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more, at least in song, age seems only to add to his
beguiling neurosis. He may reside in California, but
he still revels in doing that most un-American of
things; celebrating life’s losers.
The following ‘All The Lazy Dykes’ doesn’t quite
doesn’t quite match up in the melody stakes but as with
many songs here ends with a hugely moving finale. Its
urge for a downtrodden housewife to find her freedom
in Sapphic joy is oddly touching. “I’ve never felt so
alive / in the WHOLE of my life” he sings, and as often
in this album, one stunning inflection picks up an otherwise
slight arrangement.
Onto the penultimate track, ‘I Like You’. ‘America’
apart, most of this album is basically guitar rock with
a few atmospheric keyboard extras courtesy of new
producer Jerry Finn; no huge departure really. But here
we have a positively New Order-esque backbeat and an
overdrive on the electronica. At its heart is a strident,
killer chorus, where our protagonist seems utterly baffled
by the alien feeling of actually finding someone he
gets on with. “You’re not right in the head / and nor am
I / and this is why…”, once again, breathing beauty into
everyday English phraseology.
With the climax, ‘You Know I Couldn’t Last’, what
should be an arch crescendo to the set sadly ends up
overdoing the bombast, with histrionic guitar crashes
and the lyrics moaning just a bit too much this time.
Throughout this disc, as throughout his career Morrissey
BUY Morrissey music online from and
has portrayed a mindset which to quote Larkin is “rusted
stiff / and will admit / only what will accuse or horrify /
like slot machines only bent pennies fit.” Most times on
Quarry he pulls that off with optimum wit and charm.
Just this once, you are reminded he is a rich middle-aged
pop star still griping about a court case almost a decade
back. A slightly sour aftertaste to a fine brew.
I was going to finish off by saying You Are The Quarry
falls just short of greatness. But having listened to it repeatedly
for nearly two months I think it may just reach
that state after all. It’s the slang-dictionary definition
of the word ‘grower’; even songs I dismissed outright
on first, second and third listens are now warmed to. If
you’re one of the haters who only ever saw Moz as a
queasy mix of Kenneth Williams, Eddie Cochran and
Eeyore the Donkey this album certainly won’t change
your mind. But those who have seen worth in his guttereyed
vision in the past may find much to treasure here if
they only take the time.
Pop’s prole-prince of the outsiders has returned in a
more triumphant manner than we could have expected.
I still feel it doesn’t quite reach the heights of Viva Hate,
Vauxhall and I or Your Arsenal. But its unquestionably
Leeds’ side-streets ahead of Kill Uncle, Southpaw
Grammar and Maladjusted. And as for the tired old
complaints that it’s “not as good as The Smiths”, one can
only reply as Joseph Heller did when told each new book
wasn’t as good as Catch 22. “No. But then, what is?” �
353
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