Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance

By Johnny Rogan

Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance is among the most successful – and controversial – rock biographies ever published. Having denounced the book and called for the death of its author Johnny Rogan, Morrissey later did a U-turn and cited it as evidence in the royalty-related court case brought by Smiths drummer Mike Joyce.Now, 20 years after it was first published, Rogan has returned to his definitive Smiths biography to produce a completely revised edition based on new information and new interviews to add to the almost 100 initially conducted over a four-year period.

Widely acclaimed as one rock’s leading writers, Johnny Rogan now brings yet more insight and analysis to his best-selling book that revealed, for the first time, the true and unsanitised story of The Smiths – the most important group of their generation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Omnibus Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9780857127822

Book preview

RIP.

PREFACE

The 20th Anniversary Edition

Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance covers the lives and careers of Morrissey and Marr up until the end of their partnership in 1987. First published in 1992, the book has been in print, uninterrupted, for over 20 years. From an author’s point of view, the only disadvantage of this has been that I have not been allowed to amend or add material during that long period. After finishing a book, most authors quickly move on to new projects, especially if they’ve been working on something for a number of years. But I was still hungry for more. In the two years after The Severed Alliance appeared, I continued working on The Smiths’ era full time. Some snippets of this research spilled out along the way. A spin-off book, the 110,000-word The Smiths: The Visual Documentary, concentrated heavily on their work in concert. A glossy book, with many exclusive photos, it has long been out of print and the original files no longer survive. The Smiths’ saga culminated for me at the end of 1996 with the celebrated court case between Mike Joyce and Morrissey/Marr. This was one of the most revealing, engaging and entertaining spectacles of its time, a perfect opportunity to see The Smiths’ story through the forensic lens of the legal process. After attending the entire proceedings, I went away with a wealth of material and a book full of notes, some of which I’ve included in this new edition.

Revisiting this book for the first time in two decades was, as might be expected, a strange experience. At the time it was written there was no internet and no easy way to locate print sources, or cross reference dates, names or places. Everything was a long slog, requiring months and years of research, including lengthy visits to libraries, registrars, town halls and the like. Finding people took considerable time and effort, but that was only part of the story.

The Smiths was very much a closed book. Virtually nothing was known of their pre-Smiths history beyond the soundbites provided by Morrissey. Johnny Marr had done a handful of interviews with the music press during the Eighties, but nothing substantial. Rourke, Joyce and Gannon were silence personified. During the group’s lifetime, the subsidiary members had been encouraged not to talk. Morrissey was the group’s spokesperson and this meant the story was relayed through the prism of his own particular mythology. Countless key figures, including such names as Joe Moss, John Porter, Geoff Travis, Scott Piering, and even the garrulous Grant Showbiz, had never been interviewed about The Smiths. It wasn’t just a case of locating the major characters in the story but finding out who was actually part of the cast list in the first place.

Looking back at my bulging Smiths’ archive, I’m almost overwhelmed by the amount of interview transcripts, documentation and notes, most of it written out in longhand, as was the custom before computers. Many of the interviews were extraordinarily lengthy and it was intriguing to see the sheer amount of material left on the cutting room floor.

Unlike many other music biographies, this was no ordinary story in which the early years are little more than an aperitif to the main course. As previously stated, Marr’s pre-Smiths’ life was something of a mystery and names such as White Dice and The Freak Party had never even appeared in print, let alone been discussed. Morrissey’s life was something else again. It was clear from his early lyrics that his adolescence was, in many respects, the lifeblood of his art. In interviews he spoke vividly about that time, conjuring images of profound isolation, bedroom bound ennui, schoolday nightmares, and much else. One of the challenges in writing this book was to discover the extent to which his many pronouncements were based on reality rather than imagination. His inflated vocabulary suggested that he was prone to exaggeration or overstatement. Things were never simply ‘bad’ but ‘horrendous’. In interviews, he loved using adverbs like ‘astonishingly’ and frequently employed reinforcers to elevate the mundane. Hyperbole seemed ever present. This was one of the reasons why Morrissey is so eminently quotable. Sometimes, of course, his effusion could detract from his message. He told his own version of the ‘truth’ but frequently you had to cut through the emotive language to grasp the essence of what he was saying.

