Morrissey - Smiths - The last popstar

Not many bands in rock history have managed to fully embody the complexity of a specific cultural and historical era, shouldering its political and social uncertainties and turning the fabric of their songs into a megaphone for the cry of an entire generation left without a voice — or, perhaps, without even the will to keep speaking. From this perspective, Manchester has made a more than substantial contribution, with the Joy Division at the end of the Seventies and the Oasis in the Nineties, but as far as the decade in between is concerned — the most controversial and problematic of all, the Eighties — the dominant, "paradigmatic" figure was essentially one: the Smiths.

The impact that the musical (and poetic) output of the band led by Steven Patrick Morrissey and Johnny Marr has had on British culture is still more than tangible today (the constant success of anthologies and reissues of their far-from-massive catalogue is partial proof of this), so much so that one could almost say that, from the year of their split right up to today, the band has never stopped being relevant and "current", an inexhaustible source of inspiration for hundreds of groups of every kind, latitude and generation (with a significant peak during the Britpop years). Not bad for a group that, from the very start of its career, never pursued the ambition of experimenting with the "new", placing ahead of the invention of unprecedented styles the need for a "beautiful singing" capable of drawing on and preserving an existential truth free from the deceptive, treacherous masks of ideology and all-too-easy conformism.

The birth and unstoppable success of this sort of instant legend or icon were fuelled in equal measure by an extremely recognisable musical style, seemingly simple in its moves (and for that very reason endlessly imitated in the years to come), and by the charismatic, egocentric figure of its singer — a razor-sharp observer (and scourge) of English society (and humanity more broadly), as well as a refined writer "on loan" to music.

Steven Patrick Morrissey was born on 22 May 1959 to a couple of Irish immigrants of modest means, living in Hulme, in the southern outskirts of Manchester. After a peaceful childhood, following his parents' separation he led an increasingly solitary, withdrawn existence, finding a stable centre of gravity within the reassuring walls of his own room. At the same time, he developed a growing, deep love of literature, particularly the works of Oscar Wilde, with whom he developed a kind of dizzying identification (traces of which remain scattered across some of his songs), but also of cinema, especially the output of certain British filmmakers working around the turn of the late Fifties and early Sixties, whose films (from "Taste of Honey" to "Billy Liar", among many others), with their realistic snapshots of an English society in deep crisis and ferment, went on to define a very precise framework of narrative references and archetypal figures that would constantly (at times almost obsessively) feed Morrissey's poetic inventions.

Above all, though, comes his deep fascination with the world of pop music: his tastes swing between the refined elegance of sensitive performers like Marianne Faithfull and Sandie Shaw (to whose media relaunch he would personally contribute in years to come) and the naive, dreamy sound of the legendary girl groups launched by Phil Spector (with a particular soft spot for the Shangri-Las).

The first real jolt came with glam, whose irrepressible transgressive charge, together with an ambiguously winking eroticism, captured the imagination of the young Morrissey, who began following with growing passion the feverish exploits of pioneers like the New York Dolls (on whom he published a short essay in 1981, soon followed by a similar work dedicated to James Dean), David Bowie, his beloved Marc Bolan and his T-Rex, Roxy Music and Sparks. Nor could he avoid coming into contact with the first stirrings of the punk phenomenon in a Manchester destined to become, first thanks to the rapid rise of the Buzzcocks and later to the releases put out by the Factory label, one of the most vital British cities of the new national rock scene.

On 4 June 1976 he attended the historic Sex Pistols gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester, and so he too was "infected" (not without a certain detachment and a good dose of irony, as testified by a letter that appeared in NME) by that same oddly-named viral infection that was then striking the impressionable minds of the young subjects of the Queen.

Working class heroes

His first musical forays, however, were not very fortunate. He first played (as a singer, being a strict non-musician) in the Nosebleeds, thanks to the backing of his friend Billy Duffy, but the band broke up after a few sporadic live appearances (noticed by the watchful Paul Morley). He tried out for Slaughter & The Dogs, without success. For a while he also toyed with the idea of devoting himself to music journalism, but things didn't seem to work out satisfactorily on that front either.

The decisive meeting came in 1982, when John Martin Maher (who would later rename himself Johnny Marr) knocked on Morrissey's door, having been pointed his way by a mutual acquaintance. The aim was to set up an artistic collaboration to write music not necessarily intended for a band, perhaps to be sold to some already-established performer. The two discovered they shared a very similar musical imagination, and the partnership began to take shape. Johnny Marr, like Morrissey, was the son of working-class Irish immigrants from Manchester, and had nurtured a visceral passion for the guitar since his teenage years, voraciously studying the scores of his favourites Howlin' Wolf, Keith Richards, Neil Young, Bert Jansch, Mick Ronson and Marc Bolan (not to mention the decisive influence of Roger McGuinn of the Byrds and Tom Petty, from whom he would derive that trademark jingle-jangle sound destined to define an era, inseparably tied to the music of the Smiths). In doing so he developed a very subtle understanding of the guitar's many tonal and expressive possibilities.

Yet even his first musical steps (alongside, among others, his close friend Andy Rourke) left no very tangible trace: the longest-lived groups were White Dice (who came close to landing a record deal) and Freak Party, in which for a brief time he was able to freely indulge his new passion for funk music (a love destined to prove lasting throughout the rest of his career, especially as a solo artist).

Having chosen the name The Smiths (one of the most common surnames in the Anglo-Saxon world, the Albion equivalent of our own Rossi or Bianchi, as if to underline a deliberate desire for anonymous, everyday ordinariness, combined with a context that was at times almost domestic and familial), the pair began writing their first songs: Morrissey took care of the specifically literary side of the lyrics, while Marr handled the compositional side, crafting melodies and instrumental textures with which to drape his partner's increasingly vivid images.

The first fruits of this embryonic phase include, among others, "Handsome Devil", "What Difference Does It Make?" and "Miserable Lie", among the "oldest" compositions in the Smiths repertoire. Their live baptism came on 4 October 1982, with Mike Joyce on drums (chosen following a fiery audition, for his energetic, muscular style) and Dale Hibbert on bass (replaced within a few months by Marr's old friend Andy Rourke). A demo was then recorded for a modestly intrigued EMI, which however failed to bear the hoped-for fruit, prompting the Smiths to "fall back" (after an unsuccessful approach to a Factory gagged by financial constraints) on the young Rough Trade, run by the enterprising Geoff Travis, who was very active in promoting (both as a seller and as a label boss) promising new wave acts, many of which were destined to write important pages in the musical history of the period (just think of The Fall, Pere Ubu, Cabaret Voltaire, The Pop Group or Swell Maps).

Meanwhile, the band played a legendary concert at the Hacienda in Manchester in February 1983, drawing considerable attention from the music press, not least thanks to the unusual aesthetic choice of adorning the venue's bare walls with flowers (yellow daffodils, according to credible accounts), in homage to Oscar Wilde — a practice that would accompany the band's earliest appearances for quite some time, indelibly defining the very iconography of the Smiths. Morrissey's words from the time were telling: "The only important thing in 1983 is to be beautiful!"

In May 1983 the first single, "Hand In Glove", was released, with "Handsome Devil" on the B-side, and the band began to notch up prestigious appearances, first on a John Peel Session and, shortly after, on the David Jensen Show (some of these recordings would later appear on the compilation Hatful Of Hollow). "Hand In Glove" started to stir up increasingly loud controversy (over supposed homosexual references) because of the (deliberate?) wordplay in the title and because of the album's cover, which depicted a naked man photographed from behind. The lyrics, too, could lend themselves to "ambiguous" interpretations (as would very often happen with many songs written later on), and the matter grew even more heated when some newspapers saw in the lyrics of "Handsome Devil" an implicit glorification of paedophilia.

