Consequential Lyrics #5: The Smiths

There was a time when I enthusiastically advertised my adoration for The Smiths song, Rubber Ring. I always sure to provide that auspicious caveat that I would never outgrow the Smiths. I rebuffed those introductory lyrics: A sad fact widely known, the most impassionate song to a lonely soul is so easily outgrown. I'm certain that there were many others like me who were determined to reassure themselves that The Smiths were not just a phase, a fascination stemming from teen loneliness. Now, I can't help but view Rubber Ring as Morrissey's provocative statement, trolling the reverence of the faithful Smiths fan. To me, it's almost akin to a highly cherished (yet extremely insecure) lover baiting you in a snarl: "You'll get over me, you'll forget me when I'm gone."

Yet, in returning to The Smiths in this episode of Consequential Lyrics, I can't help but feel like there is a kernel of truth in Morrissey's prediction. It's a struggle to define exactly what I mean by that, because it is not as if I don't still love them. Their music and lyrics continue to be very important, but somehow it seems to lack that closeness it once had. I think back to when the lyrics was distressingly relevant: when loneliness, yearning and affinity seemed to be a central concern, when disastrous nights out seemed to be more prevalent. I assumed that its resonance had diminished because I don't live like that anymore. I don't think like that anymore. It's strange and it all makes me wonder whether lyrics really need to have that contemporary relevance in order to be truly consequential.

It's been suggested to me that it's not really a matter of relevance, more an issue of personal acknowledgement. For some, it can be especially difficult to acknowledge painful memories, those feelings that are recalled when we listen to songs like I Know It's Over and Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want. The intimacy of Morrissey's lyricism can be distressing at times and the fact that these songs often take place within the adolescent bedroom serves to intensify that intimacy. It's important to have that idea of Morrissey as the adolescent fan and loner, it's important because it clearly demonstrates that he's been where "you" are now. He adores Sparks and The New York Dolls as you adore The Smiths and he gets it, he genuinely understands what it is to identify and obsess.

More than anything, it's important to preserve that idea of Morrissey as the adolescent fan and loner because eventually, he found someone that cured him: he met Johnny Marr. For my friends and I, The Smiths represented this prospect of an intensely brilliant creative partnership. We would analyse Morrissey and Marr: their oddly non-confrontational collaborative methods involving Johnny pushing a cassette tape through Morrissey's postbox, Marr's evident annoyance when he said he wrote this beautiful, rambling guitar line and then Morrissey called it Some Girls are Bigger Than Others. It was hardly an ideal partnership but you could see the love, you could see the affection in all those photographs of them together, draped over one another. We looked to them because it was the kind of connection we had always yearned for. We had always yearned for something as precious and as rare as their love for one another.

The Smiths lack that contemporary relevance because I no longer have that desire to have a Marr to my Morrissey (or a Morrissey to my Marr). I suppose that stings a little, because it was something that I had always wanted, something that I felt like I had always needed in order to be successful. I now see that intensely brilliant creative partnership is a kind of luxury, a myth that suggests a Marr could just rock up on your doorstep and fill the cracks in your head and your heart. But maybe that shift in attitude means that The Smiths are more probably relevant than they ever were, in all my years of loving them. It hurts to listen to them because they remind me of the hope I had and the hope I lost.

For we cannot cling to those old dreams anymore...
Consequential Lyrics #5: The Smiths
Rubber Ring
Pretty Girls Make Graves
How Soon is Now?
Girl Afraid
There is a Light That Never Goes Out
Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
I Won't Share You

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To celebrate the opening, C&CM is offering a 10% discount when you check out with the codeword SWOON. Offer expires March 1st 2013!

Thank you for your continuing support!

It was my kind friend, Adam of Pretending Life is Like a Song who suggested the proposition: "There's an argument that The Smiths' best song is Back to the Old House on Hatful of Hollow (1984) and their worst song is Back to the Old House on Louder than Bombs (1987)." I was more than willing to agree with him: Hatful of Hollow > Louder than Bombs. There is something remarkable about that acoustic interpretation, the resonance of Johnny's guitar, Morrissey's breathtaking vocal delivery, I'm sure many others would agree. Yet, it surprises me to admit that, because I heard the version on Louder than Bombs first.