His childhood and adolescence were described in aggressive language in interviews, and even in song. Part of the appeal in writing a biography was discovering the extent to which Morrissey might have fabricated his past. It therefore became crucial to chronicle his teenage years and experiences at school in detail. I was always intrigued by the song ‘The Headmaster Ritual’ and his accompanying comments on the horrors of St Mary’s. It was gratifying to learn from contemporaries that his experiences were not mere imaginings. He also spoke at length about being immersed in his own world and that too was not something merely manufactured to promote a pop persona. The truth was sometimes more prosaic but no less fascinating as a result.

Time passes slowly, Morrissey wrote in the months leading up to the arrival of Johnny Maher at his door. For once, that was a serious understatement. Many of the early chapters here convey the seemingly never ending frustration of Morrissey’s teenage existence. Time was a torturer eating away at his morale and stepping on all his dreams. Often, he was forced to find meaning and empowerment in the everyday banality of his own existence. That he later transformed so much of that raw material into song was just one of his enduring artistic achievements.

Johnny Maher was four years younger than Morrissey and lived life at a quicker pace, which I attempted to reflect by speeding up the narrative in his section of the story. He understood the mythology of pop and helped fashion The Smiths to fulfil his dreams. Always charming, he was also astute and deeply sensitive about his public image.

People often ask me at what point I decide to write a book and it’s never an easy question to answer. As I don’t write commissioned biographies as a rule, and rely on my own ideas rather than those of publishers, a project usually germinates in my mind for quite some time. With Morrissey and Marr, the first flickerings go back to 1986 when other matters were on my mind. I was staggering towards the conclusion of the original 300,000-word manuscript of Starmakers & Svengalis. It was a period of severe austerity, sleeping on floors, and endlessly writing. Many hours were spent at Camden Library, reading legal papers and rock books and taking advantage of the free electricity in order to write for part of the day in comparative warmth. A regular visitor to the music section was none other than Nick Kent, possibly my all-time favourite music writer. He was living in conditions arguably worse than mine, with a diet equally poor. We chatted frequently about The Byrds, the state of pop and, on one occasion, The Smiths. Kent seemed genuinely excited that I had even seen the group and was pleased that I regarded Meat Is Murder and The Queen Is Dead so highly. We didn’t stay for long on The Smiths and I cannot now recall what we said, except that the conversation leaped extravagantly back to Larry Parnes, forward to The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, back to The Byrds and, finally, to a dissection of Malcolm McLaren.

One year later, I was on the road promoting my latest book. In Manchester, I was interviewed by journalist/author Mick Middles. We chatted about my current book, but I was more interested to hear about his troubled dealings with The Smiths. The next day, at BBC Merseyside, I was booked to appear on a programme called Street Life. The young interviewer reeled off the usual questions before completely disarming me by asking what I thought of The Smiths. How could he have known? It was a weird coincidence. We spent about 15 minutes talking about the group on air. Why don’t you write a book about The Smiths? he asked pointedly. I deflected the question with the pedestrian, It’s too early in their career, but I secretly thought to myself, Yes, maybe one day. A few weeks later, The Smiths split and, some time afterwards on the South Bank Show, that same interviewer was hailed as a special fan. His name was Shaun Duggan.

Around the same time, I visited a pub in London’s West End where two people sitting at an adjacent table were involved in an intense discussion about the merits of The Queen Is Dead. They were discussing the album track by track. Finally one of them went to the bar to order another drink. I casually turned to his companion and said, I think you were wrong about ‘Frankly, Mr Shankly’. An intense conversation ensued, much to the amused astonishment of the drinks buyer who was now hovering nearby. Who are you? he asked, as if I was the Lone Ranger. It turned out that the person I’d been speaking to was Pete Astor of The Weather Prophets and his colleague was none other than Alan McGee of Creation Records. I look back fondly at those days as a time when pop mattered so much that you’d find yourself debating the merits of an act like The Smiths as though the subject was of national importance.

The demise of The Smiths quickly put me off the idea of writing a book. I fully expected the market to be flooded with posthumous tomes but nothing appeared except Middles’ slim volume and Morrissey In His Own Words collated by the pseudonymous John Robertson (who not only shared my initials, but took his pen name from a Byrds song. But he wasn’t me).