But the band pressed on regardless, and in October of that same year released the gorgeous single "This Charming Man", which broke into the Top 30 of the singles chart and paved the way for the band's first, well-received appearance on Top of the Pops. The following January saw the release of "What Difference Does It Make?", followed shortly after by a second appearance on Top of the Pops (in which Morrissey sported his trademark thick-framed, Buddy Holly-style glasses).

In February 1984 the Smiths' self-titled debut was released, produced by John Porter; it went platinum (even though it only reached number two on the sales charts) and, in a sense, officially set the band's legend in motion.

As many attentive commentators have noted (sometimes in a critical vein), the main novelty of the debut album The Smiths lies, quite paradoxically, in the near-total absence of novelty in strictly sonic and compositional terms. After years of constant innovation and experimentation, which had seen new wave hybridize with all manner of disparate languages, often veering close to the most erudite avant-garde, the Smiths rediscovered the unavoidable need to return to the essentials of a melodic classicism grounded in simple songs.

In doing so, they rediscovered and updated the compositional hallmarks that had graced rock production in the second half of the Sixties, through a complex web of references ranging from the Beatles to the Kinks, by way of the Velvet Underground, Love and the Byrds. At the same time, the music took on a more lyrical, introspective bent, sketching the blurred outlines of a private microcosm steeped in fragility and unconfessable contradictions, a small imaginary world populated by memorable characters — characters who often recount their own awkwardness and inadequacy in masterfully constructed little novels.

The cry of freedom and denied love that emanates from Morrissey's lyrics (one of the finest "writers" English music has ever produced), his assertion of an irreducible otherness (and therefore solitude), managed to shape the imagination of a new generation of teenagers crushed by the oppressive weight of barren Thatcherism and by the inexorable crumbling of every ideology or project of social revolution, amplifying the "deformities" and, at the same time, the need for truth of young people who entrusted the uncorrupted beauty of music with their last hope of genuine healing.

Musically speaking, the Smiths' essential traits are two, and both are already perfectly recognizable on the debut: first, the layering of Marr's soft guitar arpeggios, which cascade over Morrissey's sung words, wrapping them in a warm, crepuscular weave of airy sounds. The singer, for his part, glides lightly over the polished surfaces of his own voice, poised between the emotional tension of an operatic aria and the rapt chanting of a cult leader. Among the choicest fruits of this unrepeatable alchemy are certainly "This Charming Man" (included as a bonus track on the US edition of the album), which, with its trilling guitar strums and a sprightly, bubbly melodic turn, seems almost to burst into the air like a glowing flare; the splendid pastoral ballad "Reel Around The Fountain", originally intended as a single but then shelved following the controversy stirred up by the Sun over alleged paedophilic content (the tabloid would later be sued and found guilty of defamation); "Still Ill", whose rhythm is infiltrated by an almost funky stride, embellished with vocal flourishes of dazzling beauty; the controversial "Hand In Glove", which stretches out into an endless erotic minuet; and "What Difference Does It Make?", seized by a razor-sharp guitar phrase that etches itself instantly into memory.

The overall impression is of standing before the monologues of a small theatre of consciousness, in which a voice speaking to itself is framed by a cracked musical halo, a kind of set design woven from multicoloured guitars that intertwine and constantly lose themselves in one another. Only this can explain the timeless enchantment, the tenuous, world-weary suspension of small idylls such as the diaphanous "The Hand That Rocks The Cradle", "You've Got Everything Now" (perhaps among the most exemplary and representative of the band's stylistic signature), "Suffer Little Children", or even the livelier "Miserable Lie", which in its second half launches into an almost rockabilly-flavoured acceleration, seasoned with shrill falsetto vocalizations.

The band now found itself at the centre of a success that was growing by the day, but Morrissey and Marr, amid their various commitments, decided, before starting the recording sessions for the hugely anticipated new album, to fulfil an old dream by offering a collaboration to Sandie Shaw, a refined London singer who had enjoyed considerable success in the first half of the Sixties but who had for years now been on a steady commercial decline. The project, after an initial refusal from the singer, materialized into a single featuring covers of "Hand In Glove", "I Don't Owe You Anything" (the final track on The Smiths) and "Jeane" (previously released as the B-side of "This Charming Man" and not included on the album). The single broke into the Top 30, once again putting the nearly forgotten singer back in the spotlight; she returned the favour by occasionally sharing the stage with the Smiths, including a amusing appearance on what was by then their regular haunt, Top of the Pops.

Singles are beautiful

It was precisely during this period that the Smiths released, in single form, some of their most famous masterpieces. In particular, May saw the release of "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now", which achieved an excellent chart placing, closely followed in August by "William, It Was Really Nothing", which boasted as its B-side two tracks destined to brand the Smiths' saga for good: "How Soon Is Now?" (so good it earned its own reissue as a standalone single the following February) and "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want" (one of the best-known songs the Smiths ever wrote).

The quality of these compositions (instant classics, every one) was so high that in November 1984 they were gathered into an unconventional anthology which, alongside the songs already mentioned, brought together alternative versions of tracks already released as singles or on the debut album, reworked in live form from the radio sessions the band had recorded in 1983, together with a handful of partly unreleased songs dating back to the band's very earliest days, such as "These Things Take Time" and the much-discussed "This Night Has Opened My Eyes".

The compilation, Hatful Of Hollow, surprisingly breaks into the Top Ten and further boosts the Smiths' popularity, still regarded by many today as one of the finest pieces in the Smiths catalogue (a band that poured much of its juiciest material into singles) and kicking off a series of composite, often chaotic, anthologies that would bear further fruit over time (think especially of The World Won't Listen and Louder Than Bombs, both from 1987).

Meanwhile the band finishes work on its second album, released under the title Meat Is Murder in February 1985, which earns the Smiths their first number-one spot on the charts. Critical reception is fairly uniform, and the band now seems to have achieved definitive national recognition.

The record stands out above all for a greater variety of sonic approaches, with fairly pronounced stylistic shifts from one track to the next (against a backdrop of an increasingly consolidated and instantly recognisable "voice"), and for a broader scope in Morrissey's lyrics, which widen their investigative range (starting with the title itself, a bloodless profession of strict vegetarianism, though also open to subtler readings) toward a more social and less solipsistic, at times almost political, dimension.

The band then tests out possible new directions for its sound, starting with the denunciation of school teaching methods in "The Headmaster Ritual", a tight, singable pop song wrapped as usual in the elegant inlays of Marr's frothy, whirling guitar, with Morrissey having fun breaking up his voice into a disorienting play of refractions in the chorus. Then there's the thunderous, driving rock (consciously bordering on hard rock) of "What She Said", with a bass line slicing along boldly and a volcanic, Who-style drum performance. "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" (one of the album's undisputed peaks, on a par with "Well I Wonder") answers back with a country-soul sound shrouded in fleeting psychedelic mist.

The band's potential is capable of producing both Fifties-style rock'n'roll numbers (an old fascination of Moz's, evident in his look too) like "Nowhere Fast", and funk-wave citations with excellent groove and compositional flair, like "Barbarism Begins At Home", another furious invective aimed at domestic violence. Here and there in the lyrics one can read veiled references to a malaise that often spills over into a vague desire for suicide, something that sets off furious controversy in the press (with which Morrissey would maintain an ever more bitter and tormented relationship). What stands out, in any case, is the band's remarkable voracity, its eagerness to play with different languages, getting its hands dirty with the vividly naive colours of the fine folkabilly sketch "Rusholme Ruffians", before going on to experiment with concrete sounds and noise manipulations in a capriciously erudite divertissement like the title track "Meat Is Murder", teetering on the edge of atonality, before blossoming into a melodic design of particular dramatic intensity.