You never knew how much I really liked you, because I never even told you - oh, but I meant to.
The realisation made me reflect upon that unspoken tendency to prefer the first version of a song we hear. The "first version" manages to become the more definitive interpretation with every repeated listening. This may occur even though the "first version" may, in actuality, be the more illegitimate. It may be a cover, demo or in the case of New Order's Brutal (2000), unduly sped up and distorted to shit. Familiarity with the "first version" may result in a difficulty to accept the qualities of another version. We come up with irrational pronouncements, like Mito's epic Italo anthem Droid (1982) cannot begin to compare with its cover by Hypnosis (1987): the cover is that much better.

A part of me thinks that musical familiarity has much to do with the subconscious. So often, I find myself inexplicably drawn to specific Italo tracks, only to discover I had heard them years before, included in DJ Zyron's Classic Italo Mix. I recognised Catcall's track, Swimming Pool (2010) during her support performance of CSS, not because I had heard the song on the radio, but because my sweet friend Louise of Eton Mess Life sang it in passing, well over a year before. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there exists this subconscious desire to find a version, a "first version" in an attempt to obsessively revisit and ferociously defend.

Yet, it is somehow more vindicating to discover a "second version" which far surpasses the first. It obliterates the comfort that comes from musical familiarity, however conscious. Such a discovery suggests that there continues to be a process of engagement, a process of assessing a song on its merits. Sure, it may never be possible to emulate the dizzying high: that initial moment where an interpretation becomes the first and absolute definitive. But, in spite of all attachments, it may be possible to fall in love with a song, over and over again.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #39
Big Ben Tribe - Tarzan Loves the Summer Nights
Michael Bedford - More Than a Kiss
Hysterical Fit - Come and Make Me High
Albert One - For Your Love (Another Version)
Buzzer - Complications (Moar Cowbell Mix)
Hot Cold - I Can Hear Your Voice
Mozzart - Malice and Vice
Ken Heaven - The Calling

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It is difficult to define what is so alluring about the cover artwork for Our Favourite Shop by the Style Council. Paul Weller and Mick Talbot, with the assistance of sleeve designer Simon Halfon and photographer Olly Ball, literally recreated their own favourite shop on a set. They filled their imaginary shop with their most treasured cultural artifacts. You are compelled to look closer, to identify the significance of these objects. You can make out a Rickenbacker guitar, a clutch of soul LPs and a poster for A Hard Day's Night. You can make out photos of Brigitte Bardot, Terry-Thomas and David Blaine's portrait of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. I can make out several books that I have in my own house, such as George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion and Kenneth Williams' Acid Drops. The visual rhetoric of this cover artwork is clear: we are cultural aficionados and these are the things that matter most to us.


Your Favourite Shop? But That's My Favourite Shop!

Listeners use cover artwork to visually connect with both the music and the artist, to make sense of who they are and what they're about. In many ways, Our Favourite Shop reminds me of the cover artwork to the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. To identify figures such as Edgar Allan Poe, Marilyn Monroe or Stuart Sutcliffe among an audience of cardboard cutouts can be an incredibly captivating. If you're very cluey, it's almost possible to positively identify some cultural figures in that artwork, with the possible exception of Adolf Hitler. With some imagination, you can even identify the influence of some figures within the Beatles music itself. But above all, the artwork of Sgt. Pepper makes it clear that the Beatles are fans. At a time when the Beatles had stopped touring and "Beatlemania" was dying down, to return the idea of the Beatles were, themselves, fanatical about other writers, actors or musicians was absolute genius. It is an act of creative humility for successful musicians to brand themselves as a fellow fans. This image effectively says to their fans that they understand what it is to follow, love, collect and connect with the creative output of another.

