ? alternately conveying raw aggression, elegiac beauty and stark intimacy ? is amongst Bradfield's best. Following the acclaim of back-to-basics/return-to-form 'Send Away The Tigers', they aren't desperate for a hit. And when speaking of their lost friend, the Welshmen ? especially Wire ? still get visibly distraught.

Instead this could be considered a companion piece to 'The Holy Bible' ? or, more accurately, a counterpoint. While 15 years ago the Manics reflected Edwards' inner turmoil, 'Journal For Plague Lovers' basks in his sharp wit and sense of humour. He's not beyond referencing Jackie Collins, or mentioning wrestler Giant Haystacks in the same breath as Stephen Hawking, and genuinely surprises with one-liners like "We missed the sex revolution because we failed the physical". Not bad for a man who, at round about the same time, wrote about anorexia, vicious dictators, dying in the summertime, and savage Nazi doctor Josef Mengele.

But with song titles like 'Virginia State Epileptic Colony', 'Pretension / Repulsion' and 'She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Death' this isn't exactly a barrel of laughs either. "Kind people should never be treated like flies," rages Bradfield over a savage guitar riff on the latter. "Bruises on my hands from digging my nails out," he spits on the primal 'Peeled Apples'. And the refrain of the uncompromising 'All Is Vanity' sounds suspiciously like "It's a f**ed up life, sunshine."

Yet, while melancholy overwhelms quieter moments like the haunting 'Doors Closing Slowly' and unplugged 'This Joke Sport Severed', the overall mood here is one of fulfilment rather than self-loathing despair.

This is a celebration, not a funeral, sunshine.