The Queen Is Dead

Hear this man carelessly and distractedly humming to himself, in the bathroom mirror: “And if a double-decker bus/crashes into us/To die by your side/ Such a heavenly way to die/ And if a ten-ton truck/Kills the both of us/To die by your side/ The pleasure and privilege is mine.” Such a mixture of lassitude, camp and forbidden fancies, it could only be Morrissey. Is this man a ghost with wilting daffodils?. Granted The Smiths may have served a fleeting purposes but they’ve been surrounded by pygmies. And if Morrissey has nobly disdained standard male heroics – a persona that could still allow him limitless scope for fresh manoeuvre – and been the latest alienist and therapist to art-starved and angst-ridden adolescents, I might also argue that Barry Manilow and Chris De Burgh serve equally useful social functions.

And yes, the Smiths have been a necessary antidote to consumerist pop, deserving of a few moments of glory. But the buck must stop here, for their third album goes far towards proving that Morrissey is but an astutely publicity-conscious and individual minor talent, over exposed and over extended by the demands made on him.

About the only partial excuse an uniformed guess. I hasten to add – for the inadequacies of The Queen Is Dead is that it just might be thrown together to fulfil their final contractual obligations to Rough Trade. Certainly it has all the signatures but little substance for all the covering-up of Johnny Marr. An ingenious and sometimes inspirational Guitarist, he can’t however disguise Morrissey’s vocal drone – a limited vehicle which destroys any semblance of drama, the affectations of a one-trick pony whose melodies are but a series of variations on an increasingly tiring theme. Hell even John Cooper Clarke has a wider range and though Morrissey does have the grace to confess on the the title track “I know you and you cannot sing”, as an ex-Catholic, he should recall that all acts of contrition should also include a desire for amendment.

The Queen is Dead does start appealingly, with the title track, introduced by scatter-shot drums from Mike Joyce, that leads to Marr’s most resounding guitar barrage while Morrissey’s doleful reading of the vaudeville-styled ‘Frankly, Mr. Shankly’ is at least, a puzzling contrast. ‘I know It’s Over’ strays into Roy Orbinson territory with some closing swaying guitar from Marr but thereafter, it’s downhill. ‘Never Had No One Ever’ is a riff posing as a song while ‘Cemetery Gates’ has Morrissey withering on about Keats, Yeats and Wilde – whereas in reality he’s much closer to E.J. Thribb.

On the second side, ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again’ is standard Smiths single fare, enlivened by Marr’s guitar break and a sprinkling of vocal harmonies from guest Ann Coates. ‘Vicar In A Tutu’ passes muster as the album’s most finished lyric in a tale of priestly misdemeanours but the remaining three songs are scant throwaways as The Queen Is Dead ends with a whimper and self-indulgent whimsy

Other pundits agree, What do you think of the Salford lad, Morrissey, Eamonn? “The British press always over-rate their contenders. The test of great players is that they always perform in the highest company, they don’t get involved in off the ball incidents quoting Oscar Wilde at the referee.”

The Smiths used to be miserable but heavens knows, they’re close to risible now.