Finally, after long consideration and a visit to Ireland to mull over the implications, I decided to write a serious book on the subject. The sole reason was that it needed to be done. For those of us who had bought the records and attended the concert tours, something substantial was required. The Smiths were my favourite group of the Eighties but their story was couched in secrecy and mystery. Unravelling the tale and breaking down the wall of silence required endless patience and leg work.

What followed were several years of tough research. About a quarter of the way in, I signed with a publisher. Before even approaching the major players in the story, I spent time researching their backgrounds and interviewing various people from the pre-Smiths period. This was followed by the key business figures in The Smiths’ story and other contemporaries. Their great mentor Joe Moss was a crucial source, as was producer John Porter, to name but two. Johnny Marr agreed to talk but it took a long time to get him to the table. But I thank him for allowing me to exhaust us both with endless questions, many of which were quite challenging. Mike Joyce had not responded, so I had no idea how he felt. Finally, late in the day, he rang and invited me to Manchester. He explained that he had firmly intended to remain silent, in the traditional Smiths’ manner, but that Marr had told him he should speak with me. Rourke and Gannon followed even later, along with people like Stephen Pomfret, Dale Hibbert and Stephen Street.

Morrissey was always uncommitted. Vini Reilly seemed convinced he would talk to me at length and valiantly intervened on my behalf. These were not the best of times for Morrissey. His current album, Kill Uncle, had been heavily criticized, particularly in Melody Maker. He had no band and had not toured since 1986. He’d ceased doing interviews and there was a widespread feeling at the time that he was cut adrift, artistically and emotionally, in the wake of Johnny Marr’s exit. Six months before the book’s publication I spoke to him briefly on the phone and he sounded very detached and world weary.

The book was set for publication in April 1992. Despite its later commercial success, it was never consciously conceived as a potential best seller. Recently, I discovered some correspondence from the time, which made for amusing reading. At one point, I’d returned payment to the publisher as a bargaining tool for more time. This was granted, and the cheque was torn up. I’d been offered the standard £5,000 advance (coincidentally the same as I’d received from another publisher for Starmakers & Svengalis). I was convinced that The Smiths ‘project was worth more and pushed for 10 grand to cover the four years I’d been working on the book. In the end, I settled for £6,000. My sympathetic and worldly editor, Chris Charlesworth, wrote to me on 13 January 1989 pointing out: From our sales point of view the figure that you proposed is very unrealistic. Frank [Warren, sales manager] thinks he would be able to sell 2,500 copies of the book in hardback at a probable price of £12.95. Assuming a royalty of 10% on the hardback edition and the print run sells out, you would receive £3,237 in royalties. He then added, somewhat ominously, Of course this figure could be substantially reduced by discounts to booksellers.

Thankfully, everyone was pleased with the work after it was delivered, but there was still no guarantee that it would sell. During the editing process it was decided that the print run should be 5,000 copies. Unfortunately, the parlous state of Morrissey’s career, coupled with the passage of time since The Smiths’ demise, meant that some of the suits were becoming wary. Were The Smiths now passé? There was certainly a school of thought that suggested I’d laboured too long on the project and a suspicion that the potential audience had long left the building. There wasn’t much point in expressing my conviction about the group or the book. All authors think their books are ‘important’ – what else would they say? At the eleventh hour, the print run was reduced to 3,000. Not a good sign. Given this was supposed to cover both the UK and US markets, it was clear that the powers were erring on the side of caution. I simply hoped for the best.

The reviews, both in the broadsheets and music press, were great and for Smiths’ fans, starved of a serious book, the reaction was very positive. After all the hoopla, the book has stayed in print to this day, while others, including related Smiths/Morrissey tomes from myself, have come and gone.

One legacy from those times that still resonates slightly is Morrissey’s ‘M3 pile-up’ fatwa. It was rather amusing at the time but, like a story too often told, has become rather tiresome now. Occasionally, interviewers bring it up with the inevitable question, "What was it specifically in the book that caused Morrissey to wish for your death?" They don’t seem to realize, or have forgotten, that the statement was made before the book was published when he had no idea of the content. No extracts were published or leaked before publication day.

For the record, here’s precisely what happened.

