The man with a thorn in his side

Last night, a Smiths record saved my life. I wrote those words somewhere in an old notebook which has collected thoughts, dust, drawings, stains and decaying dreams over the years. What is it about a piece of vinyl with impossibly morose lyrics and chirpy guitars that could be life preserving? What was it about a Brit band that gave lonely, unattractive blokes like me the urge to open the windows, let the sunshine in and face another shitty day? Don’t you agree that it was doubly difficult for un-pretty boys and girls to function properly in an emptily glamorous decade like the ‘80s? Those who were prom queens and power forwards in high school had equally lovely partners, parties to go to, Madonna and money; we nerds, sitting so uncomfortably in the misfits’ lounge, had astigmatism, cheap books and The Smiths. The track Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now was our national anthem (although I found out later on that the band regarded this "languid ode to despair" as a joke). It spoke everything to us about our miserable existences. Dig that killer line, "Two lovers entwined pass me by and heaven knows I’m miserable now."

Just like The Beatles before him or Radiohead in the studios of the future, Morrissey made poetry out of melancholy. He’s Oscar Wilde meets Jane, er, James Dean. He’s Casanova with a love that dare not speak its name. He’s the un-macho rocker showering gladioli on stage-invaders, a narcissistic Elvis.

Now, I’m absolutely sickened when I see yuppies guzzling lite beer and mumbling hallelujahs to Morrissey and the rest of The Smiths, whom they put under the vague musical umbrella called "New Wave" along with U2, The Cure and REM. For me, the term is an anomaly, something that smacks of stale hair gel, torn and frayed Topsiders and sneaky marketing stunts like organizing gigs featuring the Lotus Eaters, China Crisis or other washed up acts for those same yuppies who get more nostalgic as their hairlines recede, bellies get bigger and khakis start to fade.

We the misfits should reclaim The Smiths because the band set our disillusion into music. If our English teachers had John Keats and W.B. Yeats on their side, Morrissey is on ours. We relate to Morrissey’s lyrics because no matter if he was coming from a specific milieu (mad Manchester/London, giddy London), the lyricist wrote about our malaise, our panic, our humdrum town, our punctured bicycles and our desire for a light that never goes out. Somehow, we found ourselves in Smiths songs, even if the singer painted a vulgar picture of British provincial life (coupled with literary and Brit TV imagery) – of transvestite monarchs, DJs hanging from gallows, Joan of Arc with her hearing aid and melting nose, weird lover Oscar Wilde, disco dancers, vicars in tutu, boys with thorns in their sides, jumped-up pantry boys, shoplifters and charming men who ride broken bikes into desolate hillsides, etc.

And Morrissey contemplated them all with wry humor like an Englishman watching a comic apocalypse on the telly over tea and cakes. His thesis is that misery is universal. (Sadness after all is the same in Camden and Caloocan.) Dig these bits of Morrissey meanderings about life, love and the gaping abyss in the heart – self-help mantras they’re not:

"Oh, but don’t mention love/I’d hate the pain of the strain all over again," (A Rush And A Push And The Land Is Ours).

"I had a really bad dream/It lasted 20 years, 7 months and 27 days/I never had no one ever," (Never Had No One Ever).

"Love is natural and real/But not for such as you and I," (I Know It’s Over).

"We can go for a walk where it’s quiet and dry/And talk about precious things/Like love and law and poverty/Oh, these are the things that kill me," (The Queen is Dead).

"I would go out tonight, but I haven’t got a stitch to wear," (This Charming Man).

"Well I wonder/Do you hear me when you sleep?/I hoarsely cry," (Well I Wonder).

"Life is very long when you’re lonely," (The Queen Is Dead).

"Love, peace and harmony, so very nice/But maybe in the next world," (Death of a Disco Dancer).

"I want to live and I want to love/I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of," (Frankly, Mr. Shankly).

"I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does," (How Soon Is Now).

"No hope no harm, just another false alarm," (Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me).

"And when I’m lying in bed I think about life and I think about death/And neither one particularly appeals to me," (Nowhere Fast).

"Haven’t had a dream in a long time/See the life I’ve had can make a good man turn bad," (Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want).

Amen to all these nuggets. As the Great White Mope sang in Rubber Ring:

Don’t forget the songs that made you cry

And the songs that saved your life

Yes, you’re older now

And you’re a clever swine

But they were the only ones who ever stood by you.

Funny, Frankie Goes To Hollywood songs never had this effect on us.

