1987 08 13 The Smiths, Sky

I never visit. I'm never visited. I never have people to tea.

The Smiths have weathered their crises of confidence, drink and drugs and have just signed to EMI for a rumoured £lm. Yet lead singer Morrissey still lives his eccentric, monastic, bookish, celibate life, in a dark, secluded Chelsea flat with only one light bulb — and remains as charming as ever. Daniela Soave talks to this uncommon man.

Steven Patrick Morrissey, 28, sometime author, mostly-singer and eccentric figurehead of the Smiths, is looking incredulous, perplexed and plain put out. “Oh,” he finally utters in his soft, Mancunian accent. “Oh. No-one’s ever said that to my face. Do you really think that of me?” Morrissey frowns again, obviously thinking that he's been landed with a bad-mannered hussy. But this charming man is as accommodating as ever and, still striving to be polite, he tries to get to the crux of the matter. "You say I talk like a berk,” he says, in hurt tones. “Why?” Book! B-O-O-K! Your conversation is peppered with such quaint, old-fashioned expressions that you talk like a book! And with that, we flop back into our seats, collapsing into fits of giggles. Some facts about the Smiths. Formed in 1982, they’re about to release their sixth album, Strangeways Here We Come, the last for indie-label Rough Trade before moving over to EMI, where they’ve signed a deal rumoured to be worth a million pounds. 

In the past, they’ve won accolade after accolade, including best band, best live act, best single, best LP and best dance record. To this list, Morrissey has added best male singer, best dresser, chap of the year, most wonderful human being and - most impressive of all - best buttocks in pop. Despite never reaching higher than number 10 in the British singles charts, the Smiths have a die-hard following which transcends the depressive raincoat brigade both here and, surprisingly, in the States. Last year in Los Angeles, for example, the Smiths sold out an 8,000-seater venue on two successive nights which A-ha, the week before, could barely half-fill, in spite of having a US number one and a Top 20 album. The Smiths have played for Red Wedge, although Morrissey states he feels no alliance with Neil Kinnock, but this single gesture has been the only contact the band has ever made with party politics, or, indeed, with anything else that “normal" groups do. Morrissey himself professes to have a distaste for all things normal, having brought previously-ugly NHS spectacles, hearing aids and —dare it be said — gladioli to the attention of the masses. He is not averse to the attention of the masses. He is not averse to listening, or dancing, to his own records and hates Madonna (“closer to organised prostitution”), Prince (“conveys nothing") and Boy George (“doesn't say anything"). And, furthermore, he loathes the group 5 Star.

The Smiths reached crisis point last year; it was truly make or break time. Guitarist, writer and Morrissey side-kick Johnny Marr grew so disgruntled that he developed a serious drink problem, sinking a bottle of brandy a day, while fellow Smith Andy Rourke had to be temporarily put out to pasture to sort out his heroin addiction. It was time to give their career a kick up the backside. Rourke and Marr overpowered their dependencies and the Smiths moved to EMI. Johnny Marr: "Of course the money’s part of the reason we signed. But EMI were the natural choice. They’re an institution in the English music scene, which is very much in keeping with the Smiths.”

The South Bank Show is filming a one-hour Smiths special to be broadcast in the autumn. Now read on.

‘To be honest, I haven’t got much to do with everyday life in the late 20th century,” Morrissey reveals, after we have regained our composure. “I read a lot. I still get steamed up over Jane Austen and Wuthering Heights. Most of the time I am steeped in books. I confess to being in a mental time-warp.

"I never visit. I’m never visited. I never have people to tea. So yes, that does come over in the way I talk, because the fact that I stand apart from everyday life makes my phrases and form of conversation different.

"Who attempts to stretch their language? It alarms me how stilted and limited people’s conversations are. I expect they THINK they have conversations, but I rarely hear it. People generally survive on a collection of jokes. If you say anything elaborate, you’re regarded as odd,” he lets out a deep sigh.

A pity. While one would never label Morrissey as anything as common as a gossip, it is obvious he loves to talk. And while it must be conceded that he lives a reclusive existence, he could never be referred to as a gloomy person.

"Yes indeed,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. "I do quite honestly think I’m capable of laughter and humour. I think people see what they want to see in me. I was a recluse at the age of 12. My parents thought I was odd and tried to snap me out of it, but it was too late, even by then. I think I was born middle-aged.

“I see language as a survival skill. Because I came from a very poor background, it was very reactionary to care about language. Even the teachers considered me odd. One of the biggest shocks in my life was when I failed the 11-plus. I couldn’t understand it; some of the people who passed were complete bedraggled chumps and I, who wasn’t, failed it. It was a devastating blow. Since then I don’t really feel I have expanded in any way as a human being - as I get older I simply crawl slowly backwards into the burrow.”

Morrissey spends most of his time in his rented flat in Chelsea. “It’s very, very dark and secluded,” he explains. "It’s at the back of a huge house, and I feel very private there because nobody can get past the porter. I like that. My house in Manchester is very cottagy, very green, because it's close to the countryside. I feel quite vulnerable in it, because people come up and stare. It’s very unnerving. It just does not work for me to live in Manchester. I feel at home in Chelsea. Why? I like the name. I have one light bulb in my entire flat. I didn’t really notice this for about 12 months. Now I go back to Manchester only to listen to tapes."

Some might say that this reclusive, monastic existence is an utter fabrication, cleverly calculated as a ploy to gain column inches. Ordinary people don’t make interesting pop personalities, after all. Morrissey, as an asexual celibate with a tendency towards suicide, makes perfect fodder. Take that away from him and what is left? Does he need such qualities to drive his creative force?

"Hmmmmmmmm," he muses politely. ‘That’s a nice theory and I can understand it completely. I do feel motivated by something unseen. It’s leading me somewhere, I do feel like I’m on a trail. I do understand obsessions like suicide, because a lot of the people I was interested in as an adolescent - James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Stevie Smith, Sylvia Plath - were dead. I think you take your life in a moment of strength, and I was unpopular because I believed this rather than seeing it as the easy way out. I remember in younger years being very envious of people who had taken their own lives in an act of ...” he pauses, “unstoppable bravery. At the time I could see very clearly the bad things in life.

"Becoming successful and having an audience is very important to me. Performing on a stage in front of all those people is very important to me. Hardship and intense mental strain is completely balanced then. Sometimes I feel that is the real me. Some people feel that going on stage is an act, stepping out of the real person — but with me, its the complete opposite.”

So Morrissey continues to live a sheltered, bookish existence, coming out to play only when the Smiths band together for a tour or an excursion to the recording studios. It is undeniably part and parcel of his charm and, more importantly, his makeup. Would falling in love and becoming a twosome ruin this unique lifestyle?

“I feel if I were to have a relationship I would have it quite happily and there would be no mystique,” he concludes. “I know, however, I will never have a relationship in my life; I don’t believe it will ever happen. It’s practically too late. At 28-years-old, I feel it’s far too late.

"The things I most treasure are my possessions a lot of books and records. I don’t have anything dramatically expensive, but I’d be distraught if I lost them. I’m very fond of my furniture, which is very old and genteel.”

Rather like Morrissey himself — full of period charm. And living a lifestyle almost completely anachronistic.