A few weeks before publication, NME learned that the book was on the way. Journalist Fred Dellar, who had a consumer column titled ‘Right Said Fred’, contacted me and kindly offered a free plug for the book, just a few lines. I didn’t want to give anything away and, bearing in mind that Dellar’s column was usually concerned with obscure discographical questions, I thought I’d offer a couple of light, trivial tidbits for Smiths’ fans. All I said was, The book covers the whole history of The Smiths, right from the various members’ virtually undocumented early days up to the present. For instance, while some people know that Morrissey was once a member of The Nosebleeds, it’s not general knowledge that he was involved with Slaughter And The Dogs and actually auditioned with them. Lastly, I mentioned that Morrissey had once told the music press about writing a book on girl singers, but added that there was another book whose existence had hitherto not been mentioned: Exit Smiling. The best of all Morrissey books, it was about second division movie stars and actually reached production stage.

That was it. There was nothing inflammatory or controversial, just a couple of slices of trivia for Fred Dellar’s column. It was published on 28 March 1992.

A few days later, NME informed me that they had received a fax from Morrissey which they would be running in the issue of 4 April. In the famous fatwa, he argued: "The points published in the NME are feebly untrue, before concluding, I would sooner lose the use of both legs than read it … Personally, I hope Johnny Rogan ends his days very soon in an M3 pile-up." That last sentence was fair enough but the suggestion that the references to The Nosebleeds, Slaughter and Exit Smiling were untrue was not.

On 11 April 1992, NME printed a reply from me pointing out "The Morrissey ‘fatwa’ has apparently been invoked by two incredibly innocent remarks. Contrary to Morrissey’s claim these are not ‘feebly untrue’. The singer was briefly involved with the post-Nosebleeds Slaughter And The Dogs and attended an audition with them in London in November 1978. As for Exit Smiling, far from being a figment of my imagination, the script exists. Babylon Books collated work in the form of film posters, but hopes to proceed to publication were shelved when Morrissey moved on to a far more important project – The Smiths. I cannot imagine why these harmless and far from uncomplimentary details would invoke such wrath. Perhaps the answer lies in Morrissey’s professed wish to wipe the past clean and concentrate on his current work."

The funny thing about all this was that I actually had the manuscript of Exit Smiling, which publisher John Muir had given to me after our interview. In later years, Morrissey acknowledged its existence and commented on it (see footnote, page 244). As for the Slaughter saga, that was later confirmed by, among others, Mike Rossi (see, for instance, John Robb’s fine book The North Will Rise Again). My source was not a member of Slaughter or a passing observer but Morrissey himself who, in a letter at the time, stated Last week I auditioned with my new group Slaughter And The Dogs for a London record company, but they didn’t get the deal. I was therefore in the weird position of being trapped between the hammer and the anvil while pitting the teenage Morrissey against his adult self in a battle for truth. I trusted the teenager who was writing at the time rather than the adult star relying on selective memory.

In the months after the book’s publication, Morrissey’s career profile went skywards with the release of Your Arsenal. While promoting the album, he was obviously asked about the book and fantasized about its author dying in a hotel fire, while admitting that he still hadn’t actually read the biography. Stranger still was an interview conducted backstage in Toronto and published in issue 5, Volume 4 of the magazine Morrizine. Asked What’s your feelings about Johnny Rogan’s book?, Morrissey replied: "It said I’ve read science fiction magazines and not once have I ever bought a science fiction magazine or been interested in the subject." Fair comment, except that there was not a single reference to science fiction in the entire book, either in relation to Morrissey or anyone else. Maybe he was misquoted or confused? Who knows?

