Morrissey is a wanker with talent. AA Gill is just a wanker. Sent from my iPhone
> On 14 Feb 2014, at 19:12, "E Walsh" <ejwa...@indigo.ie> wrote: > > The following is the review of the autobiography of Morrissey by AA Gill in > the Sunday Times. > > The review won the Hatchet Job of the Year Review 2013 > > It is worth a read > > > A A Gill on Autobiography by Morrissey > THE SUNDAY TIMES > > AS NOËL Coward might have said, nothing incites intemperate cultural > hyperbole like cheap music. Who can forget that the Beatles were once > authoritatively lauded as the equal of Mozart, or that Bob Dylan was dubbed a > contemporary Keats? The Beatles continued to ignore Covent Garden, and Mozart > is rarely heard at Glastonbury; Dylan has been silently culled from the > latest edition of the Oxford Companion to Modern Poetry in English. > > The publication of Autobiography was the second item on Channel 4’s news on > the day it was released. Krishnan Guru-Murthy excitably told the nation that > Morrissey really could write — presumably he was reading from an Autocue — > and a pop journalist thrilled that he was one of the nation’s greatest > cultural icons. He isn’t even one of Manchester’s greatest cultural icons. > > This belief in high-low cultural relativity leads to a certain sort of chippy > pop star feeling undervalued and then hoitily producing a rock opera or duet > with concert harpsichord. Morrissey, though, didn’t have to attain the chip > of being needily undervalued; he was born with it. He tells us he ditched > “Steve”, his given name, to be known by his portentous unimoniker because — > deep reverential breath here — great classical composers only have one name. > Mussorgsky, Mozart, Morrissey. > > His most pooterishly embarrassing piece of intellectual social climbing is > having this autobiography published by Penguin Classics. Not Modern Classics, > you understand, where the authors can still do book signings, but the classic > Classics, where they’re dead and some of them only have one name. Molière, > Machiavelli, Morrissey. > > He has made up for being alive by having a photograph of himself pretending > to be dead on the cover. The book’s publication was late and trade gossip has > it that Steve insisted on each and every bookshop taking a minimum order of > two dozen, misunderstanding how modern publishing works. But this is not > unsurprising when you read the book. He is constantly moaning about record > producers not pressing enough discs to get him to No 1. What is surprising is > that any publisher would want to publish the book, not because it is any > worse than a lot of other pop memoirs, but because Morrissey is plainly the > most ornery, cantankerous, entitled, whingeing, self-martyred human being who > ever drew breath. And those are just his good qualities. > > The book falls into two distinct passages. The first quarter is devoted to > growing up in Manchester (where he was born in 1959) and his schooling. This > is laughably overwrought and overwritten, a litany of retrospective hurt and > score-settling that reads like a cross between Madonna and Catherine Cookson. > No teacher is too insignificant not to be humiliated from the heights of > success, no slight is too small not to be rehashed with a final, killing > esprit d’escalier. There are pages of lists of television programmes he > watched (with plot analysis and character criticism). He could go on > Mastermind with the specialist subject of Coronation Street or the works of > Peter Wyngarde. There is the food he ate, the groups that appeared on Top of > the Pops (with critical comments) and the poetry he liked (with quotes). > > All of this takes quite a lot of time due to the amount of curlicues, > falderals and bibelots he insists on dragging along as authorial decoration. > Instead of adding colour or depth, they simply result in a cacophony of > jangling, misheard and misused words. After 100 pages, he’s still at the > school gate kicking dead teachers. > > But then he sets off on the grown-up musical bit and the writing calms down > and becomes more diary-like, bloggish, though with an incontinent use of > italics that are a sort of stage direction or aside to the audience. He > changes tenses in ways that are supposed to be elegant but just sound camp. > There is one passage that stands out — this is the first time he sings. > “Against the command of everyone I had ever known, I sing. My mouth meets the > microphone and the tremolo quaver eats the room with acceptable pitch and I > am removed from the lifelong definition of others and their opinions matter > no more. I am singing the truth by myself which will also be the truth of > others and give me a whole life. Let the voice speak up for once and for > all.” That has the sense of being both revelatory and touching, but it stands > out like the reflection of the moon in a sea of Stygian self-justification > and stilted self-conscious prose. > > The hurt recrimination is sometimes risible but mostly dull, like listening > to neighbours bicker through a partition wall, and occasionally startlingly > unpleasant, such