Stop Him If You’ve Heard This One Before

To fill up our empty Saturday nights, a Smiths record did the trick. Maybe part of it was the album cover: usually an iconic character (an actor or actress haloed by faded, monochromatic glory) that did it. Or maybe it was the delicious rhythms from drummer Mike Joyce and tragically underrated bassist Andy Rourke. Or maybe it was the sweeping jangly guitars of Johnny Marr, characterized by echo pedals and Byrd-like delay. Or maybe it was the albums as thematic wholes: the campy, contemplating-chaos-while-munching-on-crisps "The Queen is Dead" (‘86); the sad, abrasive, sloganeering "Meat is Murder" (’85); "Rank" (‘88), the live album wherein the band-members embraced their inner cock rockers; the posthumous glory of "Strangeways, Here We Come" (‘87), which was bred in turmoil and looming disbandment; or the money-sucking "Best-of" compilations, which yuppies prefer.

But you just couldn’t play The Smiths forever, unless you wanted to be like those old farts and geezers who never explore anything outside of The Ventures’ discography. The Smiths folded, most of the fans hung out in Morrissey & Marr’s darkened underpass, and then rode other bandwagons (glam rock, Britpop or grunge) out of there.

After "Viva Hate" and "Bona Drag," I lost my love for Morrissey’s music. I probably missed his yin-yang affair with tunesmith Johnny Marr. I didn’t fancy him as a "solo performer," which for a few exceptions is so Barry Manilow, so Las Vegas.

After concocting Marr-less classics like Suedehead, Everyday is Like Sunday, Hairdresser on Fire and Late Night, Maudlin Street, Morrissey churned out forgettable fluff in "Kill Uncle" (’91), "Your Arsenal" (’92) and "Maladjusted" (’97). He made a sort of comeback with "Vauxhall and I," which spawned the hit The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get.

Lyrically, as a solo artist, Morrissey explored the same cemeteries and rundown seaside towns, wishing Armageddon on some of these places, sharing greased tea with hairdressers and international playboys, hating it when his friends became successful, ruminating on unrequited love. The former Smith, who in the eyes of the British press could never do wrong, got into a bit of a bog by writing songs that have been labeled as racist by most quarters (Bengali in Platforms, Asian Rut). He even performed in a Madness reunion concert at Finsbury Park in London wrapped in a Union Jack, singing The National Front Disco – a Brit rightwing thing. Why was the outcast casting stone on fellow outcasts in the first place? This is so illogical, if it were the case.

Now, what I’m doing with his "You Are The Quarry" album? Well, like a yuppie and those who cream themselves whenever they listen to Pipeline, I’m waxing nostalgic and, surprisingly, digging the new Morrissey album.

The Wizard Of Moz

I would skip the bouncy America Is Not The World (his ambivalent love letter to the US of A, Morrissey being a British exile/California dreamer at present), the ballsy Irish Blood, English Heart (which shows he has lost none of his political bile), and the ridiculous I Have Forgiven You Jesus. Better cue a track called Come Back to Camden.

This song – with its "tea that taste of the Thames" and "taxi drivers never stop talking under slate-gray Victorian skies" – is a W.H. Auden-like portrait of majestic despair. Morrissey sings, "There is something I wanted to tell you/It’s so funny you’ll kill yourself laughing/But then I look around/And I remember that I am alone/Alone." Yes it’s 2004 (the age of mall punk, R&B slush factories and pop idol processing plants), and Morrissey still makes observations like a graying poet.

The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores arrives with a cavalcade of cops, taxmen and lock-jawed pop stars. Here, Morrissey wallows in self-pity: The world is full of crashing bores and I must be one/’Cos no one ever turns to me and say, "Take me in your arms and love me!"

First of the Gang to Die is so silly it actually works. All The Lazy Dykes draws listeners in despite its lazy rhythm. You Know I Couldn’t Last is autobiographical (aren’t they all?). Good songs for a change. This album proves that this gay gangster is far from done.

In I’m Not Sorry, he croons, "The woman of my dreams/She never came along/The woman of my dreams/Well, there never was one." Notice that in Smiths songs, Moz was always ambivalent about his object of affection since he wanted to sing for every miserable person on the planet, whatever the gender. Now, he sings about and pines for a "she." Moz finally a masculine figure? Caligula would have blushed.

Anyway, the track is so Smithy, you could just imagine Johnny Marr quietly strumming a Rickenbacker and Morrissey throwing flowers from his back pocket while swiveling his James Dean hairdo, and heaven knows all is not well in the world.

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Misfits of the world, unite and take over. For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja@hotmail.com.