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Silver trails with intangible golden reflections, certain songs cast an incredible light.
And despite the melancholy, and often despair, they illuminate places and moments. Little butterflies spotted with half-closed eyes in a meadow; they are helped by the fact that they are made of nothing.
That even we (finally!!!), at a certain point in the eighties, allowed ourselves the luxury and pleasure of being pop. A fellow halfway between Mr. Rossi and Oscar Wilde suggested we do so. Then again, "suggested" doesn't quite convey the idea... it’s more accurate to say he outright ordered us to do it.
Who knows what it feels like to see one's whims leave the room on a flying carpet of a thousand guitar arpeggios? I don’t know, but what I can say is: blessed is he who opened that window. Blessed be therefore Stephen Morrissey. But also he who allowed those words (and that voice) to take flight, namely Mr. Johnny Marr, the guitar wizard. Without that tangled web of strings, without that sunlit web, the new Oscar Wilde would still be in his little room.
Back then, the gurus spoke of reclaiming the Byrds' sound, of jingle jangle, of the sixties. All mixed with a childish and egocentric attitude taken verbatim from glam rock. Exhibitionism and lack. Dreams of glory and a sense of loss. Certainly, one can make a million references and allusions, but the essence of their music is better explained (how about) by the hyacinths scattered on the stage, the aesthetics of the covers, a monotone voice that somehow manages to stay aloft.
There is a track that, even if not their best, in my opinion, describes them perfectly. It’s “Heaven knows I’m miserable now.” It starts with that wonderful interwoven and tangled sound, imagine a shower of sparks, and then, in the blink of an eye, it leads to a sort of ultimate melancholy. With the drizzle returning (and returning) to compose a sweet nocturne with verve.
But it’s precisely the verve that I like... Like the in medias res attack of “William, it was really nothing,” voice and sound a whole from the start and then two minutes of bells (refracting) warm as St. Martin's blanket. Of the same ilk is the following “What difference does it make?” for a one-two punch with the power of the perfect single, that is, the shard of light for which we will always bless the good Marconi. Incredible is the yin and yang between music and words, as if melancholy and despair were taking a ride on a roller coaster.
And the rest is nothing short of fabulous, it accelerates... it decelerates... we go from ballads... to crystalline pop, with precious moments of almost rock. And anyway, it’s pointless to point out other tracks because this is an album of only masterpieces.
But if I really have to choose, I'll pick “How soon is now” which I used to listen to on Saturday evening before going out (surely that means something, right?) and which honestly, I can’t describe, and “Reel around the fountain” and here too, I’m at a loss for words. Let’s say a slow crescendo without crescendo with guitar reverbs coming from all sides for the former and a heart-breaking ballad for the latter.
Then the more pressing moments like “Handsome devil” and “Hand in glove.” And, its delicacy, its intensity, “Please, please, please let me get what I want,” the last breath of pale, very pale energy praying.
“So for once in my life let me have what I want, Lord knows it would be the first time”
The Smiths marked an era, but it was a long time ago. We know very well that now and then the rooms are repainted. So this is not what matters.
What matters is only the beauty of the songs. And here, there are many beautiful songs. They are silver trails with intangible golden reflections, little butterflies spotted with half-closed eyes in a meadow...
Trallallà…
ps This album collects the first singles with their respective b-sides and radio sessions. For me, it’s their best album.
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