If a flaw can be found in the album, it perhaps lies in a somewhat too scattered vein and the lack of a stable formal centre of gravity. But from another angle, it is precisely the discontinuity of its inspirations that can prove to be its greatest strength. In effect the Smiths put together a little pocket handbook of pop music history, a gallery of refined miniatures and a notebook of spelling exercises from which their songwriting emerges undoubtedly stronger and more confident of its own abilities.

The band sets off on tour, first in Europe and then in the States, but problems are not lacking. Rourke and Joyce raise grievances over the internal split of earnings (a matter that also sparks a minor dispute with Rough Trade, perhaps fuelled by the increasingly open interest of major labels sniffing out a good deal), two managers are fired within a few months, and the band decides to manage itself independently.

Her Majesty on the scaffold

Despite this, the band manages to record its finest album, The Queen Is Dead, under the supervision of Stephen Street (future britpop elder statesman with Blur), who had already taken part in the Meat Is Murder sessions. The album hits shops in June 1986, quickly climbing the sales charts, helped also by the splendid singles that drive it forward, in particular the gorgeous, heart-wrenching "The Boy With The Thorn In His Side", "Bigmouth Strikes Again", "Panic" (its famous fatwa against the clubbing crowd, destined to stir up the usual hornet's nest of media controversy) and "Ask", the latter two released a few months after the album and not included on its tracklist (they would later be gathered, along with their B-sides and other scattered singles, on the 1987 compilation The World Won't Listen).

As many know, the record was originally meant to be titled "Margaret On The Guillotine" (yet another biting jab at the Iron Lady), testifying to an ever more tragic and inevitable impatience toward a country that had fallen into decline both morally and politically. But it would be reductive to read the title and the work as a whole in an exclusively (anti-)British light: the crisis the Smiths are referring to is, in a sense, far more general, alluding to the gradual and ineluctable collapse of all the great, illusory social narratives (homeland, empire, party, the sexual revolution, God, even music itself) that had built up the collective rhetoric of the great liberation movements of previous decades, before crushing their thundering promises against the hard, cold wall of an existence increasingly fractured and dramatically abandoned to its own loneliness.

Musically, the record doesn't stray too far from the rest of the Smiths' output (characterised, as noted, by general consistency, including in quality). The album has in fact gone down in the history of British rock more than any other for managing, in a certain way, to encapsulate what is, all things considered, the Smiths' defining "signature", through a nimble selection of ten fairly distinctive compositions, stylistically well "separated" from one another. It is here, in any case, that we find some of the most successful and convincing fruits of the Morrissey-Marr partnership. From this point of view, the second half of the record comes close to sheer, vibrant perfection: while "Cemetery Gates" remains caught up in the folds of a Fifties-flavoured country-rock, framed by lively bursts of bass, "Bigmouth Strikes Again" moves at an even brisker, pounding pace that serves as the perfect lead-in to the timeless splendour of "The Boy With The Thorn In His Side", built around an unforgettable melody over which Morrissey's voice (at its interpretive peak) lets itself dance.

The Smiths' sharpest weapon seems almost to be their own fragility, as shown by the closing trio of tracks: while "Vicar In A Tutu" is a mischievous folkabilly number adding to what is by now a fairly well-stocked collection of similarly built songs, "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" could truly never end, set as it is within an elegant, spare melody poised between the tradition of French chansonniers and the dreamy lightness of an Elizabethan sonnet. With "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others" the band finds a personal path into new wave, and Marr's flashing guitar insights weave a cloak of iridescent, restless notes.

The tracks on the first half of the album also hold plenty of interest, however: "The Queen Is Dead" brings back the band's more adventurous and musically experimental side, through a composition of over six minutes marked by several shifts and changes of scene, especially in the second half. "Frankly, Mr. Shankly" is an amused, old-fashioned stomp that almost seems to poke fun at Sinatra, while "I Know It's Over" is another key track, steeped in velvety Motown-indebted soul melancholy, which advances with a wounded, hesitant step before opening up into a more choral movement. "Never Had No One Ever" echoes it from a certain point on, through a structure that is in some ways very similar.

The record's resounding success is accompanied by the inevitable controversy over Morrissey's anti-monarchist outbursts, as he lays it on thick in one interview: "⟦Q1⟧"

The Smiths' political side also shows itself through their involvement with the "socialist rock" movement Red Wedge.

During the extensive world tour promoting the record, however, internal friction intensifies (largely due to the excessive managerial responsibilities that Marr, acting as makeshift manager, finds himself forced to shoulder). Commercial success, however, doesn't let up, helped along by the excellent sales enjoyed by the new singles "Shoplifters Of The World Unite" and "Sheila Take A Bow", all released in quick succession in 1987 (they would later be gathered, following an already well-established custom, into an anthology for the American market, Louder Than Bombs, released the same year).

Meanwhile, preparations begin for the fourth album, again with Stephen Street serving as co-producer. Strangeways, Here We Come hits record shops in September 1987, landing at the top of the charts like its predecessors and achieving decent success in America as well.

The Smiths' fourth album is marked by extremely refined, wide-open songwriting, capable of wrapping itself in rather sophisticated, labyrinthine, multi-layered arrangements, at times almost baroque. The band's knack for landing classy pop punches remains virtually unchanged, as shown by thoroughly delightful compositions like "Girlfriend In A Coma", "Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before", "Unhappy Birthday" or the closing "I Won't Share You", all of which sit within the band's main vein while enriching it with instrumental flourishes and less predictable structures.

The overall mood has an at times almost theatrical edge, poised between vaudeville and music-hall, thickened by denser arrangements and horn parts (listen, for instance, to the danceable "I Started Something I Couldn't Finish") or by more ethereal, rarefied atmospheres, as in the remarkable "Death Of A Disco Dancer", which curls up into a nest of decadent exhaustion, later sublimated into a coda that takes the shape of a sinister, stammering jam.

That same urge to break away from the melodic immediacy that had marked the first part of the Smiths' output can also be found in the dramaturgical pathos of "Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me", letting itself be carried along by a gust of melancholy strings with a "final" flavour and the dramatic grandiloquence of some glorious cinematic epic that never existed, or perhaps of an impossible farewell. The impression is that of a "transitional" work, tense and unstable throughout, able to combine a summary of everything the band had achieved up to that point (albeit viewed through a newfound retrospective awareness) with a series of significant new pointers toward possible paths of stylistic evolution that the Manchester band would sadly never get the chance to follow through on.

Tensions within the band grow rather sharp, including over the project's possible musical direction, and Johnny Marr, shortly before promotion for Strangeways, Here We Come was due to start, heads off to Los Angeles for a break. The press, NME chief among them, gives the story plenty of coverage, and rumours of an imminent split grow more insistent by the day. After a series of fruitless attempts to find a possible replacement guitarist, in September 1987 Morrissey officially confirms, via a press release, that the Smiths have split up (not without future legal wrangling over royalties to be divided).

For fans, it's an unprecedented trauma. Not for Morrissey, who is already working with Stephen Street on a potential solo career that will come to fruition, with great success, at the start of the following year. 1988 will also see the release of a posthumous Smiths live album, Rank, documenting a 1986 concert, while the double anthology of their singles, The Smiths Best, I & II (1992), will condense the best of their output.