In 1993–94, I was researching The Smiths’ concert history in detail for a related book and reconnected with various interviewees, including Mike Joyce. During our conversation, he provided details of a recent encounter with Morrissey where they’d ended up going for a pint. Joyce was hoping to discuss how they might resolve their ongoing legal conflict, but the singer declined to discuss the matter. Instead, they drifted into a conversation about ‘the book’. The M3 pile-up is a bit soft for Morrissey, Joyce joked soon afterwards. "You got away lightly there. When we met, Morrissey said to me, ‘Did you read the book?’ I told him, ‘Yes, I think it’s really good. I think it’s a great book. It’s the best thing that has been written and probably ever will be written about The Smiths. You can’t top that. That book is what happened. You can’t really add anything else because there’s nothing else to add.’ He said, ‘Well, I think it’s rubbish!’ I asked, ‘Well, have you read it?’ And he said, ‘No!’ – in that typical Morrissey voice. I said, ‘Well, how do you know it’s rubbish?’ He then mentioned that there was something about comics and he claimed that he’d never been interested in them. I then said, ‘Well that’s not exactly a major part of the book is it? The basic facts are true.’ He just said, ‘I’ve never been into comics!’ When he actually brought that up I thought, ‘Are you kidding?’ I thought he was going to say, ‘Firstly, secondly and ‘what about that?’, but all he said was ‘comics’. It seems to me the fact that there’s some quote about reading comics when he was 11 and that’s the reason he doesn’t like the book … The reason he doesn’t like the book, as we all know, is that it was done. That’s what he doesn’t like! That’s the only reason, and I know that. It was done and it was done well and because he didn’t do it himself, he considers it in the same way as anything he doesn’t agree with … To incur his wrath over a valid point, now that would be [something else]."

On this occasion, Morrissey was at least correct that horror comics had been mentioned in the text. The information had come from Mike Ellis, who sat next to Morrissey in class during their latter days at St Mary’s. Morrissey had attended several concerts with Ellis and they shared certain musical interests, and exchanged memorabilia. While I was interviewing Ellis at his home, he had dug out various items from his schooldays, including a small bundle of ageing comic books with titles like ‘Movie Monsters’, which Morrissey had passed over to him during the St Mary’s years. On the cover of each copy were the words Steven Morrissey aged 11 years in that distinctive, childlike writing. Once again, Morrissey’s memory was overruled by written evidence in his own hand. He may have forgotten that the comics ever existed. They were second hand when he’d purchased them and the fact that he gave them to Ellis suggests that they were of no great nostalgic value. Either way, their existence hardly seemed consequential or worthy of his wrath.

There was no further significant mention of The Severed Alliance until Morrissey took the stand in his celebrated high court action against Mike Joyce in December 1996. I spoke with him during the recess and his only stated objection to the book was the story of his leaving a note on Andy Rourke’s car window firing him from The Smiths. That episode had not appeared in the original hardback in 1992, when he first complained about the book and provided his death wish, but was added to a new introduction the following year. Immediately after our discussion, he took the stand and waved the book in the air, while pointing at the words on the cover and announcing, It’s the ‘definitive history of The Smiths’. Do you notice it only has two names on the cover and two are missing? There are only two names on the cover – Morrissey and Marr. Did you notice that? Two names only, not Michael Joyce or Andy Rourke. Now he was using the book to his advantage in the court room. He was reprimanded by the judge who, presumably, felt that the outburst was inappropriate and irrelevant. I’ll ask the questions, Mr Morrissey, added Nigel Davis, representing the plaintiff. Joyce’s counsel then challenged the singer about a couple of details in his witness statement which appeared to clash with what was stated in the book. Asked whether he’d read the book, Morrissey claimed that he’d only seen bits of it. He was then asked to inspect two different pages in The Severed Alliance to resolve the issue. The book is correct, he testified on both occasions. Unlike his broadsides to the press, of course, this testimony was given under oath.

In November 1999, there was an unexpected footnote to the story when Morrissey was interviewed by Irish Times’ journalist Brian Boyd. Therein, he offered a new twist stating that it was the emphasis on the Morrissey side of his family history that had caused annoyance. So that was the main thing I objected to, not his Smiths investigations which was just gossip and speaking to soundmen and people on the periphery. This sounded disingenuous, given that the people on the periphery included every other member of The Smiths – not just Marr, Joyce, Rourke and Gannon – but ‘nearly Smiths’ such as Simon Wolstencroft, Dale Hibbert and Ivor Perry, not to mention managers Joe Moss, Scott Piering, Matthew Sztumpf, Ken Friedman, producers John Porter, Stephen Street, label owner Geoff Travis, and many more. Who else of any significance was in the inner circle?

At least there was no further mention of horror comics. Morrissey added that he felt I wrote as if he was raised by his father’s family, but I had never suggested he was ‘raised’ by anyone, except his parents. For this new edition, to remove any such doubt, I’ve quoted Morrissey on the matter and paid tribute to his maternal grandmother and his mother’s sister, Mary, in particular.

