People get precious about the authenticity of one’s love of The Smiths. “Sniveling pomposity” is my usual response to any accusation of class tourism. You don’t have to be born in a shithole like Hulme to love The Smiths. David Browne reviewed “Strangeways, Here We Come” in Rolling Stone magazine in 1987 and he says the album “stands as one of their (The Smiths) best and most varied records….despite the problematic artsiness of its lead singer” Artsiness is a new word for me in 2020 and there it was in 1987 describing Morrissey’s self-obsession and explaining why Johnny Marr had left the band soon after the album was made. Problematic artsiness, no less. Browne then says “If you’ve ever considered Morrissey a self-obsessed jerk, Strangeways, Here We Come isn’t likely to change your mind”. Morrissey was and still is a self-obsessed jerk but I’d still give him my big toe if he ran out of vegetables.
The Smiths gave hope to kids who grew up in buttfuck nowhere and had a choice between writing poetry and certain death and certain death for writing poetry and writing poetry about certain death.
In his review, David Browne fails to mention “Death of a Disco Dancer” the soaring gem of the album. This is dextrous song-smithing. Johnny Marr commented to Q Magazine that one of the best things about the song “is that keyboard drone. It’s like Goldfinger on bad acid. Which is kind of The Smiths in a nutshell.”
“Girlfriend in a Coma” is a tidy pop song and remains the entry level tune for new Smith fans. The Smiths gave us a sensibility not just a sound. Manchester is full of it. Kids of poor parents get an education and create art with a wink, to maintain ironic detachment so they don’t betray their working class roots.
David Browne is clearly fed up with Morrissey in his review and is out to champion Marr the overlooked genius because straight men don’t have enough of a voice in indie music.
The Smiths helped us laugh at the moronic human condition and gave us all permission to fail. We must always wear their iconic album covers on our t-shirts and pretend we like them at music festivals.
Strangeways has less of an intersection between Morrissey and Marr found on “Meat Is Murder” or “Hatful of Hollow”, still slightly at odds but creating a bitter sweet purity. In Strangeways they are definitely car pooling. More production helps.
Most days I’m in the mood for The Smiths but some days they make my ears bleed. Like when you’re stroking a cat because you love it so much and you notice you’re actually slapping it. I’m the cat in this scenario by the way.