Less brilliant will be the career of Johnny Marr, who in the years to come will bounce around a disorderly array of musically varied projects, from Electronic (alongside Bernard Sumner of fellow Mancunians New Order), with whom he releases three albums between 1991 and 1999, to the unsuccessful Healers, passing through dozens of collaborations as co-writer of individual songs, arranger or simple session player, right up to his recent success alongside indie rockers Modest Mouse (with whom, for the first time, he reached number 1 on the American charts!), and on to his joining the young Cribs.

The Famous International Playboy

The indomitable "Moz", then, begins a "second life" as a solo artist that will keep him firmly in the media spotlight, a shrewd self-strategist, even if rather far from the heights reached with the Smiths.

A shot by Dutch photographer Anton Corbijn captures him on the cover of his first solo album, Viva Hate (1988). "Long live hate", nihilism distilled into a pop slogan, or perhaps a bitter verdict on the end of the Smiths experience. But the memory is still too fresh and hard to shake off. And so the record largely retains the imprint of the glorious Manchester outfit: Morrissey's caustic, plaintive sing-song delivery, the sticky melodies and a guitar that, placed in the hands of Vini Reilly (Durutti Column), always rings out clear and chiming, even if orphaned of the magic touch of the Marr era. An intimate mood dominates, though it never gives up the usual jabs at the customs and characters of British society. Morrissey's writing becomes less abstract and more narrative, often drawing on autobiographical material.

The first single released, "Suedehead" (taken from a story by Richard Allen, the cult writer of the skinhead scene), could easily pass for a new Smiths track, with its blazing opening riff and effervescent stride: its success is helped along by the video, entirely devoted to idol James Dean. The other hit is "Everyday Is Like Sunday": a pulsing bass and an epic refrain, stretched out over strings, vibraphone and guitar riffs, framing a bleak little portrait of provincial life. "Alsatian Cousin" too, driven by bass and cutting guitars, stays largely true to the same line.

What sparks the first political controversies, however, are two of the weakest tracks on the record: "Bengali In Platforms", which draws accusations of racism over some ambiguous references to immigrants, and the plaintive invective of "Margaret On The Guillotine" - an outtake from The Queen Is Dead in which Lady Thatcher ends up on the scaffold, complete with a final blow of the blade - which will earn Morrissey a home visit and search by the police.

While "Dial-a-cliché" doesn't seem to live up to our man's crooning talent, the symphony of "Angel, Down We Go Together", a kind of "we loved each other so much" farewell to the Smiths dressed up with violins and cellos, and the long monologue of "Late Night, Maudlin Street", about the trauma of leaving the family home, hint at somewhat greater compositional ambition.

Despite a few uncertain moments, then, Morrissey pulls it off with a debut album that, all things considered, is a dignified continuation of the Smiths saga.

Over the following three years, focusing mainly on singles – which, after all, had always been the Smiths' specialty – Morrissey came to write some of the finest songs of his solo career, destined to appear on his second full length, Bona Drag (1990), which also features "Everyday Is Like Sunday" and "Suedehead".

There's also the unexpected return of Johnny Marr, adding his guitar touch to "Interesting Drug", with Kirsty MacColl on backing vocals. But the real standout is the sublime pop stride of "The Last Of The Famous International Playboys", where our man leans hard into parody, imagining a fan's correspondence with two of England's most notorious criminals, Reggie and Ronnie Kray. Surprisingly, the latter voiced his appreciation from prison, though he noted that "the lyric as a whole is lacking something". Morrissey's retort was priceless: "Just my usual luck. I can't get rid of critics!"

"Hairdresser On Fire" brings back a taste for lavish orchestral arrangements, while the tremolo guitar of "Disappointed" briefly recalls the epic "How Soon Is Now?"

Four tracks round out the picture, each eccentric in its own way: the quirky ska of "Ouija Board, Ouija Board", the "criminal"-slang pop of "Piccadilly Palare" (in tandem with Suggs of Madness), the almost "gothic" interlude of "November Spawned A Monster" (with vocals by Canadian Mary Margaret O'Hara), and the melodramatic gospel of "Yes, I Am Blind".

Gathering singles and B-sides with painstaking care, the Morrissey of Bona Drag seems to have found a fruitful path for his solo songwriting.

On the following Kill Uncle (1991), however, the restless dandy can't resist the temptation (fatal, in this case) to change things up once again: out goes Stephen Street, replaced behind the desk by Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley, while Vini Reilly gives way to Mark E. Nevin (ex-Fairground Attraction). The result is a muddled, slapdash record, with few truly memorable moments and the shadow of tedium always lurking. The egocentric showman of earlier works slides into self-parody, turning into a whiny interpreter of bland, conventional jangle-pop ditties. Nevin's guitar lacks the necessary hooks, and even in the record's most pleasant moments – the upbeat "Sing Your Life", the ballads "Driving Your Girlfriend Home" (almost a sequel to "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out") and "There's A Place in Hell For Me And My Friends", adorned with a lovely piano accompaniment – Morrissey fails to leave a mark. A prisoner of emotional indolence and a self-indulgence that now truly tips into mannerism, the former dispenser of killer choruses retreats into bland, insipid little tunes ("Asian Rut", "King Leer").

While his Manchester was transforming into "Madchester", reigniting the spotlight on a new, colourful music scene, Moz stubbornly kept to his own path. Too stubbornly, according to some British critics, who were already celebrating his de profundis, declaring that without Marr he would never again be able to repeat the Smiths' miracle.

The spider in the arsenal

It's a troubled period, marked by rows with managers, record labels and fellow travellers. A period that, surprisingly, culminates in the triumphant flourish of Your Arsenal (1992). The title is an amalgam of wordplay: the obvious "Your Arse", a reference to the English football club Arsenal (see "We'll Let You Know"), and "your arsenal" in the sense of the sexual equipment of some phantom interlocutor – possibly a jab at the English music press.

Produced by Mick Ronson, formerly the Spider from Mars at the court of Ziggy Stardust–Bowie, the album inevitably veers towards glittering glam tones, helped also by the sturdy guitar tandem of Alain Whyte (co-writer of much of the material) and Boz Boorer (formerly of rockabilly band Polecats). Riffs and distortion crank up the volume. The sound gets dirtier. And Morrissey's own singing changes skin, shifting from the mournful crooning of his early records into a supple, powerful instrument. Shedding the guise of the weary, solipsistic poseur, Morrissey is reborn as a rocker, with unprecedented grit, capable of unleashing full-on assaults ("You're Gonna Need Someone On Your Side", "Glamorous Glue") and forging irresistible vignettes (the single "You're The One For Me, Fatty", with a deliciously mocking lyric, and the smirking, very Smiths-like "We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful") without giving up the melodic openness that made him famous (the seductive novelty of "The National Front Disco", the melancholy "We'll Let You Know", with crisp acoustic textures and stadium-sized choruses leading into a final rush, where even an Irish-style march can be glimpsed).

The acid rockabilly of "Certain People I Know", the crooning of "I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday" (with an unintentional nod to Bowie's "Rock'n'Roll Suicide", which, curiously, he would later cover himself) and the guitar-driven gallop of "Tomorrow", choked off by the piano's closing chimes, round out an album that would considerably boost the former Smiths frontman's stock: the ensuing tour, in fact, proved a huge success on both sides of the Atlantic, with sensational sell-outs.