On reflection, I think Morrissey may have been confusing or fusing The Severed Alliance with The Visual Documentary as the family history was predominantly featured in the latter. Back in June 1992, two months after the original publication, I had spoken to Morrissey’s father again, and there was little evidence of any negative reaction on the home front. One year later I checked in again and found nothing untoward. Well, I’ve been down in Betty’s and Jackie’s quite a lot since the book came out, he told me. If there had been anything terrible in it that he didn’t like then they would have told me. But even they didn’t manage anything. They never said anything that was wrong in the book and they did read it. He could have been a little bit embarrassed that he shot his mouth off before he read the book, actually. He concluded, You’d never please Steven anyway. If you wrote a letter saying Steven was God and then put something in the letter that wasn’t nice, that’s when he’d jump in the sky. He’d forget what you wrote before. You could never please him.

I seriously doubt that Morrissey was ever ‘embarrassed’. Why would he be? He is not in the habit of retracting statements and far more prominent people than me have received verbal lashings in his inimitable fashion. The only other thing Peter Morrissey could think of was a passing comment from his former wife. He said I came from the tenements, she remarked, and also pointed to a subsequent reference to her working at a blanket makers in Manchester.

Peter himself responded to this comment. "I said, ‘But Betty you did come from tenements. It’s the truth.’" As indicated in chapter 1 such migration from the tenements of central Dublin to areas like Crumlin was common at the time. The Morrissey side of the family had also relocated to that area. As for working as a packer at a blanket makers, that was information she herself had provided on her marriage certificate. It may not have been a glamorous job but it proved that she was willing and ready to work in a country that would become her new home. That was no small compliment to her industry and determination. It’s this pride she has, Peter Morrissey told me. She’d perhaps prefer to forget about that than start reading about it. I think she enjoyed the book more than she said. She made a couple of comments but didn’t criticize it that much. If it had upset her you wouldn’t have heard the end of it. It was just about the tenement house and the blanket makers, little things, but she wasn’t stamping her feet.

That was more or less the end of the matter, except for an odd occurrence in 2001. During the preceding years, journalist/television producer Len Brown had filmed me for a couple of Granada television series on British beat groups and Brit Girls. Morrissey had also appeared on the latter. Brown had interviewed Morrissey on several occasions and we’d sometimes share stories and memories. While I was away on writing retreat in Ireland, Len had been attempting to reach me. He had received a fax via Morrissey who said he wanted to contact me as a matter of urgency. By the time I was back in London some weeks later, the moment had passed. It may have had something to do with Joyce threatening to place a charge on the houses of Morrissey’s mother and sister. But what Morrissey could possibly have wanted from me was anyone’s guess.

The success of The Severed Alliance inspired a small cottage industry of product. The book also seemed to liberate the ‘silent Smiths’. Since 1992, Joyce, Rourke, Gannon (and to a lesser extent Marr) have contributed to numerous television documentaries and a seemingly endless sequence of music press magazine ‘specials’ on The Smiths, The Queen Is Dead et al. It’s salutary to recall a time when the participants appeared to have been bound by a vow of silence. Despite this wave of accessibility, parts of this book have not been duplicated or built upon, even after the passage of 20 years. Morrissey’s elder family members, his mother, father, sister, and surviving aunts and uncles have never been interviewed, not even for authorized television documentaries. The more arcane aspects of his peculiar adolescence, in all its minute and bathetic glory, have never been explored again. Much of that unique source material, including several key interviewees, has never reappeared in print.

Morrissey’s feelings about the various Smiths media enterprises have not been warm. Even the television documentary The Importance Of Being Morrissey, for which he had provided unprecedented access, was ultimately damned by the singer. It’s all part of his enduring enigma and you can see much of that strange ambivalence from the early chapters of this book onwards

Not long ago, I asked Len Brown if Morrissey had ever commented privately on other books and was told he probably couldn’t be bothered denouncing them publicly and just hoped they’d go out of print and disappear. I was reminded of what he’d said to me on the phone back in 1991: I just don’t want anything written. That’s his privilege, of course.