Now, it is hardly an uncommon thing for a successful musician to market himself as a fellow fan in cover artwork. Occasionally the adulation is a little bit more subtle, taking the form of less-than-obvious symbolism of Oasis' Definitely Maybe. Other times it would be far more blatant, such as Morrissey's treatment of nostalgic screenshots as cover artwork for singles by the Smiths. I still love to see fandom in its many different manifestations, particularly from those who don't need to follow the creative guidance of anyone else. Whenever I see the cover artwork of Jamie T's Panic Prevention or Carbon/Silicon's The Last Post, I am grateful that these musicians are fans, too. They are still enthusiastic about following, loving, collecting and connecting with music.. and although we may never meet or exchange words of any particular consequence, I appreciate that understanding of musical love and enthusiasm will always exist between us.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Britpop Podcast #16
Blur - End of a Century (Live at Hyde Park 3/7/09)
Stone Roses - Love Spreads
Elastica - 2:1
Black Box Recorder - Start As You Mean To Go On
Badly Drawn Boy - Once Around The Block
Space - Neighbourhood
Eggstone - Wrong Heaven
Elle Milano - The Choreographer (2nd Demo)

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I was 13 when it was brought to my attention that I had particularly "gay" taste in music. We were in Health class at the time, Hannah and I were discussing Freddie Mercury in distressingly minute detail when our teacher overheard us talking. She approached us and openly scoffed, promptly announcing to the class that Queen were a "gay band" and to like them was to "be gay". I was overwrought with such bigotry and with heated cheeks, I spluttered a clumsily-constructed argument: "I love Freddie's songs, I love his voice. I don't see how that makes me gay, how does that make anyone gay? What does musical taste have to do with sexual orientation?" My Health teacher remained incredulous and unconvinced. Even though many years have passed since then, I continue to be intrigued by that confrontation. I am still trying to figure out what relationship, if any, exists between musical taste and sexuality.

Assigning a sexual orientation to song, band or musical movement has always seemed to be offensive to my sensibilities. This became relevant when I developed a particularly intense affinity with synthpop, some ten years ago. I knew that others had associated synthpop with gay subculture, namely due to its heavy reliance upon exaggerated aesthetics, flamboyant imagery and camp extravagance. It was something clearly identifiable in the cross-dressing shenanigans of Erasure's clip Take A Chance On Me. Even still, I didn't see how my love for this genre had any relevance to my being a straight fourteen year old girl. I could listen to songs like Erasure's I Love Saturday, the Pet Shop Boys' Tonight is Forever or Depeche Mode's See You and still strongly identify with the romance of these lyrics. To me, it is the ambiguous treatment of pronouns that makes the lyrics in synthpop so intensely relateable. Particularly in the earlier work of these artists, there is rare mention any gender specifically. There are simply universal notions of sublime love and affection.

This issue takes on a fascinating dimension when purportedly "straight" indie bands borrow from imagery from a gay context. The Smiths, in particular, employed feminine imagery in their live stage show, where Morrissey would sport a woman's blouse and stuff gladioli flowers in his back pocket (if you could ever imagine it). The illusion was further enhanced by Morrissey's aggressively emphatic claims to asexuality in the British musical press. Brett Anderson of Suede would similarly flirt with notions of sexual ambiguity, from the suggestive "have you ever tried it that way?" in Pantomime Horse to the more provocative proclamation "I suppose I'm a bisexual who has never had a homosexual experience". The British musical press, again, sought to obsessively clarify and re-clarify the exact nature of Brett's sexual inclination. They wanted to know exactly what he meant by that, why? Why was it relevant or even necessary to dissect the sexual appetites of Morrissey, Brett Anderson or even David Bowie or Brian Molko? Is this knowledge really necessary in assessing how we engage with their persona? Does it make us feel any differently about their music?

That what we would traditionally label as "indie" continues to have a taste of sexual subversion, but these days it is far more subtle. It is present in the suggestive lyrics of Michael by Franz Ferdinand or in the clip of the Strokes song Juicebox, but such imagery is rarely controversial. Contemporary indie capitalises upon the unacknowledged truth of taste: that the most refined form of sexual attractiveness is the adoption of physical attributes from the opposite sex. Indie musicians adopt feminine attributes in private, they apply eyeliner, put on skinny girls' jeans and use expensive hair straighteners. The feminine influence is far from overt, but it is detectable. Sometimes it even gets to a point where androgyny becomes so latent in a musician's appearance that you begin to think that there isn't the intensely insidious breed of homophobia, that maybe there is no relationship between musical taste and sexuality. But then you see instances of Kele Okereke, having to account for the meaning and sexual intent of every Bloc Party song and then you realise that people still care, people will always care. Because as much as you want to detach musical taste and sexuality, they will always be inextricably linked.