Yet, just a few months later, Morrissey's star risked being irreparably tarnished. Opening for Madness at London's Finsbury Park, in front of a crowd partly made up of skinheads, the former Smiths frontman appeared on stage draped in the British flag. The press, putting two and two together with some of his previous rash remarks, openly accused him of winking at the far-right National Front, and tracks like "The National Front Disco" or "Bengali In Platforms" were "reread" in light of his supposed nationalism. Even the verse in "We'll Let You Know" (⟦Q1⟧) fuelled accusations of xenophobia, even though the one speaking in the song is actually one of the notorious hooligans. Towards them, in any case, Morrissey proves contradictory: on one hand he stresses their cowardice ("we will attack anyone who is not capable of defending themselves"), on the other he celebrates their pride, as though they were the standard-bearers of a lost England, the last bulwark against Americanisation: "I understand the level of patriotism, the level of frustration and the level of exultation," he would say in one interview, "I understand their aggression and why it needs to be released... As long as no one dies, I find it amusing." A deliberately ambiguous flirtation with that "criminal imagery" that would recur throughout his songbook, populated by so many "little bastards", children of the street and of that British suburbia of which he has by now made himself the bard.

The glories of the Your Arsenal tour would nonetheless be immortalised on the live album Beethoven Was Deaf (1993).

A year later Morrissey returned to the top of the charts with his new album, Vauxhall And I (1994). The title – which some have linked to the British film "Withnail And I" – actually refers to a person our man met in Vauxhall, a London suburb. It's a pop breviary steeped in a sorrow perhaps tied to the recent deaths of people close to Morrissey (Tim Broad, Mick Ronson and manager Nigel Thomas). Boorer and Whyte wrote much of the music, while behind the mixing desk now sat an international guru like Steve Lillywhite.

Driving the album's success above all is the single "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get", a delightfully tongue-in-cheek pop-rock tune that climbed the charts on both sides of the Atlantic. But the overall mood, as mentioned, is more pensive, folded into a muted, understated guitar-pop. The guitars, their rockabilly edges smoothed away, settle mostly into soft arpeggios, over which Morrissey lays his warm vocal performances, drifting across dreamy textures ("Lifeguard Sleeping, Girl Drowning", with a lovely clarinet melody) or winking at sixties pop atmospheres ("Used To Be A Sweet Boy", another moving bout of nostalgia for a happy childhood, and "The Lazy Sunbathers", a sarcastic j'accuse against unchecked individualism).

Yet another melodrama sobbed out over his inability to love/be loved ("I Am Hated For Loving") may well grate, but the seasoned performer's class remains intact: he can chisel out a "classic" orchestral ballad like "Now My Heart Is Full", steeped in loneliness and desolation (with quotes from Graham Greene's novel "Brighton Rock"), stage the pompous chorus of "Hold On to Your Friends", and conjure up an almost "noisy" closer like "Speedway", yet another tirade against his enemies in the press ("All those Lies! Written Lies! Twisted Lies"), complete with the sound of a drill at the end of the intro and drumming that builds into a tumultuous crescendo before cutting off abruptly at the end. Also worth noting is the lyric of "Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself?", which contains a kind of warning to aspiring popstars: “Some men here, they have a special interest in your career/ they wanna help you to grow and then/ they’ll syphon all your dough”.

Vauxhall And I would find an exceptional endorsement in disciple Thom Yorke, who would recall it as the reference album for Radiohead during the recording of "The Bends" (1995).

That same year, Morrissey fulfilled what was perhaps a small dream of his, collaborating with his longtime idol Siouxsie Sioux: the result was the magical duet "Interlude" (a cover of a song by soul singer Timi Yuro), set to a poignant, romantic ballad built entirely on the contrast between his airy intoning and the alienating darkness of his famously gloomy partner. A fruitful collaboration, but a stormy one too: the two clashed in the studio and their paths soon diverged. "Siouxsie is too aggressive", Morrissey would later conclude.

Self-proclaimed "heir and son of nothing in particular", the Manchester dandy was by now the spokesman for (at least) a generation, the theatrical mask of a Britishness made entirely of bitterness and humour, eccentricity and contradiction. The would-be heirs of the nascent britpop scene paid him heartfelt tribute. He, however, did not reciprocate, almost as if aware that he was the last of a dying breed.

An endless ring

After a greatest-hits collection (World Of Morrissey, 1995) following his label change (from Parlophone to Rca), Morrissey turned another page with Southpaw Grammar (a title taken from boxing slang, with a possible double meaning on the ambiguity of the word "southpaw" as left-handed/different/gay). A bloated album, in which some have even detected hints of prog. In any case, the sound is decidedly less direct and catchy than usual. Partly for this reason, the album would flop entirely in America, squandering the momentum built up by its predecessor.

With Lillywhite producing and his trusty sidekicks Whyte and Boorer backing him, Morrissey thought big: across the eleven pompous minutes of "The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils" (his longest song ever!) he attempts to rewrite "The Headmaster Ritual" from the teachers' point of view; Boorer's string samples even include a looped extract from Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony, soon disfigured by the roar of guitars. Perhaps a gamble, but one worth appreciating nonetheless.

The other Spector-esque wall of sound on the title track takes a risk with psychedelic riffs amid a mounting mood of alienation. But it's a rather sterile exercise in style. In trying to give his songwriting an ambitious new direction, the Manchester bard risks losing the warm simplicity of his writing. More concise tracks like "Reader Meet Author" and "Dangenham Dave", while not exactly dazzling, bring his sound back to more familiar territory, while the rock flare-ups of "The Operation" (featuring an unprecedented opening drum solo by Spencer Cobrin), "The Boy Racer" and "Best Friend On The Payroll" at least manage to raise the tension on an album that's decidedly too long-winded and pretentious, where even the lyrics—lost amid boxing references, self-worship and snapshots of wayward youth—fail to recover their usual wit, coming across as merely tedious.

The band's notable commitment to finding a "meatier" sound nonetheless seems to hint at interesting live developments to come. And anticipation is further stoked by an offer from his idol David Bowie, who wants Morrissey as support act for his new "Outside Tour". But the experience lasts only ten dates: irritated by the lack of promotional support (his name doesn't even appear on the posters) and by the lukewarm reception from the Thin White Duke's audience, Morrissey bows out and leaves.

It's a period of deep depression, made worse by legal troubles and ongoing feuds with the press. A lawsuit brought by Mike Joyce over Smiths royalties knocks him out, forcing him and Johnny Marr to pay out £1,200,000 between them. The press keeps enraging him, and in his sights too is the author of an "unauthorised biography" ("Morrissey & Marr, The Severed Alliance"), the loathed Johnny Rogan, at whom he hurls endless barbs and even wishes of death!

So Morrissey comes to make a move that would have seemed unthinkable for the man who had become the champion of British purity and anti-Americanism: moving to Los Angeles, California.

In 1996 came another change of record label: but his deal with Island would last only a year, just long enough to see the flop of Maladjusted. An album in which Morrissey returns to the more subdued role of pop chansonnier that suits him best. The catchy chorus of the single "Alma Matters" does indeed smack of realignment. But it isn't simply a return to the past, as shown by the paranoid, distorted title track that opens the record, the rock lashes of "Papa Jack" or the biting strings of "Ambitious Outsiders" — tracks that perhaps make clearer what Southpaw Grammar had set out to be and failed to become.

"Sorrow Will Come In The End" is even a spoken-word piece set against a classical backdrop, firing poisoned darts at Mike Joyce and the judge who convicted him, while the sardonic "Satan Rejected My Soul" sets up yet another self-pitying soliloquy, one that returns darker and more solemn in the 1950s-style ballad "Trouble Loves Me".

