It’s 1986 and never has there been a Prime Minister more divisive than Margaret Thatcher, representative of market town Toryism that developed into a neo-liberal revolution that continues to shape our world. With mining villages altered forever, another war fought with Britain’s last ‘great’ victory in the Falklands and a government so out of touch with the experiences of young working-class people spanning the gender and sexuality spectrum, it seems in retrospect like an open goal for the inheritors of the punk spirit- the ‘New Wave’ – to target Britain’s rulers.
Up steps Morrissey, Marr, Rourke and Joyce who, with a girlish and bookish handsomeness up front and a gritty yet naturally tight, almost professional, rhythm section behind, capture the attention of an underground youth. An underground youth that was, it turned out, global in scope.
From Manchester to Tokyo, to LA and the Leeds side streets the bequiffed and bespectacled Morrissey lookalikes queued for vinyl and cassette; it wasn’t really nothing at all. Instead, for ‘indie’ kids everywhere, the meaning of life had finally been pressed and shipped.
Without meaning to paint a vulgar picture, that lead singer had threatened to pull his pants down to the Queen before. Now, to the shock of Middle England, this seminal Manchester band had announced her passing. Punk-adjacents across the land rejoiced.
“The Queen Is Dead, boys!
And it’s so lonely on a limb!”
Joyce’s rolling thunder drum introduction provides the warning shots and the classic tongue-in-cheek Wildean dandy delivers the terrible news. Frankly, Mr Shankly takes aim at figures of authority in the band’s more immediate circle. I’ve never read the poetry of a record label owner and I never will.
“Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I’ve held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
I want to leave, you will not miss me
I want to go down in musical history
The inventors of the word jangle eventually move on to a three-part masterclass of Smithness with Cemetery Gates, Bigmouth Strikes Again, a title that provides endless media headlines, arguably Morrissey’s only gift to the press, and lead single The Boy With A Thorn In His Side. That radio favourite, glistening and sounding like Christmas bells, contains the best 90 seconds of yodelling ever featured in any alternative rock song. Morrissey does not get enough credit as a vocalist for the different ways in which he was able to use his voice. I would direct you to the falsetto of What Difference Does It Make? And on to Never Had No One Ever, the quintessentially miserably beautiful fourth track on TQID.
When you walk without ease
On these streets where you were raised
I had a really bad dream
It lasted 20 years, 7 months and 27 days
And I know alone that I never, ever
Had no one ever
Controversial closer Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others has never seemed that controversial to me- just weird. I’m not really sure what the point of it is; even if it is just the title, I still don’t really know what the point of it is. But as someone who can not play guitar (and you should hear me play piano), that spidery Marr-riff sticks to the listener even now and defines what makes that Smiths sound so important and how it sets such deep roots in the listeners mind.
In the campest act of defiance since Bowie over a decade earlier, The Smiths captured in 4 short years of recording what so many acts fail ever to capture. A snapshot of a time and a place, a memory of youth that echoes and renews itself unprompted. Ire, for the last time in Morrissey’s history, and maybe Britain’s, pointed in exactly the right direction by exactly the right people.
Not even the legacy of one of the most important songs ever written, There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, famously not released as a single until the 1990s, is able to salvage the inevitable guilt that comes with being reared as a Smiths fan from the Tumblr generation where misty low-quality GIFs of the Rockpalast 1983 gig caught my attention and snowballed into my first real music fascination. That tune can bring tears to the eyes of all teenage boys and teenage men- trust me, I’ve seen it happen. Teenage men, you know who you are.
Driving in your car
Please don’t drop me home
Because it’s not my home, it’s their home
And I’m welcome no more
At this point, some readers perhaps roll their eyes at the inevitability of a Morrissey take in a Smiths article. His own eyeballs have rolled perhaps the hardest at media opinion, causing his face to remain grumpy and irritated by the changing wind. Other readers will have clicked the headline knowing exactly what to expect.
How, now, can we possibly celebrate this undoubtedly historic achievement, now entering its middle-age, without also casting an eye at the actions of the genius who whipped together the finest lyrics of his generation. His actions are not of an oddball uncle at Christmas after too many Cinzano’s- he passed that point long ago. He lost his right to bask in the glory of his achievements with the allocation to the people of China the title of ‘subspecies’. Yes, that was long ago, now, in the grand scheme of things. Those comments are pushed even further in to the past by his more recent strange behaviour, including asserting his authority over the most mundane aspects of Smiths history or his targeting of yet another press publication over a benign festival announcement. I won’t mention his ranking of tour audiences.
With a brand-new tour announced, including UK dates, maybe the winds of change are turning against people like me now and he can be forgiven for his old-man-shouts-at sky approach to public relations.
His shadow shouldn’t be long enough to consume every dynamic of this incredible music anyway. As I write, Johnny Marr announces his new album ‘The Age Of Everything’ displaying his own musical longevity, marred by much less press furore. It seems to go without saying that his magic makes TQID glow and the big bang of his guitar work is what all music fans have to thank for almost every great band that came after them.
Smiths fans will continue to mourn Andy Rourke, especially on today of all days, not just for his persona as a real musical grafter during his time at the Smiths, although footage and pictures depict him as somewhat stand-offish. His basslines give those special songs their precious backbone, as does Mike Joyce’s rhythmic heartbeat.
Let it not all be negative. The combination of literary cleverness and biting wit is matched by so few vocalists, and the anti-rock-star rock-star image still draws fans in from a distance. The tour dates Morrissey fulfils proves his enduring ability to seduce a listener.
Fractured though the band are now through space and time, The Queen Is Dead continues to set the bar for alternative rock bands. The story, for some, is tainted, and for some that’s not possible. I’m looking for any excuse, truly, to reconnect with the songs that shaped my whole personality, looks and taste in art as a young man.
Morrissey has described his press nemeses as ‘pious’. I was once pious, it’s true, as a seventeen-year-old Morrissey devotee. Unfortunately, as the Ramones, one of Mozzer’s favourite bands once sang, The KKK Took My Baby Away.
It’s so easy to laugh,
It’s so easy to hate
It takes guts to be gentle and kind
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