Johnny Rogan

March 2012

INTRODUCTION

The Severed Alliance

23 APRIL 1991

JOHNNY MARR SITS IN HIS CAR considering his diary of commitments. In a couple of days’ time, he will be travelling to Kildare for the funeral of his grandmother. Ireland looms large in the background of Marr, as it does for all the ex-members of The Smiths. The second generation sons of Irish emigrants, they have various links with the country through a network of extended family and friends. It is Manchester, however, that is regarded as home and, significantly, all four Smiths have remained there, so far resisting the convenient temptation of London or the lure of America.

Marr’s future, even more than that of his illustrious former songwriting partner, resembles an open book. He has long fulfilled his original ambition to be respected as a guitarist, as opposed to The Smiths’ guitarist. His recent career and present attitude remind me very much of David Crosby after he left The Byrds. Weary of the pressures and claustrophobic role play engendered by a brand name, he embarked on a series of recordings with ‘friends’. It is interesting to note that Marr visited Crosby after leaving The Smiths. According to David, they even wrote a song together, but it was only half completed. Johnny recalls Crosby retuning a guitar as though it were a Rubik’s cube and presenting it to him with the words: Play that! To his lasting pride, Marr obliged and passed the test.

The playing with friends philosophy that Crosby promoted in the late Sixties was never fully accepted or understood by the public. Instinctively, people prefer identifiable groups and labels by which they can gauge and chart a performer’s progress. When Crosby worked with Stills, Nash & Young they were usually perceived as a fully fledged group. The lesser permutations, like Crosby & Nash, the Stills/Young Band, or Crosby solo, were perceived as incomplete or aberrant by comparison. Even Neil Young, who fashioned a prolific and formidable body of solo work over 20 years, was frequently asked when CSN&Y would reconvene. Groups have a way of capturing the public’s imagination in an intangibly powerful fashion. The gang mentality of the group, which The Smiths personified more than any comparable unit of their decade, is a burdensome legacy. In his new role as a member of no real group, Marr will always be open to accusations of playing the dilettante or super sessioner. It is no coincidence that the two major ventures in which he has involved himself since The Smiths betray an air of impermanence. The The has always been Matt Johnson’s concept and remains the classic example of an individual masquerading under a group monicker. Electronic, at least as far as the public are concerned, is merely a temporary offshoot from New Order.

Marr is aware of the popular aversion to casual projects, even ones as intense, committed and long in the making as Electronic. Even so, he is unlikely ever to return to a set-up similar to The Smiths. I’ve got a healthy respect for certain traditions in pop music, he tells me, and The Smiths were brought up on a lot of those, like the group as a single entity. As much as I loved those traditions, I’m quite excited about the climate now. I think it’s very open-minded and a little bit more progressive. A really important philosophy that The Smiths was built on was Leiber/Stoller, the Brill Building and Phil Spector. He’s been more of an influence on me than anyone else. That’s the way I feel about doing different projects. It’s not like the way I was working with The Pretenders, being a fan of Nils Lofgren and a famous sideman. When I met Joe Moss [The Smiths’ first manager] I thought I was Phil Spector with a guitar, running around with mastertapes. I had quite an irreverent attitude really. Playing a guitar was always a means to an end for me.

The end that Marr envisages is having the chance to proceed at his own speed on projects whose needs create their own personnel. Five years after the dissolution of The Smiths that means veering between Electronic and The The. What lies beyond that is anybody’s guess, but Marr hints at a nucleus of myself, Dave Palmer, James Eller and a singer and a couple of other musicians thrown in, exploring a kind of Mancunian Sly And The Family Stone. If I work towards anything, that’s the group set-up I’d use, with a couple of singers and maybe multiracial stuff and a different attitude towards technology. That’s the way I see the future.

Marr’s life has been remarkably stress-free since the demise of The Smiths. As of 1992, he has retained a strikingly low media profile, rarely emerging, apart from a concentrated series of interviews to promote Electronic. I think the older Johnny is getting, he doesn’t really care about the impressions people have of him, Matt Johnson tells me. He’s better off not doing interviews, but just doing his work. His work speaks louder. When he wasn’t doing interviews, he was more in the paper than people who were talking every week. He’s got so much energy and ideas and always wants to work.

