Years Of Refusal — Morrissey
Posted By Ben W. on March 25, 2009
When last we checked in on Morrissey, the international man of misery was actually happy. Downright giddy even. He was living it up in Rome with the love of his life, singing about “explosive kegs between my legs.”
But three years on since the Ringleader Of The Tormentors album, the Roman holiday has gone awry. No more happy love songs. No more sexual advances. A quick scan of the song titles – “Something Is Squeezing My Skull,” “Black Cloud,” “Sorry Doesn’t Help,” “I’m OK By Myself” to name four – is enough to indicate a return to the more-familiar Moz territory of lovelorn loneliness.
But it’s more than that. He hasn’t merely regressed back to loneliness. He’s passed loneliness and kept on going to anger, if not downright rage. There is a shade of pain in these songs that is quite different from nearly all of his back catalogue. And that’s really saying something, because this is an artist who has made pain his stock in trade.
Consider that the bulk of Morrissey’s previous work has ached not for what is or even what was, but for what could be. His brilliance lies in his ability to perfectly articulate a romanticized life or love and then cry at the inability to realize his dream. He is pop music’s master at agonizing the injustice that keeps one’s imagination separate from one’s reality. So writing songs agonizing the end of something that was very real, as he does throughout this album, is wholly new territory for Morrissey.
Poetry is at a premium. These are some of the most direct Morrissey songs ever. “Something Is Squeezing My Skull” features a list of anti-depressants that are keeping him from enjoying the finer points of modern life. “How much longer must I stay on this stuff? Don’t give me anymore,” he sings in the song’s coda. “You lied about the lies you told, which is the full extent of what being you is all about,” he snarls on “Sorry Doesn’t Help.” “It’s Not Your Birthday Anymore” brutally describes the dual nature of a relationship – the real and the front for friends. “It’s not your birthday anymore; there’s no need to be kind to you; and the will to see you smile and belong now has gone,” is as biting as pop hooks get. There certainly is little doubt as to what he’s trying to say.
Morrissey also almost entirely eschews humor on this record. He doesn’t deal in one-liners very often at all. The two holdovers from 2008’s Greatest Hits collection – “That’s How People Grow Up” and “All You Need Is Me” – play on his traditional arrogance-mixed-with-anguish formula, but even they are far more straightforward than most of his older material.
Only on the beautiful “I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris” does the album cue up the old grandiose Mozzer melodrama. Morrissey resigns himself to living for places and things, rather than people, so as to avoid heartbreak. Set to a gorgeous swelling chorus, it’s the kind of self pity to the point of comic absurdity that has made the man famous.
It’s also the most melodic thing on an album of outstanding melodies. It takes a few listens to sort out, because the tunes are not instantly catchy like, say, “First Of The Gang To Die.” But give it time, because a few listens later, his vocal lines will embed themselves in your brain. Together they surely rank among his most memorable of the decade.
It all makes for an exciting and visceral collection. The only downside to the album is the music. I’m laughing, having typed that sentence. It sounds ridiculous, right? The only downside to the album is the music. Small detail that. But no, really. The music – as in the band, the chords, the production, the presentation – pales in comparison to the singer.
The band is basically the same crew he’s been working with all decade, so it’s not surprising that this sounds very similar to his last two records – Tormentors and 2004’s You Are The Quarry. It features Quarry producer Jerry Finn (who, sadly, died before the album was finished), behind the boards. And that’s frustrating, because that means more high-gloss production that is way too slick for its own good, and another album whose sonic palette is limited to cliched power-pop, glam-rock and punk-pop.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s really the only music Morrissey likes these days. Or perhaps he’s just scared to leave his comfort zone. Either way it’s disappointing, because the formula is growing artistically stale at this point. And honestly it wasn’t all that interesting in the first place. But I guess it wouldn’t be a Morrissey solo album if it didn’t produce at least a few tears for Johnny Marr’s absence.
The chugging guitars do work well in some places. The revved-up pop-punk of opener “Squeezing My Skull” and closer “I’m OK By Myself” ably suit our singer’s newfound anger. The last minute of “Myself” rocks harder than anything Morrissey’s ever done and is really pretty awesome. Elsewhere though, the wall of distorted guitars and hokey synthesized strings only makes more bland what are, in essence, excellent songs.
“Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed” is a good example. The song features outstanding vocal lines, but they have to fight through an overactive production that includes an abundance of cheap-sounding keyboards and heavy metal guitar punches. That it’s still an enjoyable and memorable song only indicates the quality of Morrissey’s melodies. Production should aid the song, not detract from it. But unfortunately, the songs on this record consistently succeed in spite of the production, not because of it.
OK, the main thing to foucs on here, though, is that the songs do succeed in the end. Could the album be better with a different band, some different arrangements and a different producer? Yes, yes and yes. But is the album great anyway as it is? Without a doubt, yes.
Nearly 30 years into his career, Morrissey is still finding new ways to explore and explain the human experience. And that is an achievement not to be underestimated or underrated, especially in this decade of pop music that can’t seem to find an artist capable of making three decent albums let alone a dozen.
I hope, for his sake, the old Stephen Patrick can sustain happiness someday. But, selfishly, his recent heartbreak has helped give us the best Morrissey record in 15 years.
No related posts.
I doubt anyone could capture Mozzer in review form better than that.