While any sane person
would be advised not to spend too much time trawling through the back doors of
his favourite artists (a personality not seen in a work of art is a personality
not worth seeing), autobiographies are different. Yes, they often end up pulpy
melodramas or boring self-serving homilies that will on occasion (god no) alter
your perception of an artist in question, but once in a while you might also
stumble upon a literary masterpiece that will leave you awe-struck and
dumbfounded. And I was expecting a
classic from Morrissey – I just couldn’t expect it would be quite this good.
Forget about the Penguin Classics imprint (if you don’t
have the guts, then at least find the courage to applaud him for the cheek) and
forget about Morrissey having favorite artists (as opposed to ‘favourite’
artists) – what you are looking at here is a monumental piece of non-fiction
done by a man who was very much aware right from the start that ‘monumental’
was the only thing worth going for.
The evil question here
would be why Morrissey bothered in the first place. To settle scores? To
satisfy a narcissistic whim? To remind us of his existence? But evil questions
are better left unanswered, so let’s just consider the words (words, words,
words: 457 pages of words) and the gamble on posterity so explicitly seen in
the memoir’s title. Fuck your clever suggestions torn out of the Smiths’ lyrics
– Autobiography is maddeningly
perfect.
Speaking of lyrics,
Morrissey loves them so much they are spread all over this book in lovely cursives, which only accentuates what we’ve suspected all along;
yes, of course it has all been true: all that misery, all that bitterness and
all that loneliness. From “Reel Around The Fountain” to “I’m OK By Myself” –
every word rings with experience and inner feeling. Don’t doubt Morrissey’s
integrity. Honestly, the best thing he can say about the human race is hidden
somewhere in the middle of this memoir: “People are certainly oddities”.
In a book so richly
textured and so beautifully written (often florid, but always articulate),
everyone is bound to have his own favourite pages and lines. Myself, I felt
enchanted right from the very beginning: the lush, poetic way with which
Morrissey describes his childhood, his teachers, endless odd jobs, the drab
city that, yes, has so much to answer for. (See? Morrissey’s integrity is
precisely the reason why you want to support each Morrissey’s sentence with
Morrissey’s lyric.) The unspoken truth soon to be revealed to our young man is
this: “Effeminate men are very witty, whereas macho men are duller than death”.
Girls love him; fast-forward 30 years later: girls still love him – with the
possible exception of Siouxsie Sioux.
The Smiths’ years, and
this has puzzled and riled up a lot of
people, are quickly dispensed with. The Smiths’ years are just years, you see,
Morrissey’s years piling on top of each other to make up his life and this autobiography.
Yes, he loves the music and for a few years Marr is a true soul mate; yes, he
doesn’t like the production on the debut album and Strangeways, Here We Come is The Smiths’ masterpiece (no argument
here), but he is just as interested in persistently slagging off Rough Trade
Records and decrying dodgy record deals. His family, his apartment, his love of
animals and his growing inner frustration are just as essential to the story as
who wrote this or who came up with that. It’s simple: what you want to hear is
not necessarily what Morrissey is interested in saying.
Besides, “nothing that
isn’t my own seems to work for me”. So understandably much of Morrissey’s
interest is invested in his solo years. Deliriously successful American tours (marred
by madness and slander), meticulous descriptions of chart successes (and
failures – those record labels), a passionate love affair (ah yes) and, of
course, the unfortunate centrepiece: the lawsuit filed by the Smiths’ drummer
Mark Joyce, the ensuing trial (John Weeks, “may you turn in your urn”) and the
inevitable defeat are described through pain and with a great deal of spiteful
and bitter detail. Will you take Morrissey’s side? Of course you will. And then
later, much quieter years, that nonetheless bring out one incredible, dramatically
understated moment: Morrissey comes to Denmark and finally feels at home. The
world fainted, my eyes got watery. Now
you see?
There’s certainly much
bitterness in the book. While Marr is more or less spared, Joyce, Rourke, Geoff
Travis, John Peel, NME and countless others are all dismissed with various
degree of care and vitriol. Morrissey has every right to be bitter; close
people dying around him, people he thought were close leaving and betraying him
– these are just a few recurrent motifs in the book that constantly strives for
pattern and consistency. But it’s not just bitterness and it’s never quite
despair. There’s droll humour (pages describing the Smiths’ one-time rhythm
guitarist are hilarious), there’s love (the way Morrissey speaks about Bowie
and Auden and the New York Dolls is both beautiful and accurate) and, towards
the end, there’s that light that never goes out. Because it’s been a life well
spent, as told by a talented and fulfilled man who has never once compromised
his vision, taste or integrity. The book may be drenched in Morrissey’s ego,
but it’s not like he hasn’t earned it. Yet. Baby.
And for God’s sake,
forget about vegetarianism and sexuality. Because if you don’t, this book will
find you wanting. Because this is an Artist’s book, through and through.
Because before you know it, a line like “most people keep their brains between
their legs” will come up and Morrissey will be done with you.
‘Accomplished’ is an
understatement.
10/10
And doing very well
indeed. David Roback’s masterful guitar seduces you with understated intensity
(the man’s a terrific mood-guitarist) and Kendra Smith’s soothingly powerful
voice (which hasn’t change one tiny bit) pulls all those nocturnal strings of
your heart. The combination still works like magic, and why wouldn’t it. The
style, the production, the instrumentation, the taste – all impeccable. The question
of melody remains an elusive one, mainly because you get lost in the bluesy
licks and lovely autumnal mood and care very little about all secondary issues.
What matters (seemingly so) is the timeless organ in the opening “In The
Kingdom” or the wistful harmonica in the solipsistic (did I just say that?) “Common
Burn” or the chugging groove of “Flying Low”. It’s only when the album is over
and you realise that you don’t really remember any of the actual tunes that you
think: “Ah well, nice, but just how good
was it?..”
