About tattoos

News comes of a gentleman from Seattle who, his former enthusiasm for Mr Morrissey rather tainted by the singer’s recent toxic outbursts, resolves to do something about his own celebratory tattoo. But instead of having it removed entirely, he has a line put through it and another performer’s – Sheryl Crow in this case but it could be anyone – above. The good memories of what Morrissey offered aren’t wiped out, but his sins are acknowledged. And, of course, if in the coming years Ms Crow should turn into a bumptious old bigot, the same fate could befall her.

I do wonder if this if this might be the answer to all our mithering about representations of people who were once lauded but later turn out to be arses; and also to the existing cultural products of the same. We don’t actually need to tear down the statues of colonialist exploiters or Confederate generals; nor do we remove the works of artists whose behaviours or attitudes transgressed what we now deem to be right and proper, and yes, I’m thinking of the Eric Gill carvings on Broadcasting House. We simply, literally or metaphorically, put a line through them. A small plaque would do, a sticker, an announcement before a performance, a bit of text before a film. If nothing else, it’s a gentle reminder that our own activities (eating meat, using plastic bottles, driving cars, maybe something that today seems so utterly unexceptional that it would seem seriously daft to pick it as an example) will make us look like complete and utter shitbuckets to our descendants. But perhaps, rather than burning our effigies, they’ll be just a little kinder, and add the equivalent of a rueful “tut tut” to what – if anything – we leave behind.

Not about Morrissey

Just as it happened 35 or so years ago, while I watched Johnny Marr’s Glastonbury set I gawped at his dexterity, musical imagination, effortless cool and implausible absence of body fat. Of course, in 1983 his serviceable singing didn’t come into the equation, because someone else was handling those duties.

Ah, yes, Mr Morrissey. What started out (apparently) as arch, subversive flirtation with the trappings and iconography of the far right has tipped right over the edge into full-on Faragerie and worse. He is, officially, no longer charming, and people are lining up either to agonise over the delight they once took in him and his mots (bon and mauvais alike), or to crow that they never liked the preening bigot in the first place. I’m in the first camp, but I guess you’d worked that out already.

So, when Marr trawls through his old band’s songbook, what reaction should we expect from the woke crowd? Awkward shoe-gazing? A mass turning of backs? A petition on change.org? Or ecstatic bellowing along from thousands of sunburned people who know all the words and the B-sides and probably the messages etched on the inner grooves as well, which contrasts with the polite response accorded to the guitar hero’s own solo work. (Note to self: remember that in the real world, Smiths fans always resembled the rowdy lads on the inside of the Rank gatefold more than they did Alain Delon or even Yootha Joyce.) Hate the singer – or at least express disappointment in how he turned out – while still loving the songs; that would appear to be the best option. Of course, the spirit of Morrissey still lingers over everything Marr does; at once there and not there, Schrödinger’s lyricist, Banquo at the vegan feast. This was meant to be a blog post about Johnny, but it’s not, is it?

The singer/song divide does appear to be an increasingly popular tactic, whether it’s Quincy Jones playing lots of Michael Jackson songs without ever mentioning Michael Jackson, or Nick Cave’s calm response to the misdeeds of Morrissey himself:

I think perhaps it would be helpful to you if you saw the proprietorship of a song in a different way. Personally, when I write a song and release it to the public, I feel it stops being my song. It has been offered up to my audience and they, if they care to, take possession of that song and become its custodian. The integrity of the song now rests not with the artist, but with the listener.

Which, the two or three loyal readers of this blog will know, is pretty much what Roland Barthes (a French theorist who never heard the Smiths but died a beautifully Morrisseyesque death) argued in The Death of the Author. As soon as the author publishes, or releases, or presses “SEND”, he or she leaves the party. I’ve often deployed this as a critical get-out clause; for example in my book about Radiohead’s OK Computer (all good bookshops, etc), I pointed out that the fact Thom Yorke hasn’t read Philip K Dick’s Valis, or can’t remember that the poem that inspired ‘Subterranean Homesick Alien’ was by Craig Raine, doesn’t invalidate those works’ relevance to consideration of his own music. I never thought it would also allow us to skip gaily over the sexual or political misdemeanours of our fallen idols, and I doubt old Roland did either – which rather proves his point, doesn’t it?

Who burned my disco?

Simon Reynolds reviews a US compilation of UK indie from the 80s and 90s for Salon. He makes some good points, and neatly characterises what Brit fans wanted from their guitar-toting heroes at the time, in terms of lyrics at least: "a slightly heroicized version of the fan base's dreams and fears".

But Reynolds then goes on to argue that what a) unifies most of the music in the box and b) prevented its acceptance in the US, is its rejection of dance culture, rhythm, blackness. Inevitably, Morrissey's recent contretemps with the NME gets a mention.

