The Smiths Meat is Murder (1985)

From classicalbumsundays.com

The Smiths are considered one of the most significant acts to have risen out of the ashes of punk despite having only been active for a short five years. Unlike other acts that had excitedly followed the ‘anybody-can-do-it’ punk ethos and picked up instruments they could not play, The Smiths as a band evolved after writer Stephen Morrissey and guitarist Johnny Marr developed a songwriting partnership. They modelled themselves upon the great Brill Building songwriting/production team of lyricist Jerry Leiber and composer Mike Stoller who were behind many of the Fifties and Sixties girl group and R&B hits so favoured by Morrissey and Marr.

They both shared a mutual love of musicians that were considered glam and punk royalty at the time such as Marc Bolan and T. Rex, Velvet Underground (although Morrissey preferred their work with Nico), The Stooges, Patti Smith and The New York Dolls (a topic of one of Morrissey’s three published books). It is not surprising that Morrissey also loved the poignant and maudlin performances of female singers such as Dusty Springfield and Sandie Shaw along with the acerbic wit of American fraternal duo Sparks. Add to the mix Marr’s obsession with the riffs of blues and rock n’ roll guitarist Bo Diddley and the picking style of supreme Scottish folk guitarist Bert Jansch (whom every popular guitarist admired) and you have a combination that was an anomaly in post-punk Manchester.

Their eponymous debut did exhibit the dour attitude exhibited by Mancunian kingpins Joy Division and The Fall but the similarity stopped there. The lyrics were very cutting, precise and often socially observant touching upon topics such as child abuse and musically Mr. Marr was already displaying more proficiency and inventiveness than most of his punk forebears. In terms of production, The Smiths were unhappy with the first recording by former Teardrop Explodes member Troy Tate and re-recorded it with producer John Porter but were still unsatisfied with the results. However, it did manage to occupy the Number Two position on the UK Album Charts and the intelligence, wit and photogenic good looks of their lead singer endeared them to the press who announced they were the most important band since Joy Division.

The Smiths were off and running and within a year of their debut hitting the record shops, they put out a compilation of singles ‘Hatful of Hollows’ and recorded and released their sophomore effort ‘Meat is Murder’, their only album to go to Number One in the UK.

Their second album is where we can hear The Smiths’ lyric and sonic signatures truly gel partially due to Morrissey and Marr’s command of the production reins assisted by engineer Stephen Street (with Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce allowed to control the levels of the bass and drums). ‘Meat is Murder’, the album’s title, was a signal that animal protector and vegetarian Morrissey was more comfortable with an overtly challenging and political stance (his lambasting of the Manchester School system in the opening line was also an indicator). Musically, one can hear Marr fusion of American rockabilly and Jansch-inspired picking that has become one of his trademarks.

The American version (with which I grew up) also included the underground dance hit ‘How Soon is Now?’ which was first released as a B-side and possibly much too late as a single in its own right. Because of this, it never achieved the chart position it deserved as most Smiths fans already had the song before it was released as an A-side. However, it is most likely the most celebrated song in the Smiths’ canon.

Because of the complex guitar sound, this song was not often performed by the band live. I was lucky to hear their live rendition during their US ‘Meat is Murder’ tour when I caught them at the Boston Opera House in 1985. The band performed three encores with Morrissey thanking the audience between each one. The show finally concluded when fans invaded the stage (yes, I was one of those fans).

‘’Meat is Murder’ is certainly not the most famous Smiths album. That accolade would go to ‘The Queen is Dead’, another corker that was ranked The Greatest Album of All Time by NME in 2013. However, it is my and many other fans’ favourite Smiths album not only because of personal attachments fuelled by feelings of teenage isolation, but also because it is the album that showed that The Smiths were capable of becoming one of the best bands ever.

The Smiths The Queen is Dead (1986)

From soundblab.com

The Smiths were my Beatles. After a good friend turned me on to their first album in 1984, there was no band I connected more with. For those who say it was all gloom and doom, get a sense of humour. The Smiths were hilarious. They owed far more to Ealing Studios Comedy than they ever did to Joy Division. Hitting the broken heart like it was the funnybone. There could be wit and emotional devastation all in a single line.  Musically, they were formidable, ahead of their time. Making sounds no one else was making, until their contemporaries caught on. And thank god, they broke up. Thank god, they never turned into U2.

Johnny Marr’s guitar, Andy Rourke’s bass and Mike Joyce’s drumming were a match made in heaven. And then there was that voice. That haunting, defiantly effete baritone. And if the masses hated the sound that emitted from Morrissey’s throat, well then, that made it even more special.

I don’t have a favorite Smiths album. However, it seems we live in a society obsessed with ranking things. The consensus is, The Queen Is Dead is their best. For many critics, it’s one of the most defining albums of the 1980’s.