as the reference to the Moors murderers and the unfound > grave of their victim Keith Bennett. “Of course, had Keith been a child of > privilege or moneyed background, the search would never have been called off. > But he was a poor, gawky boy from Manchester’s forgotten side streets and > minus the blond fantasy fetish of a cutesy Madeleine McCann.” > > It’s what’s left out of this book rather than what’s put in that is > strangest. There is an absence of music, not just in its tone, but the > content. There are emetic pools of limpid prose about the music business, the > ingratitude of fellow musicians and band members and the lack of talent in > other performers, but there is nothing about the making of music itself, the > composing of lyrics, the process of singing or the emotion of creation. He > seems to assume we will already know his back catalogue and can hum along to > his recorded life. This is 450 pages of what makes Morrissey, but nothing of > what Morrissey makes. > > There is the peevishness at managers, record labels and bouncers, a list of > opaque court cases, all of which he manages to lose unfairly, due to the > inherited stupidity of judges. Even his relation with the audience is > equivocal. Morrissey likes them when they’re worshipping from a distance, but > he is not so keen when they’re up close. As an adolescent he approaches Marc > Bolan for an autograph. Bolan refuses and Morrissey, still awkwardly > humiliated after all these years, has the last word. But then later in the > book and life, he does exactly the same thing to his own fans without > apparent irony. > > There is little about his private life. A boyfriend slips in and out with > barely a namecheck. This is him on his early sexual awakening: “Unfathomably > I had several cupcake grapples in this year of 1973… Plunge or no plunge, > girls remain mysteriously attracted to me.” There is precious little plunging > after that. > > There are many pop autobiographies that shouldn’t be written. Some to protect > the unwary reader, and some to protect the author. In Morrissey’s case, he > has managed both. This is a book that cries out like one of his maudlin > ditties to be edited. But were an editor to start, there would be no > stopping. It is a heavy tome, utterly devoid of insight, warmth, wisdom or > likeability. It is a potential firelighter of vanity, self-pity and > logorrhoeic dullness. Putting it in Penguin Classics doesn’t diminish > Aristotle or Homer or Tolstoy; it just roundly mocks Morrissey, and this is a > humiliation constructed by the self-regard of its victim. > > This article originally appeared in The Sunday Times on 27/10/13 > > > > -----Original Message----- From: Chris Briggs > Sent: Friday, February 14, 2014 10:10 AM > To: Ian Murray > Cc: Leeds List > Subject: Re: [LU] Fwd: RE: LUST lose credibility in one fail swoop > > Well, obviously you do as you sprang so quickly to his defence when I added > an opinion from someone he knew. > Is there a bromance we should know about, after all it is valentines day ;o) > > (Obviously I know that you will take this in good humour and not sulk) > > Sent from my iPhone > >> On 14 Feb 2014, at 09:59, "Ian Murray" <ianjamesmur...@hotmail.com> wrote: >> >> Who cares? Amazing music and funny persona. >> >> I'm not mentioned in his autobiography. >> >> Sent from my iPhone >> >>> On 14 Feb 2014, at 17:53, "Chris Briggs" <c_bri...@hotmail.co.uk> wrote: >>> >>> I have it on good authority from someone who has known him since they were >>> teenagers that he is a complete knobhead, in fact my mate Simon is >>> mentioned many times in his autobiography. >>> >>> Sent from my iPhone >>> >>>> On 14 Feb 2014, at 09:24, "n...@6haroldplace.co.uk" >>>> <n...@6haroldplace.co.uk> wrote: >>>> >>>> when they come to write the definitive list of over-rated, self-important >>>> twats >>>> of the twentieth century, dear Stephen will be in the top 3. >>>> >>>> >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> Morrissey is a legend. >>>>> >>>>> He says controversial things to wind people like you up, and it works. >>>> _______________________________________________ >>>> Leedslist mailing list >>>> Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist >>>> To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org >>>> >>>> John 'Grampa' Sykes >>>> Rest In Peace old lad >>>> 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 >>>> MARCHING ON TOGETHER > _______________________________________________ > Leedslist mailing list > Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist > To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org > > John 'Grampa' Sykes > Rest In Peace old lad > 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 > MARCHING ON TOGETHER > > --- > This email is free from viruses and malware because avast! Antivirus > protection is active. > http://www.avast.com > _______________________________________________ Leedslist mailing list Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org John 'Grampa' Sykes Rest In Peace old lad 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 MARCHING ON TOGETHER