Overall, though, it's an album that leaves no real mark, and which, at the end of a troubled decade, presents us with a weary Morrissey, worn down by his own malaise and by his own unstoppable self-centredness. A narcissistic contrarian, still living in the myth of himself, at risk of losing touch with the reality (not just musical) around him.

New prey for 2000

Just when everyone imagined him well into his twilight years, destined only for the inevitable round of nostalgic "best of" compilations, along came the stunning 2004 comeback with You Are The Quarry, which relaunched the stock of England's "last popstar", ferrying his sound into the new millennium.

Morrissey is still capable of moving listeners with soft melodies shaped by his warm, reassuring voice, which dominates all twelve tracks, aided by an essential and precise rhythm section, over which delicate guitar and keyboard textures find their place, alternating with saturated distortion and a measured use of loops and synths. The lyrics are far from predictable: Morrissey's rhetoric is sharp, simple, direct and steeped in irony. Eloquent proof comes in "America Is Not The World", where the American model of freedom and equal opportunity is called into question, just as Oliver Cromwell and the English monarchy are in "Irish Blood English Heart", the power-pop single.

In "I'm Not Sorry", Morrissey disavows nothing of what he's said or done in the past, while in "The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores" (one of the album's high points) he takes aim at the opportunism and mediocrity running rampant in the world, a theme directed specifically at his detractors in "How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?". There's also room for the sensuality of "Let Me Kiss You" and the moving introspection of "Come Back To Camden" (another standout of the collection), while the irresistible crescendo of "I Have Forgiven Jesus" contains some of the album's finest lines, addressed directly to Jesus Christ and elevated by a masterful vocal performance. Finally, the sweeping "First Of The Gang To Die" unleashes an instant knockout refrain, worthy of the Smiths' golden years.

The album nonetheless succeeds in putting Morrissey back at the centre of international pop attention after nearly seven years of partial obscurity, thanks also to a carefully managed restyling of his sound. His name starts circulating again, even among a large segment of the audience - such as the younger Mtv viewers - who had no idea who he was.

The following year, Morrissey decides to seal his rediscovered verve (never actually lost on stage) with a live album recorded at London's Earls Court, thanks to the invaluable collaboration of a band that finally does justice to the English singer-songwriter's past; he may no longer be worshipped as a demigod, but he once again occupies a position of absolute respect on the international rock scene. But Live At Earls Court isn't just nostalgia - there's real substance here too, plenty of grit, and all the charisma of a figure who influenced half of English music-making in the 90s and 2000s. The proceedings open magnificently with "How Soon Is Now?", but already the second track ("First Of The Gang To Die") takes us into You Are The Querry territory, also represented by "I Like You", "Let Me Kiss You", "I Have Forgiven Jesus", "The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores", "Irish Blood English Heart" and the poignant "You Know I Couldn't Last", which paves the way for the memorable closer "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me". The versions are very close to their studio counterparts, but the live energy gives them that extra lift that justifies the whole exercise, showcasing a band that's credible and convincing, and entirely at ease despite the daunting task of backing the great Moz. There's also room for a lavish outtake, "Munich Air Disaster 1958", one of the b-sides from the latest album, paired with a nod to the New York Dolls' "Subway Train". There's no shortage of thrilling dips into the Smiths catalogue either, among which "Shoplifters Of The World Unite" and "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" stand out as two all-time classics; "Bigmouth Strikes Again", on the other hand, falls a little short of its still enormous potential. The early classics of the solo Moz are missing: you won't find "Suedehead" here, nor "Everyday Is Like Sunday", nor even "The Last Of The Famous International Playboys", as if the artist identifies more with his previous life and his current one, choosing to all but skip over the limbo in between. Instead he prefers to cover Patti Smith's "Redondo Beach", also chosen as the lead single.

In 2006 comes Ringleader Of The Tormentors, recorded in Rome, with sacred monster Tony Visconti behind the mixing desk, eager for a quick redemption after the unspeakable flop of "Reality", his last work with David Bowie. Our man's inspiration takes shape in complex songs like the acidic, pitch-black opening tirade "I Will See You In Far Off Places" and the lengthy "Life Is A Pigsty", one of the most accomplished and daring pages of his solo career.

Every single song here stands out for its formal perfection. "Dear God Please Help Me", to whose arrangement Ennio Morricone contributed, perhaps overindulges in sentimentality, but even in the less convincing moments (for example the inevitable Elvis-style power ballad "I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now") there's always that voice, warm and deep, able to move like few others, to save the day.

It's a shame that while Morrissey proves utterly inspired in crafting the killer chorus (quite literally!) of "You Have Killed Me" - a gorgeous, perfect pop song wisely chosen as the lead single - on the other hand songs like "The Father Who Must Be Killed" or the closing "At Last I Am Born", however impeccable their form (as mentioned) and however substantial their content, fail to grab the listener as they should.

More direct, less ambitious tracks work better, such as "On The Streets I Ran" and "The Youngest Was The Most Loved", which otherwise simply retread the single, only with a touch less sparkle. And both the poppiest track, "In The Future When All Is Well", and the more atmospheric "To Me You Are A Work Of Art", feel all too formulaic.

Approaching the threshold of fifty (he'll turn fifty on 22 May), Morrissey delivers the ninth studio album of his now twenty-year-long solo career. Years Of Refusal (2009) sat in a drawer for over a year, with the exception of two songs - the classic "That's How People Grow Up" and the rough-edged "All You Need Is Me" - released both as singles and on the 2008 "Greatest Hits". The fruit of this laborious gestation is a gritty, direct album which, though lacking the peaks reached on the two previous works, never dips in quality.

If the lead single, "I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris", is a classic Morrissey-style number, in this case embellished by Mark Isham's suave trumpet (he also plays horns on two other tracks), the opening trio - the explosive "Something Is Squeezing My Skull", "Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed" and "Black Cloud" (underscored by Jeff Beck's guitar) - is made up of rock tracks that wouldn't be out of place on a record by artists half our man's age.

The exuberance and guitar-driven stamp, also found in the already-mentioned single "All You Need Is Me" and in the extraordinary ode to solipsism "I'm Ok By Myself", stem from the fact that all the music on the album was composed by the guitarists in the band that has backed him for years (with the recent addition of Jesse Tobias). But it's Morrissey's rediscovered freshness that acts as the catalyst. And it's no accident that the climax comes in the second half of the tracklist, with passionate songs like "It's Not Your Birthday Anymore", which opens as a sweet ballad but soon turns into one of the toughest songs of Morrissey's entire career, and, above all, "You Were Good In Your Time", the album's only true ballad and its emotional peak, which tells of the decline of a once-successful artist and the end of a career - a theme dear to Morrissey since the days of the Smiths ("Rubber Ring" and "Paint A Vulgar Picture").

The same year also sees the release of Swords, an anthology of b-sides from singles recorded over the previous six years, selected by Morrissey himself. There are two guests of honour: Kristeen Young adds lustre to "Sweetie Pie", the album's most sinister track, while Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders took part in the recording of "Shame Is The Name", an unvarnished snapshot of a generation throwing itself away getting wasted.

More than one song had already been performed live in the past: "Don't Make Fun Of Daddy's Voice" is also included on the excellent DVD "Who Put The M In Manchester?", while "Ganglord" (a fierce invective against the "police state" in Los Angeles) was performed for the first time in Scotland, in Greenock, in 2006. "It's Hard To Walk Tall When You're Small", which turns out to be a venomous attack on former bandmate Mike Joyce, had until now only been available digitally in the US, and "My Dearest Love", originally the b-side of "All You Need Is Me", appears on CD for the first time.

