Morrissey
Ringleader Of The Tormentors

THE REVIEW

It is a mystery how some artists enjoy an immeasurable and almost infinite credit. Most likely, it is a credit they have earned in the field because in this world, nothing is given for free, but this category of artists (not only singers) exists, and it is not easy to come up with a plausible explanation for why this benevolence is so unending. Steven Patrick Morrissey, we can affirm without fear of contradiction, belongs to this category. Rarely have I heard his work questioned and almost no one has ever taken the trouble to speak ill of one of his records. Yet, upon closer inspection, he hasn't churned out series of masterpieces, quite the opposite. Even I must admit to being magnetically attracted to The King, as I've realized that I practically own his entire discography since 1983, the year of the release of the eponymous debut of the Smiths, and that I have followed him step by step even when he embarked on his solo career.

Leaving the Smiths aside, which I have always considered a great singles band and not a long-distance one, I must reluctantly recognize that Our Man, in almost two decades of activity, upon closer inspection, has published just a couple of remarkable works, namely "Viva Hate" and the recent "You Are The Quarry". To be magnanimous, let's include (in parts) "Your Arsenal" and "Vauxhall And I". For the rest, he has made a collection of decidedly avoidable albums, some downright bad, like "Southpaw Grammar". When in 2004 he returned to the scene after a seven-year absence, he did so in a regal tone, offering us with "You Are The Quarry" a record that in some sounds brought us back to the good old days, more than fulfilling expectations that, to be honest, were becoming vain.

This time, the wait lasted only two years, and unfortunately, the impression derived is that of a record released more for contractual reasons than genuine artistic talent. Turned in a more pronounced electric key compared to its predecessor, it fails to repeat its style and drags quite wearily throughout its twelve tracks, relying on craft and the voice (which is always first-rate) that mother nature wanted to give him to try to keep afloat. In short, the work is really bland with a rosary of useless songs photocopied one over the other, so shabby as to make this continuous genuflection towards Morrissey disgusting. I hope he spends another seven years without releasing anything and that they prove useful for him to design an album worthy of that name. In many cases, silence is golden, and rather than churning out series of records that add nothing, often taking away, it would be better to remain silent in anticipation of better times, to avoid squandering all the accumulated credit. The past and charisma remain, but as far as I'm concerned, we have truly reached the end of the line.