I've never really understood this analysis of classic indie-pop. Sure, it prioritises texture and introspection over beats and feet. And Reynolds is bang on the money when he argues that the British tradition of world-class, black-influenced drummers seems to have come to an end, although he could have given a nod to Reni.

But why does a desire for melodic introspection automatically become a rejection of or even a reaction against dance music? Why does the fact that Morrissey doesn't want to sound like 50 Cent imply a separatist rejection of black culture, which in turn implies, however faintly, racist tendencies, while nobody questions the fact that 50 Cent doesn't want to sound like Morrissey? And isn't a mixture of jangly guitars and lyrics about loneliness permitted to exist as a positive statement in and of itself, to be lauded or denigrated on its own terms, on the basis of what it is, rather than what it isn't?

PS: And now Billy Bragg's weighing in. It's like a student disco from about 1986.

King Ken

One of the advantages of living so far out of the loop is that it's very easy to avoid the latest manifestations of Celebutardery, although this can sometimes be frustrating. I've missed Myleene's showers ("Hmmm, I wonder, if I stand under cold water, maybe my nipples will show through my bikini, and lots of people will watch..."), the unlikely resurrection of Steve Strange, and a parallel universe in which England cricketers can actually do something right (although not cricket, it must be said). And it would have been nice to have experienced Ken Russell's brief sojourn in the Big Brother house, especially as it gave rise to this thoughtful appreciation of Jade Goody and her family:

"I grew up in the slums of Southampton and we had a word for people like that - guttersnipes. There should be a Devil's Island where we can send these people, they're all going to Hell anyway. I've met people from all walks of life but no-one so vulgar. It's almost as though they've been programmed to be vulgar, horrible and objectionable. They speak in a language which is deliberately limited. They didn't even seem to know how to use a knife and fork."

This from a man who once filmed Vanessa Redgrave getting an enema, not to mention Oliver Reed's genitalia.

Also: something for the Who fans at CiF; a contrarian view of media interactivity from the LA Times (thanks to Wyndham for spotting this); Patroclus needs your blogging epiphanies for the book that's going to make her rich and famous and the scourge of lifestyle journalists everywhere; and The Chasms of the Earth has staggered back into life, although they're still dicking around in the Louvre, and Ian McKellen hasn't started overacting yet.

And please don't talk to me about the Morrissey/Eurovision thing. I'm already experiencing a strange mixture of elation and nausea.

Haven't had a dream in a long time

Morrissey: Ringleader of the Tormentors (Attack, 2006)

I picked up a copy of Spin magazine the other day. It's not something I tend to do, and I'm not sure why I made an exception, especially since Karen Yeah Yeah Yeah was modelling that blue-bus haircut on the cover. Ewww.

Anyway, as I flipped through it (the mag, not Karen's bad hair) while spooning some not-so-great yaki-soba into my jaded maw, I noticed that British music seems to be making one of its periodic flypasts over the landscape I still like to think of as the Canada-Mexico border. Yes, we know that James Blunt appeals to quantity surveyors on both sides of the Atlantic; and the colonials are even trying to get on the same mental planet as the Arctic Monkeys.

But Spin takes it further. Jonathan Ames goes to a Goth convention in Illinois, and acknowledges there was living death before Marilyn Manson, namechecking Joy Division and Bauhaus. Simon Reynolds looks back to the "Second British Invasion" that dry-humped MTV until about Live Aid, giving us two (two!!!!) pictures of naughty Annabella Lwin, who's now (say it ain't so) 40 years old. Franz Ferdinand and The Darkness get news items, and a 'Definitive Guide To Pop Punk' sources half the top 10 key albums of the genre from the right-hand coast of the Atlantic. (If you're interested, they chose Buzzcocks, Generation X, the Rezillos, the Undertones and, uh, the Vibrators.)

And then there's an interview with Morrissey. Steven's on fine form, hymning the praises of his new Roman home and tipping Billy Crudup to play him in the inevitable Mozopic. He deflects the inevitable sexuality questions ("Sometimes I feel explanations are very unnecessary and really spoil things.") and, yes, he talks about the new album.

And it's a perfectly good Q&A, by Marc Spitz, but the reason I bring it up is that I still think Americans (and an increasing number of Brits) miss the point about Morrissey. Yes, it's lovely to have him back, and he looks spiffy on the cover, in his white tie and tails, and isn't it slightly ironic that this curmudgeonly anachronism tops the British album charts in the first week when downloads count... but... but... but...

