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ever been, but the tunes are often subtle, not “instant.”
The following ‘Come Back To Camden’ shows that
tendency at its optimum, a beautiful orchestral sweep
with a near-operatic climax. It’s served with the best of
Morrissey’s jaded brand of sepia nostalgia, singing of
love lost under slate grey Victorian skies and disused
dark brown stairwells. ‘I’m Not Sorry’ is its nadir; too
sparse, dull, showing the voice can’t draw you in on
its own even with the tantalising “the woman of my
dreams? / there never was one” addition to the age old
is he/isn’t he conundrum.
Melody re-ignites with ‘The World Is Full Of Crashing
Bores’, proving the man’s bitterness and sharp tongue
haven’t mellowed with age. “Lock jawed pop stars
thicker than pigshit” are among those lambasted here,
easy targets sure, but great fun nonetheless, ending with
a very pretty and atypical Beatle-esque bit of reverb.
‘How Can Anybody Possibly Think They Know How
I Feel’ gets down and dirty and quickens the pace a bit
more, deepening the album’s abiding sense of paranoia.
These songs have been criticised as mere moans about
his notorious court cases, but it’s not only everyone in
authority who is savaged, but anyone who has ever liked
him too! “Their judgment is crazy” apparently. There really
is no pleasing some people. “Fame fame fatal fame”,
to quote an earlier number. But then batty misanthropy
was always key to his twisted charm.
The next track is the album’s centrepiece, and mas-
BUY Morrissey music online from and
terpiece. ‘The First Of The Gang To Die’ is the only
‘character’ song on the album, and the only example
of Morrissey’s longstanding tradition of Orton-esque,
Genet-ish paeans to bits of rough. This time it’s the
Mexican gangsters of LA that get the leery treatment. It
may sound unpromising. In fact it’s perfect.
The crashing guitar backing, the Latino strings, the
frighteningly catchy chorus, everything falls impeccably
together. “You have never been in love / until
you’ve seen the stars / reflect in the reservoirs” sets the
tone of drama, undercut with wicked humour. “Such a
silly boy,” he berates the song’s anti-hero, sending up
the obvious incongruity of a camp Englishman hanging
round with Hispanic gang-bangers. As always, he knows
his obsession with sexy footpads is wrong; but all the
more bedevilling for that. “He stole from the rich / and
the poor / and the not very rich / and the very poor / and
he stole all hearts away” he sings, as the word “away”
floats to the ether in an achingly gorgeous falsetto which
combines early Smiths yodellings with the power of his
mature voice. It’s enough to make you weep with maudlin
joy, and one of his very best songs ever, solo or not.
With ‘Let Me Kiss You’ we’re back to more subtle
and muted territory once more, but also the album’s
biggest grower. Over a distinctly Marr-ish arrangement
Morrissey once more does self-deprecating
yearning like no-one else, craving attention while
knowing he will be “physically despised”. Once
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