Once again, some of Morrissey's lyrics are open to multiple interpretations: this is the case with "Never-Played Symphonies", which could refer just as much to songs written and left in a drawer as to the people Morrissey was never able to have, and also with the ambiguous portrait of "Christian Dior". The image of the "Teenage Dad On His Estate" is tender and at the same time represents a raised middle finger at those who can only judge; the account of Irish "Children In Pieces" mistreated in schools, by contrast, is particularly brutal.

The live set from Warsaw on the deluxe edition, though brief, is energetic enough and shows the singer in good form. 

After five years of recording silence, Morrissey briefly puts to rest all the controversy over some of his remarks about William and Kate's wedding (guilty, according to the musician, of overshadowing in the media the news of Poly Styrene's death) and about the slaughter of animals to satisfy murderous carnivores (comparing non-vegetarians to pedophiles or neo-Nazi sympathizers), releasing World Peace Is None Of Your Business, the album that marks Morrissey's entry into the ranks of the grand old men.

The chilling topicality of the title track shouldn't lead you to think that Morrissey has for the first time opted for a more direct political stance: stories and images are metaphors for the abuse of power. The suicide of the young student unable to meet her parents' expectations in "Staircase At The University", the ambiguous allure of crime in "Mountjoy", the sarcastic jab at masculinity in "I'm Not A Man", the brutality of man against animals in "The Bullfighter Dies", the exploitation of labor in the oppressive "Kick The Bride Down The Aisle", the conflicted father-son relationship in "Istanbul", and the melancholy closing note of "Oboe Concerto" all combine to create one of the artist's most vivid portrayals, where the individual and their dignity become the fulcrum of a political vision far loftier than mere ideological opposition.

Even more interesting this time is the sonic dress that frames it all: Morrissey gives his musicians much more room and explores a variegated range of influences, from Tex-Mex to Arabic sounds, though amid the landscape noise mixed with flamenco of "Neal Cassady Drops Dead" and the mariachi trumpets of "Kiss Me A Lot" (a title that deliberately translates the classic "Besame Mucho") lurk the hardest rock temptations of his career.

For the first time the musician plays with his own past, digging into britpop on "Staircase At The University" and handing the riff over to a melancholy oboe, and he gifts us a precious little acoustic gem ("Mountjoy") that instantly slots into the list of his classics. But it's the constant, whirling shift in register and ethnic lyricism (Latin rhythms, French-style accordions, Spanish atmospheres) of "Earth Is The Loneliest Planet" that stands as the clearest manifesto of Moz's current style, a groove where all the pop elements of his career become the fabric on which more mature and cohesive melodies than before can unfold.

This tenth solo chapter is no mere record-label affair but a vivid, powerful testament from one of the most lucid songwriters of our time. You haven't heard a Morrissey this refined and intense since "Everyday Is Like Sunday" as you do on the melancholy "Kick The Bride Down The Aisle", nor as romantic and serene as on the closing "Oboe Concerto", and it's hard to remain indifferent to the slight prog temptations of the lengthy "I'm Not A Man", or to the energetic drive of the guitars on "Istanbul" (almost a new "How Soon Is Now"), or to the noirish, crooner-style menace of the magical, almost macabre "Smiler With Knife" (I wouldn't find it out of place on a Scott Walker album). World Peace Is None Of Your Business reaffirms Morrissey's cultural centrality, cementing his place among the great poets of the second millennium's malaise.

Three weeks after the album's release, Morrissey announced that he had ended his relationship with Harvest, after the label refused to make a video for the song "World Peace Is None Of Your Business".

Meanwhile the musician kept making headlines, first revealing that for over a year and a half he had been undergoing treatment and operations for cancer, then publishing his first novel, "List Of The Lost", with Penguin, the publisher that had previously released his autobiography.

The release of the film "England Is Mine" (2017), which traces young Patrick's life and his career with the Smiths, was not officially authorized by the musician, while the Italian press reported a lively clash with the Italian police after officers stopped him speeding the wrong way down Via del Corso in Rome.

After cancelling his Italian tour, Morrissey announced the release of a new album for 2017, preceded by the single "Spent The Day In Bed".

The project is the English musician's most ambitious, controversial and confused yet, a fairground-style thrill ride that leaves you dazed and amazed with every listen, above all for its prominent political content.

After splitting with Alain Whyte, his songwriting has grown even heavier and more bloated, almost as if the author wanted to translate into music the political and social confusion that ultimately forms the creative backbone of Low In High School (2017).

No surprise, given the apparently reactionary tone of some of his statements: this is, after all, the man who fearlessly screamed his hatred for Thatcher in the song "Margaret On The Guillotine". His political support for anti-Islam candidate Anne Marie Waters and his favorable comments about Marine Le Pen and Nigel Farage have undoubtedly stirred up considerable hostility among the English press, while the recent diplomatic incident with the Italian police sparked controversy and accusations of arrogance and conceit, which did nothing to help his image with Italian audiences.

But when the notes of "My Love, I'd Do Anything For You" fill the void left by those thoughts, all ideological arguments are pleasantly swept aside; the exuberance of the mighty glam-hard-rock-symphonic sound (I'll venture a comparison with Meat Loaf) leaves no doubt. Low In High School is an irritating, ambiguous album where every track offers a double reading: one pleasurable, one disturbing. Setting aside the savage reviews from the English press (The Quietus's includes the word fucking about a hundred times), this is the album richest in potential chart singles, starting with the delightful "Jacky's Only Happy When She's Up On The Stage", which features a trumpet solo as well as the album's most ironic and successful lyric.

The other single that preceded the album, "Spent The Day In Bed", is not only one of the most melodically appealing songs of recent years, but within the context of the album it sounds even more striking, blessed with the same lightness as "I Wish You Lonely", another track that had hinted at the album's other distinctive sonic trait, namely that delightful Roxy Music-style keyboard sound, which, together with the more intense use of orchestra and horns, represents the real sonic novelty of this project. 

At this point let's tell the truth: perhaps the hardest thing to accept is that even Steven Patrick Morrissey has reached the threshold of maturity, and his 58 years are without doubt the real protagonists of the crooner-like acrobatics of the romantic "Home Is A Question Mark" (perhaps the best track on the album), and they're undoubtedly the source of the ambitious "I Bury The Living", which slides toward slightly pretentious gothic, rock-opera tones.

That Low In High School is a two-faced record is also evident from the clear split between its two sides: the delicate, nocturnal piano-and-voice duet of "In Your Lap" ushers in a more twilit, almost nighttime and at times exotic dimension, with atmospheres that occasionally recall certain things from the Marc Almond-era Marc and The Mambas, like the aforementioned "In Your Lap" and the flamenco touch of "The Girl From Tel-Aviv Who Wouldn't Kneel". And it's precisely from this attempt at renewal that some of the more interesting lyrical insights of latter-day Morrissey emerge, such as the lovable "All The Young People Must Fall In Love", an acoustic ballad in the vein of "Give Peace A Chance" that shatters the album's solemn tone, opening the door to the record's other small melodic delight, namely the tango of "When You Open Your Legs", underscored with intelligence and taste by orchestra and horns.

Less successful is the synth mess of "Who Will Protect Us From The Police?", which, like the more intense "Israel", ends up slightly crushed under the weight of its own words.