There's an 800-pound vegan gorilla in the room that nobody really, explicitly mentions, although Spitz hints hard. No, not that Morrissey's a big poof (although more on that anon). It's this. Morrissey solo is not as good as The Smiths. There. Apart from that mysterious phalanx of Chicanos that Morrissey adopted during his LA sojourn, and the ever-loyal, sexually ambivalent West Ham fans, Moz on his lonesome does not provoke the level of devotion and empathy that was exhibited between 1983 and 1987. And it's not nostalgia, and it's not wistful yearning for the reunion that won't happen, not even for $5 million. And it's certainly not that Morrissey now makes bad music. Ringleader of the Tormentors is a good album. It's just that nothing on it gives you that cerebral judder, half orgasm, half kick in eye, that happened when 'Bigmouth Strikes Again' first struck. Or 'Ask' or 'Reel Around The Fountain'. Or 'Barbarism Begins At Home' or 'Shakespeare's Sister' or 'Suffer Little Children' or 'Handsome Devil' or 'What Difference Does It Make?' or 'Paint A Vulgar Picture' or 'You Just Haven't Earned It Yet Baby' or...

Need I continue?

Right, the album. Yes, it's good stuff. Mozz seems happy in his new home, but this hasn't lost his gift for the cutting bon mot (or mauvais mot in his case). As he says in 'On The Streets I Ran', Morrissey's peculiar talent is for turning "sickness into popular song", and he's still preoccupied with death and failure and loneliness and all that makes life worthwhile. His cultural references have shifted a little, with Shelagh Delaney being replaced by Pasolini and Visconti (Luchino, not Tony), but it's still Moz.

But what's this? "Explosive kegs between my legs"? Morrissey has, you know, organs? And it's not just sex, there's love too. "I live only for you," he trills on 'Life Is A Pigsty'. The pop world's most notorious celibate (Britney couldn't hack it) is not only indulging in moist rudeness, he's yodelling the fact from the spire of St Peter's. "I once was a mess of guilt because of the flesh," he sighs. "It's remarkable what you can learn." Not that all's entirely well, of course. "I would give you my heart," he declares later; "That's if I had one"

So contentment in the boudoir hasn't dulled his caustic drollery. And it sounds great, too. Tony (not Luchino this time) Visconti produces, bringing on the arranging prowess of Ennio Morricone for one track. Anyone yearning to discover what The Smiths would have been if they'd had a real string section can find out here (with all due respect to Orchestrazia Ardwick and the Hated Salford Ensemble). The three guitarists provide a variety of textures and effects, especially on the opener 'I Will See You In Far Off Places' with its cheekily cod-Indian atmospherics (Bengali in plectrums, anyone?). Mikey Farrell offers some fun piano and trumpet twiddles, although the proggy vamping on 'I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now' is probably an experiment too far. Mozz yelps in ways he hasn't since 'This Charming Man' and a single Morrissey yelp has more sex ammo than Christina Aguilera frotting the stage anyday.

It seems as if everything is in its right place, as David Cameron's other favourite band puts it. Except for tunes. Despite Johnny Marr's acclaimed axe heroics, it was his tunes that keep The Smiths a couple of steps ahead of even the best of Morrissey's solo material. Just listen to the Live at Earl's Court album, and the gasps from the punters when Morrissey kicks into tunes written before many of them were conceived. It must be deeply frustrating for long-established artists to have their recent stuff dismissed in favour of the stuff from decades ago, but there may be more in the phenomenon than familiarity and laziness. Ron Wood (the Craig Gannon of grandad rock?) is always complaining that he's perceived as a replacement guitarist, despite the fact that he's been with the Stones for about 75% of their recording career. He hasn't quite got it through his comedy mullet that in his stint with the band, they've never come up with anything half as good as 'Paint It, Black' or 'Let's Spend The Night Together'.

So what's the Poet Laureate of the Maladjusted to do? Well, since any formal reunion with Marr and the others is bound to collapse under the weight of frenzied expectations, tensions and unresolved legal and accounting quibbles, he simply has to find another composer that can match Marr's ear for a tune. Which means not Alain Whyte, basically. Or anyone he's worked with in the last 19 years. Brian Wilson? Burt Bacharach? Paul McCartney? All genius tunesmiths who've stumbled a little when it comes to lyrics. Crazier things have occurred. Hell, if you fly on autopilot for long enough, there's always Rick Rubin to help out.

Ach, what does he care? The Hammers fans and South Central Chicanos will still love this, and now the Roman paninari will probably join the club. But the sad sacks who still troop to the door of Salford Lads' Club will play this a few times, and file it under "Oh well, suppose it's better than Southpaw Grammar".

"So if there was a Smiths reformation," says Mozz in the Spin interview, "I don't think there would be gasps around the planet."

Oh Steven, if only you knew.

See that bit of text under the blog title

New Murakami collection due in UK in July. Reminds me, must get that Pinball 1973 review up soon.

And, of course, there's the small matter of a new Morrissey album next week. So I should either post a picture of Murakami with flowers cascading from his back pocket... or...