Album Description:
“Manifesto” arrived in early 1979 as Roxy Music’s return to album-making after a four-year pause since “Siren.” Cut at Ridge Farm and Basing Street and remixed at Atlantic Studios, it reunites the core quartet—Bryan Ferry, Phil Manzanera, Andy Mackay and Paul Thompson—while folding in select guest players. The record balances the band’s art-rock imagination with a sleeker, dance-aware pulse that would define their next phase.
The historical moment
The late 1970s were turbulent and fast-moving: punk had blown open the UK scene, post-punk and new wave were taking shape, and dance floors were dominated by disco and sophisticated R&B. “Manifesto” lands right in that crossover—a veteran art-rock group reengaging a landscape now occupied by Talking Heads, Blondie, The Police, Japan, Ultravox and a still-shape-shifting David Bowie. Roxy’s answer is not retreat but reinvention: urbane songcraft, sharper grooves, and immaculate studio finish.
Genre position and peers
File the album under art rock and pop-rock with new-wave economy and a conscious nod to contemporary dance music. Where early Roxy mixed glam volatility with avant pop, “Manifesto” favors space and polish: Manzanera’s guitar cuts and curls rather than screams; Mackay’s oboe and sax thread melody and atmosphere; Ferry’s croon steers everything toward elegant, metropolitan pop. In spirit and surface sheen, it sits comfortably alongside albums by Blondie and Japan, yet retains Roxy’s idiosyncratic harmonies and textural wit.
Musical exploration on the record
The title track opens like a manifesto in sound—slow-building, noir and cinematic—before snapping into a taut groove. “Angel Eyes” weds riff-rock to the era’s dance sensibility (later re-cut as a sleeker, club-ready single), while “Dance Away” distills Roxy’s urbane heartbreak into one of Ferry’s most effortless melodies. “Still Falls the Rain” and “Stronger Through the Years” stretch out with modal touches and deep, hypnotic rhythms; the latter lets the rhythm section breathe while Mackay and Manzanera sketch long-form arcs rather than short solos. Across the album, arrangements prize contour and feel over spectacle—hooks delivered with restraint, rhythm sections recorded for glide, not grind.
Key people behind the board
Roxy Music produce themselves, leaning on a trusted studio team. Sound Engineers Rhett Davies, Jimmy Douglass, Phill Brown and Randy Mason shape the record’s clarity and punch. The sessions take place at Ridge Farm and Basing Street; remixes at Atlantic Studios add extra gloss. The visual world is equally curated: Bryan Ferry steers the cover concept and design with Antony Price; photography by Neil Kirk, with artwork support from Sally Feldman and Cream, ties music and fashion into the same luxurious frame.
Band story and line-up shifts
Formed in 1971, Roxy Music originally featured Bryan Ferry, Andy Mackay, Brian Eno and Graham Simpson, with Paul Thompson and later Phil Manzanera locking the classic engine. Eno’s 1973 departure and Eddie Jobson’s mid-’70s tenure pushed Roxy through several evolutions before the mid-decade hiatus. For “Manifesto,” the returning core drafts a small cadre of specialists: Paul Carrack adds supple keyboards, Richard Tee contributes piano elegance, and the bass chair is shared by Alan Spenner and Gary Tibbs. Rick Marotta provides additional drums alongside Paul Thompson, whose muscular swing remains a defining presence.
Points of debate and reception
Two flashpoints accompanied the album. First, the stylistic pivot: longtime fans of the jagged early records read the new smoothness and dance-friendly rhythms as a departure, sparking familiar “sellout vs. evolution” arguments. Second, the single-focused revisions: “Angel Eyes” was later re-recorded in a more overtly disco style and, on some later pressings, replaced the original LP version—fueling confusion (and heated preferences) about the “right” mix. Both debates underscore the record’s central tension: a band famed for risk and glamour choosing to modernize without surrendering identity.
Why “Manifesto” matters musically
Beyond hits, the album demonstrates a craft shift: economy in arrangements, rhythm sections recorded for glide, and vocals written as architecture—every consonant supporting the groove. It is the bridge between the experimental ferocity of early-’70s Roxy and the sumptuous, adult pop of their early-’80s work, proving that art rock could move bodies as deftly as it teased minds.
Anecdote — “Don’t Blink”
They were twins, ushered into the studio after midnight, told to “blend in.” Around them stood a small army of mannequins: lacquered smiles, frozen wrists, names written in pencil on masking tape—“Ruby,” “Vera,” “No. 7.” A stylist dusted the twins’ shoulders, then stepped back to judge whether they looked human enough to pass for plastic, or plastic enough to pass for human.
“Don’t blink,” the photographer joked, and the room obeyed. Lights flared, fans hummed, and the band’s music leaked from a distant control room—just loud enough to set a rhythm for standing perfectly still. The twins stared ahead, counting silently. One, two, three… clap. Flash. The click of the shutter landed like a metronome.
Halfway through, a mannequin in sequins tipped over with a graceful, catastrophic wobble. Nobody moved for a second—then everyone moved at once. An engineer caught the head; a makeup artist caught the hand; one twin stifled a laugh that shook her shoulders. “Reset,” called the photographer, and the twins exhaled in unison, as if they shared one pair of lungs.
When the last roll of film snapped free, the crew applauded themselves for surviving an evening of motionless work. The twins were thanked, offered lukewarm tea, and slipped out into the London chill—hair sprayed into small helmets that made the night air bead and run.
Months later, they stood outside a record shop window, staring at the sleeve. There they were: two nearly-living shapes among the unmoving many. A passerby said, “Great idea—mannequins.” One twin smiled and said nothing. The other blinked, just once, and for a heartbeat the whole tableau seemed to shift—like the photograph was breathing back.