Overshadowed by a production that is at times overblown, Low In High School remains one of the hardest chapters in his catalogue to digest, yet never before has Morrissey seemed so at ease in airing his doubts; the band is perfectly in tune with the musician's needs, and in its own way this is a deeply inspired album, and perhaps we shouldn't underestimate his ability to anticipate the social torment of the working class.

Like it or not, this creeping reactionary drift deserves to be examined closely and without needless sarcasm, and perhaps Low In High School holds more than one key to understanding our turbulent ideological present.

Preceded by a symbolic gesture that further irritated critics (a TV appearance sporting a badge of the far-right party For Britain), Morrissey greets the arrival of his 60s with an album of cover versions.

It's no surprise that the artist chose a Roy Orbison song ("It's Over") as the first single from the record, and that California Son opens with an excellent version of a Jobriath track, "Morning Starship": two stylistic reference points well known to the musician's fans.

The most notable surprise, however, concerns the presence of so many female songwriters, a choice that seems to contradict Moz's well-known misogyny. A respectful and enjoyable reading of a Joni Mitchell song ("Don't Interrupt The Sorrow"), and a powerful version of "Suffer The Little Children" by Buffy Sainte-Marie (the title, of course, will remind many of a Smiths song), reconcile the musician's image with a feminine sensibility, but it's the superb rendition of Melanie's "Some Say I Got Devil" that truly astonishes, sounding as if it could have been written by Morrissey himself in a state of grace.

On the ideological and political front, the album offers further food for thought: a Phil Ochs song rendered gentle and graceful, "Days Of Decisions", and a sharp version of Bob Dylan's "Only A Pawn In Their Game", shuffle the deck, almost contradicting his recent political statements. Standing apart is the anguished "Lenny's Tune", which Tim Hardin dedicated to Lenny Bruce.

A long list of notable guests, and the pop nature of songs like "Wedding Bell Blues" (a Laura Nyro song made famous by the 5th Dimension) and Carly Simon's "When You Close Your Eyes", muddy the waters even further.

The chorus of critical disapproval that has arisen doesn't leave much room for hope (Exclaim

1/10, The Guardian 2/10, Independent 4/10): Morrissey's redemption is postponed indefinitely, while on the musical side one can't ignore the shrewd selection of songs included in the project, underlining the middle-of-the-road sensibility that places California Son somewhere between Bryan Ferry's "These Foolish Things" and Tom Jones's "Reload", but also David Bowie's "Pin Ups", with all the virtues and flaws that entails.

Paving the way for Morrissey's thirteenth album is a political truce and his renewed partnership with producer Joe Chiccarelli, the latter skilled at putting the artist through a continuous creative tour de force, spurring his well-established songwriting style with fresh and contemporary stylistic ideas. The aesthetic overhaul works only in part, and the brilliance of I Am Not A Dog On A Chain hides a few cracks.

It's no coincidence that "The Secret Of Music" sounds like a potential four-handed composition by Eric Clapton and Phil Collins, or that the Johnny Marr-style riff of "Once I Saw The River Clean" stays locked into a Euro-disco sound reminiscent of the Pet Shop Boys — telling signs of a professionalism that has taken the place of the unpredictability that still lingered in the otherwise uneven Low In High School.

Ironically, I Am Not A Dog On A Chain is, in spite of everything, the most surprising and enjoyable album for anyone who had long since given up on his musical escapades. The alternation between deja-vu and flickers of renewal sets the pace of a record whose only real flaw turns out to be the pleasant predictability of a few tracks that, had they appeared on Morrissey's early solo albums, we'd all have hailed as miraculous ("What Kind Of People Live In These Houses?", "Knockabout World" and the title track).

Still, the Morrissey of I Am Not A Dog On A Chain is an over-the-top one, veering at times to the brink of mediocrity ("Darling, I Hug A Pillow"), and a moment later ready to deliver one of the most ambitious and refined melodies of his catalogue, namely the sumptuous, choral "My Hurling Days Are Done", which closes the proceedings leaving behind a sense of admiration mixed with insecurity - a dichotomy that becomes increasingly significant in the evolution of a figure as divisive and intriguing as few others.

It would take a full six years for a follow-up to I Am Not A Dog On A Chain to arrive: no fewer than two albums are rejected by the record label, while strong, controversial political statements create yet another rift with the press. Make-up Is A Lie marks the return to Sire and the return of producer Joe Chiccarelli, an album made up largely of songs salvaged from one of the two shelved projects, provisionally titled "Without Music The World Die", while the other project, "Bonfire Of The Teenagers", is unlikely ever to see the light of day.

In many ways Make Up Is A Lie can sound disheartening, frustrating, uneven: the absence of Boz Boorer after 30 years of collaboration is palpable, and the shift from lively, malleable sounds to more dramatic, heavy-handed tones scrapes away those last traces of lightness that had kept the previous album afloat. With a voice increasingly reminiscent of a crooner, Moz frames songs that aren't always memorable, while elevating the few tracks worth adding to an already rich songbook. The first notable musical element is the impeccable, if at times laborious, production by Joe Chiccarelli, along with the trip-hop flourishes that stir the waters of the title track, a cinematic, dramatic up-tempo ballad complete with zither and violin ready to heighten its emotional pitch - sounds that return on "Headache", creating an agile contrast with its swaying melody and xylophone sound, underscoring lyrics decidedly unsuited to romance. The controversial "Notre Dame", with its disco-wave gait reminiscent of "How Soon Is Now" but decidedly milder, and the Johnny Marr-style guitar jangle of "You're Right, It's Time" ease the transition from past to present, while the shadowy "Boulevard" remains captive to that dramaturgical grandiosity that animates much of the album, even as it aspires to future glory on the live stage.

Anonymous tracks ("Kerching, Kerching"), if not outright irritating ones ("The Night Pop Dropped"), drag the listener into mainstream sounds as polished as they are superficial, which find no relief even in the ill-fated fun-pop patchwork of "Zoom Zoom The Little Boy" (a shame, given the sitar intro that had seemed so promising). Thankfully, a couple of tracks tucked at the end rescue the album's fortunes: the first is "Lester Bangs", one of the record's most intriguing compositions, a heartfelt and inspired tribute to the renowned English critic - melodically precise and free of rhetoric, the song is a skillful journey through memory that turns back the clock, much like the not entirely successful cover of "Amazona" by Roxy Music.

But it's "The Monsters Of Pig Alley" that is the true hidden gem: arranged with class and grit, the song is a shrewd reflection on music and the false glory of those who become stars, with a splendid interplay between electric guitar and piano, while the track's fluidity dilutes that sense of confusion and exhaustion running through an album built with craft and a wealth of ideas, not lacking in food for thought and potential for future growth.

Far from giving up, then, the Manchester artist still shows himself to be combative, self-assured and sufficiently inspired. Riding high for a quarter of a century now, with a hardcore following of adoring fans of every gender, age and socio-geographic background, he can still play at calling himself, paraphrasing one of his famous songs, "the last of the famous international popstars".

Contributions by Massimiliano Severi ("You Are The Quarry"), Claudio Lancia ("Live At Earls Court"), Mauro Roma ("Ringleader Of The Tormentors"), Francesco Amoroso ("Years Of Refusal"), Alessandro Liccardo ("Swords"), Gianfranco Marmoro ("World Peace Is None Of Your Business", "Low In High School", "Californis Son", "I Am Not A Dog On A Chain")

Bibliography

Daniele Cianfriglia – Morrissey & The Smiths. Gli Ultimi Inglesi (Stampa Alternativa/ Nuovi Equilibri, 2007)

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