In the interest of full disclosure, I suppose I should get it out of the way and tell you now– I’m a big, giant, freakish fan of The Smiths.
I didn’t used to be. I used to consider them overrated and even boring. I believed what people said about Morrissey, that he was the Pope of Mope, a touchstone for depressive teenagers, with flat, one-dimensional lyrics.
Then a couple of things happened. A friend played “Cemetery Gates” for me to cheer me up one night, and after I scoffed (The Smiths? To cheer me up?), I realized that she was right, and it was a beautiful, clever, cheerful song. With references to Keats and Oscar Wilde, no less.
I started giving Mozzer et al more of a chance, and a couple of years later, when I went through a particularly rough spot, I realized what fantastic companions The Smiths can be. They’re occasionally genuinely angsty, enough that you can properly empathize with them, but the lyrics are brilliant and have so many facets that you’ll find yourself laughing, or at least quirking a smile, at the most unexpected moments.
I also need to mention that Morrissey, the singer and lyricist, and Johnny Marr, the guitarist and melody-maker, are perhaps the most perfect songwriting team in all of western (alterna)(pop)(rock) history. To my personal taste I would definitely place them above Lennon/McCartney, and their break-up was certainly no less a tragedy.
Having said all this, and having recently been on the topics of both Morrissey and Elvis, I’d like to examine one of their minor gems, “Rusholme Ruffians.” If you’re unfamiliar, take a moment to listen:
