Manic Street Preachers play The Holy Bible, Barrowlands, 8 December

“Whether Richey had gone missing or not, it was obvious to us that smashing those instruments meant the end of something,” Nicky Wire once remarked of the fabled violent climax that signed off both The Holy Bible era and a three night residency at the London Astoria back in December 1994 – the last time the Manics’ since disappeared rhythm guitarist and then principal lyricist would walk offstage with the group.

The first intervening decade saw his remaining bandmates move as far away from that record’s rapid-fire prose, Killing Joke-esque guitars and post-punk vitriol as imaginable, whilst the second found the trio more often reintroducing songs from the austere masterwork to their live show before ultimately paying a tribute of sorts to its nihilistic menace with the suitably barbed and Richey-penned Journey for Plague Lovers in 2009.

Despite initial trepidation towards a full-blown anniversary tour for fear of rendering The Holy Bible ‘a museum piece’ as James Dean Bradfield put it, tonight – at the end of a prolific year, already bookended by two revered and stylistically opposed records – they’re clad in the thrift shop army surplus regalia of old, standing in front of a PA and lighting rig smothered in camouflage mesh, the CCCP hammer and sickle adorning the head of Sean Moore’s bass drum. Tied up in the politics of the self as well as the state (occasionally in the same sentence), you could say the ingredients that made The Holy Bible such a fearless and intelligent if at times disquieting oddity have aged well, particularly when it’s all held up next to the lager spilling bullshit of some of their endlessly celebrated peers in Britpop.

There’s a dance to be had here, too; the Barras’ floor springs are put to use for a mass pogo during Revol’s stomping roll call of fallen dictators, while 4st7lb demands the masses chant back its bittersweet chorus about grappling with an eating disorder. Ironically, more than one security guard collapses under the weight of a middle-aged crowd surfer as Faster, in all its anarchic jubilance, brings a certain balance to the gloom. “Happy fucking Christmas, eh?” Wire acknowledges the absurdity and the symmetry of the gig’s timing before Bradfield offers a poignant salute to his old comrade during the opening bars of This Is Yesterday. “It goes without saying; this is for Richey James Edwards.”

An immediate change of mood sweeps the venue when Bradfield resurfaces – suited and booted like he’s ready for a night on the piss with The Rat Pack – for the 'Futurology, Hits & Curios' half of the evening They blaze through Motorcycle Emptiness, deliver the first live play of 1985 in seven years and a surprise outing for swaying Gold Against the Soul B-side Donkeys (containing “two of the greatest lines ever written in rock and roll,“ Wire boasts in a fresh blazer he could have stolen from Rick James. “Put your lipstick on, at least your lies will be pretty”). Within minutes Bradfield’s caked by a flying pint, the carnival atmosphere in full swing as they give Dreaming A City (Hugheskova) – the soaring, unashamedly euro-disco fetishizing instrumental from their latest record – its glorious live premiere.

The Holy Bible might have revelled in its own alienation at a personal and collective cost, but it’s the Manic Street Preachers’ enduring outsider status that continues to define them, subverting the idea of what a career, and a modern rock band can be. In that respect tonight feels like a solid victory.