There is an album that many would like to take with them to a deserted island, obviously along with a vivid, non-faded copy of Bo Derek. On the cover of that album, a very young and unrecognizable Alain Delon, with an image taken from the film "Il Ribelle di Algeri," stared into the void, distanced from the world and the conflict, showing an inertial detachment from everything.
And in that wonderful record that transformed adolescent spleen into emotional exploration, which colored rockers', wavers', and post-punkers' gloomy September afternoons across the world, among those unforgettable pinches by John Marr, there was suddenly that powerful uppercut from Morrissey, his direct and incendiary J'accuse; his Majesty regressed into Her very Lowness and the monarchy itself, with its genetic and exclusive dress code, was as distant from the people as could be. And in that London, the laboratory of "young moderns" and modern lovers, an arena of major countercultural trends, with skiffle, rock'n'roll, beat, pop, where fashion in '77 lost its divisive and mainstream character and exploded in aggregation, sex that became an existential path, that rebellion present in "The Queen is Dead" at its most intimate moment betrayed its assault on institutions with a romantic turn;
«And if a double-decker bus crashes into us/ To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die/ And if a ten-ton truck kills the both of us/ To die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine ».
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