1987 09 12 Smiths "Strangeways Here We Come" Review NME

TOMB IT MAY CONCERN

THE SMITHS

Strangeways, Here We Come

(Reviewed from an advance tape of the album, due for release by Rough Trade on September 28).

'MAN THAT is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay" (Anglican Funeral Service).

The Smiths are, after all the speculation, finally heading the queue for the Crem. Look at the pit they dug themselves: signed to deadly EMI; Johnny Marr - the decade's most original rock guitarist and musical keystone of the combo - had done a runner, and Mike Joyce followed, while bass player Rourke's struggled on with his drug problem. Surely the odds stacked against them creating another flawed 'Meat Is Murder', let alone an LP of universally-acclaimed quality like 'The Queen Is Dead'?

Predictably, in these circumstances,'Strangeways,...' finds Morrissey with one hoof heavily into his sarcophagus. From the opening line of the positively raunchy 'A Rush And A Push And The Land Is Ours' - "I am the ghost of troubled Joe"- it seems as if he's determined to give his fun 'n' money-lovin' critics as much ammo for derision as humanely possible. He even seems to relish calling a song 'Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before', in the face of those who perpetually take the piss out of him and reckon that every Smiths song sounds the same.

To my ears the major criticism of Morrissey has been that he's a miserable defeatist who encourages negative, rather than positive, responses from his admirers. There's some truth in this, as revealed here in 'Death Of A Disco Dancer' and 'Death At One's Elbow', the weakest links on 'Strangeways,...' The first is overlong (like 'Barbarism. . .') and, despite Marr's ingenious plinky-guitar crescendo, totally predictable: "love, peace and harmony/love, peace and harmony/Oh very nice, very nice, very nice, very nice/ but maybe in the next world". The second is fast and furious and as much of a slim self-parody of The Smiths' best as 'Sheila. . .'and 'Shoplifters. . .' were.

But it's the weird balance of Morrissey's mortal humour with Marr's beatific melodies that establishes The Smiths' final greatness. Mozzer as the jilted, unrequited lover, "The one you left behind" who spoils the party with 'Unhappy Birthday' wishes: "drink, drink, drink, and be ill tonight"; Mozzer as the "hairbrushed and parted" provocateur of 'I Started Something I Couldn't Finish', a classic pop song that seems to echo - believe it or not - the treasured oeuvre of T.Rex, Mud and The Glitter Band!; Mozzer as the emotionally dithering laddo in 'Girlfriend In A Coma'.

The point, of course, is that pop is a confidence trick; it pretends it's a world of harmless entertainment and yet continually bombards us with the we're-having-a-good-time-and-there's-something-seriously-wrong with-you-if-you're-not philosophy; a world where "people who are weaker than you and l/they take what they want from life" ('A Rush And A Push...'). In response The Smiths tackled bloody serious subjects in tandem with addictive tunes; Morrissey could turn spina bifida into a Top Ten hit and probably will.

Those who believe that Steven Patrick Morrissey should address himself to the political affairs of this nation will again be disappointed. Lyrically he fails to allude to Roy Hattersley's girth or the indignity of Labour, and instead continues to mine that seam of fatal realism. Excuse me, but Saul Bellow observed that "Ignorance of death is destroying us. Death is the dark backing a mirror needs if we are to see anything". And it often seems that Morrissey's philosophy and humour (like Woody Allen's) arises from a similar obsession with the inevitability of turning one's toes up, of popping one's clogs. Hence the emphasis on life's priorities like love, sex, laughter and bicycles.

"No, don't mention love/l can't take the strain of the pain all over again." Love, sex and death remain constants in The Smiths' 'Strangeways,.. .' songs. The universal appeal still stems from Morrissey's comic, deliberate ambiguity about who he can and can't have: "I grabbed you by the gilded beans/That's what tradition means". He’s sexy and risque but never crude or sordid; he wears his heart on his sleeve, I see no reason why he should have to make clumsy public proclamations about his sexual preferences.

In the same way that he took time out on 'Meat Is Murder' to propound vegetarianism and on 'The Queen Is Dead' to satirise his own Wilde-like plagiarism, on 'Strangeways,...' it's Rough Trade that get the treatment. 'Paint A Vulgar Picture' is a bitter attack on the label's exploitation of the band's success - "At the record company party/on their hands a dead star"- and on its marketing ploys: "satiate the need, slip them into different sleeves, buy both and feel deceived", "please the press in Belgium". Morrissey also deprecates his own status as 'spokesman for a generation', pokes fun at his fawning fans' alarmingly close identification with him and his beliefs ("I walked apace behind you at the soundcheck, you're just the same as I am"), scoring a direct hit on people like me.

Morrissey's assured us that "it's impossible for anybody to change me as an individual, and it's certainly impossible for a record company to change me". Thus The Smiths had sentenced themselves to that Strangeways of pop, that long-term institution, EMI; a multinational which seemed to celebrate news of the split with the tell-tale comment, "essentially we now have two acts for the price of one".

Whether Morrissey or Ferry-sidekick Marr can thrive in this new environment remains to be seen but, listening obsessively to 'Strangeways,...', I can't help feeling that this is a once in a lifetime partnership; a uniquely complimentary marriage of talents that's developed from a long-established friendship.

Coming to 'Strangeways,.. .' I was half prepared to put the boot into The Smiths. I was sure that mid-production upsets - the breakdown in communication between Mozz and Marr (the absence of Marr's beloved B-side instrumentals from the last four singles and Marr remaining close to sacked Smiths manager Ken Friedman) - would tarnish its quality. But 'Strangeways,...' contains two of Morrissey/Marr's greatest moments since the Fab Four's inception.

There's the warm Mersey acoustics of the final track 'I Won't Share You', which beautifully echoes both 'Back To The Old House' and 'You'll Never Walk Alone'. And, outstandingly, there's 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' -which builds from atmospheric solo piano and madding crowd noises, then explodes into Morrissey's most emotional unloveable vocals, and reaches a 'Wild Is The Wind' falsetto climax coupled with a thousand violins. It's as great as 'I Know It's Over'.

I don't think there's any point in comparing The Smiths with their pop contemporaries; a couple of dodgy singles aside they remained above and beyond the rest, ploughing their own furrow (digging their own grave?), setting their own standards. I passionately hoped this was not to be their last breath, but nevertheless, in case you haven't guessed by now, 'Strangeways, Here We Come' is a masterpiece that surpasses even 'The Queen Is Dead' in terms of poetic, pop and emotional power.

Yes, very nice, very nice, very nice, very nice...

Len Brown