“Penned in like a boar between arches”, was a far more descriptive way to piss on the monarchy than ‘God Save The Queen’. “Charles don’t you ever crave to appear on the front of the Daily Mail dressed in your mother’s bridal veil?”  Such an immortal query made Johnny Rotten’s call to arms sound downright trite and ham-fisted. From the start, you knew you were going to get your social commentary with a healthy dose of humour. Musically however,  Marr, Joyce and Rourke couldn’t be any more serious. The Smiths never sounded tougher. Going for the throat. Jumping into the fray with nary a thought of taking any prisoners.  That furious drum loop and Marr’s wah wah pedal thunderously taking to the streets while Morrissey breaks into the palace with “a sponge and a rusty spanner”. Only to be greeted by a dismissive monarch who says, “Eh, I know you and you cannot sing”.  It’s a mercy we never hear him play piano.

‘Frankly, Mr. Shankley’ by contrast, is positively Dickensian. Here, a malcontented scrivener lunches on grievances he’d never dare air in public, let alone voice in the face of his tormentor. A portrait of the meekest of men who’ll say nastiest of things, once your back is turned. No one walks away unscathed in this one. Neither the object of derision nor the alleged, aggrieved victim. While it’s been revealed ‘Shankly’ is Morrissey’s playful dig at the head of their label (Rough Trade), in the long run, none of that matters. The song is about pettiness. And it touches on both sides of the coin with bitter irony.  

For my money, ‘I Know It’s Over’ is a break up song to end all break up songs. Snatching tragedy from the soaring heights of melodrama. Vocally, its Morrissey at his most knowingly over the top. The band at their most subdued. As ambiguous as the lyrics are, the emotions are all too apparent and burn close. Musically, a nod to those teen angst ballads of the 1950’s. “It’s so easy to laugh, it’s so easy to hate, it takes guts to be gentle and kind,” are words to live by.

‘Never Had No One Ever’ sends a raw chill. Creeping up on you like a stalker on a cold rainy Autumn dusk and peering through your window at night. The loneliness here is dank and cloying. The Smiths at their most ominous. But leave it to a song called, ‘Cemetery Gates’ to cheer things up. “A dreaded sunny day” indeed. Morrissey’s ode to Oscar Wilde’s immortal bon mot, “Talent borrows, genius steals.” Savaging any critics who might take issue lest he take Oscar up on his advice. “And then produce the text from which was writ, some dizzy whore eighteen-hundred and four.”  

Next to ‘How Soon Is Now’, ‘Big Mouth Strikes Again,’ is one of the strongest singles the band ever cut. A tour de force. Blistering guitars, muscular bass and drums. Lyrics that take the words right out of your mouth and fling them in your face. Morrissey, at this most vicious and scathing. Sparring no one, including himself.  A classic.

‘The Boy With the Thorn In His Side’ is reportedly, Morrissey’s favorite Smiths song. Along with ‘Mr. Shankley’, it marks the start of a consistent theme in Morrissey’s lyrics. One of growing discontent with the Music business. A sentiment that would soon prove prophetic. One album later, the band would be gone. Morrissey was a young man when he asked, “If they don’t believe me now, will they ever believe me?” The answer is, yes. At this moment in time, yes. And something must be said of Morrissey’s improvised gibberish at the end. “Nunna nunna la la lee”. I suppose one could call it scatting, but I don’t think that’s quite the word for it. There’s ever been anything quite like it on any album before or since.

While, ‘Vicar In A Tutu’ is a “scanty bit of a thing with a decorative ring”, there’s always been more here than what mortifies the eye. “I am a living sign”, Morrissey wails in keen desperation at the end. And suddenly, this joke isn’t funny anymore.  

‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ is a song that never ceases to amaze. Morrissey wanted to leave it off the album but Marr insisted on it’s inclusion, knowing full well what they had. The perfect mix of pathos and humour.  An aching loneliness yearning for the fatal punch line of a double decker bus. Musically, lyrically, stylistically— it’s a masterpiece.

Marr has coyly gone on record saying he preferred the music of ‘Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others’ to the lyrics. And on the surface, one may think it’s a frivolous reply to such a haunting melody. But if you ask me, it’s a mysterious and alluring coda to a masterful album. The kind of thing leaving you wanting more. So naturally, you hit the play button and walk these damp, cold cobblestones once more. In search of something you can’t quite put your finger on.

If The Queen Is Dead is the Smiths’ finest record, I could care less. It’s mine. All mine. And I’m far from the only one who feels that way. Next to Bowie’s Hunky Dory, there’s perhaps no other album I hold such a fierce, personal attachment to. Except maybe Meat Is Murder or Hatful of Hollow. Or their debut. Suffice it to say, the opinion offered here is unapologetically subjective. From 1986-7, The Queen Is Dead was in constant rotation as I fell in love for the first time. And then, all too suddenly got my poor, stupid little adolescent heart, broken into smithereens. This album was the accompaniment, as I tripped through the daisies only to wake up under the grass. There were moments back then when I truly could feel the soil falling over my head. Other times, when I was leaping around like a boy with a thorn in his side. Big Mouth striking again and again. And through it all there was a light that never went out.