So on that note, I leave you with today's podcast, Electro Podcast #15. I would be interested to hear your views on this topic, so be sure to write me a comment.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Electro Podcast #15
Robyn - Cobrastyle
Hot Chip - Arrest Yourself
Frankmusik - Confusion Girl (Don Diablo Loves To Slowdance Mix)
Pet Shop Boys - Email
Erasure - When I Needed You (Melancholic Mix)
New Kids on the Block - Hold On
Milli Vanilli - Is It Love?
Sliimy - Wake Up

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It goes without saying that I have been reveling in the shock and surprise that is Blur's Hyde Park reformation. As well as contemplating how I could possibly come up with the cash to fund such a jaunt, I had been thinking about how the reunion could have come about. After all, I had been long convinced of the tattered relationship between Albarn and Coxon. I had read all about it in magazines, you know. Not to mention in online publications. I thought I had worked out the dynamics of their working relationship and in doing so, I had dismissed the possibility of any reconciliation. Then I was struck by unusual thought. I thought of exactly how much of our engagement with music is derived from our construction of a musician's character. I am fully aware that my prior sentence sounds distinctly like meaningless "Bachelor of Arts" speak, but just bear with me here.

I can recall the days where I would fervently research the character of Steven Patrick Morrissey of the Smiths. In a very doting fashion, I would read all of Morrissey's archived interviews at The Arcane Old Wardrobe. Everything he said was always laced with a very deliberate ambiguity. Morrissey fancied himself a bit of a modern day Oscar Wilde. In retrospect, he came across as Wildean in the true Uncyclopedian sense of the word. I can never take his oblique statements seriously nowadays. They seem too much like flippant non-sequiturs, designed to create lust and intrigue in the hearts and minds of alienated young girls. I came to question his sincerity, really. My perennial issue with Morrissey is how is it that he came to write lyrics that are imbued with such intense feelings of yearning when he claims to be an individual entirely devoid of romantic inclination? What the hell is all that about?

I know that it is not just me. I know that others have carefully studied the personal background of their most admired musicians. I suspect that research is intended to uncover any trace of arrogance, indifference or insincerity on the part of the musician. When I realise that this musician is not "for real" as such, it becomes a real turn off for me. I know in my own interviewing experience, I could never listen to the music of Moving Units, The Departure, Editors, Kings of Leon or Ambulance LTD after I discovered what they were really like. I understand that I possess this hyper-romantic preconception that my musicians must care for music as much as I do. There must be some kind of requited nature in all this, otherwise my love is based on something that is fake and inconsequential.. and I can't have any of that.

So, where does this all leave us really? Must we all face up to the reality that our entaglement with music derives from a hyper-romanticised depiction of a person's character? I suppose so. Much like crush mythology, we should take solace in the understanding that we develop an affinity with the idea of a person, not the person itself. Perhaps I only speak for myself when I admit that I want to find affinity with musicians that have depth, warmth and doleful complexity. With that being said, I want to flesh out as many musical characters as possible so they all have a distinct role in British musical history. I suppose that is how I could understand how the hell Albarn and Coxon could have possibly mended their tattered relationship and play apart of Blur once again.


Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Britpop Podcast #10
The Fakrays - All Day
Elle Milano - Ooo Beyoncé Baby (Demo)
Let's Wrestle - I Won't Lie To You
Oasis - I'm Outta Time
Ocean Colour Scene - Huckleberry Grove
Suede & Pet Shop Boys - Rent (Live)
Mint Royale - Don't Falter
Kill City - Hooligans on E
Not the Nine O'Clock News - I Like Bouncing

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