1987 08 Smiths Q
Oh, such drama! Morrissey? Ah yes... that listless mode of deportment so shambolically bereft of chic. Those incorrigibly provocative tunes so intoxicatingly drenched in melancholy. Those tortuously-interwoven pronouncements so shamelessly strewn with florid mots justes. The Smiths' singer is driven by a distaste for normality. Any day now, he tells Paul du Noyer, he fully expects to be locked up. Steven Patrick Morrissey, 28, momentarily reflects upon a subject which has commanded his unswerving interest for a number of years. Himself. “I suppose I’m just an arcane old… wardrobe , really,” he sighs, in a Northern voice, softly cobblestoned. Quite so. But such a remarkable item of furniture he has proved, so amply stocked within – with shirts of doubt, entire overcoats of irony, sock drawers of secrecy and not a few trousers’ worth of anguish. An unusually capacious cupboard, also, with room in its gloomiest corners for a huddled mass of waifs and strays. To the more inte