Another area of Marr’s career that has altered significantly is his attitude towards business. During The Smiths’ days, both he and Morrissey attempted to control so much of their empire that they often fell victim to their own autonomy. Their apparent aversion to written contracts and an inability to decide upon a suitable manager all too frequently proved their undoing. The result was a series of minor skirmishes and threatened court battles, which continued long after the group’s demise. Marr, at least, has learned his lesson from those unhappy sagas. Without the burden of self administration, he has been able to work at his own pace and avoid the arrows of aggrieved litigants in his post-Smiths enterprises.

He’s true to himself and there’s no act with him, Matt Johnson testifies. He’s a genuine guy and you don’t get many of them in the music business, unfortunately. He’s one of the most generous and loyal people that I’ve met, which is why I really like him. He’s a very genuine person. He’s gone through quite a lot in his life. You tend to find that people who have lived a lot, it enriches their spirit. He’s been a good friend to me.

Of course, not everyone agrees with Matt Johnson’s partisan appraisal. Others point out that Marr is very concerned about the impressions people have of him, while the ongoing litigation with various ex-Smiths from his past speaks for itself. Clearly Marr’s career has not represented a series of uninterrupted accolades. There have been moments of struggle and re-evaluation. His public image has ranged from that of the aspiring guitar star to the upmarket session player and studio-bound recluse. There are elements of truth in some of these caricatures but the key to his personality lies in a desire to expand his knowledge and horizons. That was true throughout The Smiths’ career, particularly during their final year together. Marr was always willing to move on and stay one step ahead of outmoded fashions. His respect for the past has taught him not to be consumed by its cosy familiarity. The fight to reach his present standing in the business has often brought some hard decisions and tough compromises, which are unflinchingly detailed in the text. As his first songwriting partner, Rob Allman, cautiously considered: Johnny could step on your toes, but he was never a hurtful person.

20 JULY 1991

On the day of Morrissey’s return to the London stage I receive a bundle of photographs of the Morrissey clan, stretching back to the beginning of the twentieth century. Hours before setting out for the concert, I spread the striking black and white photos across the kitchen table and marvel at the period detail and family resemblances. It is an eerie feeling to see, for the first time, a shot of Steven’s late grandfather, Peter Morrissey. There he stands imperiously on his wedding day back in the early twenties, quiff in flight, a full 70 years ahead of his time. In another cameo shot, the grandfather is playing with a cigarette in his mouth, as if imitating an American movie gangster. Later this evening, his grandson will send a shiver of recognition through me by striking that same pose, while singing: Give us a cigarette. The gap between Dublin 1921 and London 1991 momentarily dissolves.

Five years have passed since Morrissey last played London and expectations about his concert comeback are high. The trains leading to Wembley abruptly reach a halt at Neasden, where an intrusive Ryder Truck Rentals vehicle reminds passers-by of the usurping Happy Mondays. This unhappy augur results in tiresome delays which, combined with the decision to start the show early, cause a last minute rush towards the Arena.

Outside, ticket touts, defeated by Morrissey’s unexpectedly early appearance, have called it a day and are asking a mere £3 a ticket. The singer, unaware of the vagaries of London transport, is already on stage. Inside, Wembley officials strap yellow coloured wrist bands on the arena dwellers, as though they were mental hospital patients. The same sense of spine-tingling drama that attended most Smiths concerts is discernible, even in this vast edifice. If anything, it is stronger than ever due to the tensions provoked by Morrissey’s long absence from live performance.

What strikes the observer most forcibly throughout this tour is the preponderance of youth among Morrissey’s following. The audience actually looks younger than it did during The Smiths’ heyday. Morrissey must feel like Dorian Gray in reverse; while he slowly ages, his audience remains young. There is a spattering of Smiths T-shirts among the hordes, but it is the Morrissey monicker that dominates. Eavesdropping on conversations and chatting to the faithful, it is evident that those around me never even saw The Smiths. It is to that name, however, that most observations continue to turn. The Smiths are the great institution that is no more, and it is with reverence, rather than nostalgia, that these concert-goers refer to the Morrissey/Marr collaboration. For Morrissey’s new fans, seeing The Smiths must seem the equivalent of having witnessed Elvis Presley in the Fifties or The Beatles in the Sixties. The sense of distance is overwhelming.

Although the Morrissey/Marr union is still regarded as sacrosanct, it is surprisingly hard to find that undoubted small core that still follows and appreciates the exploits of both artistes. Since the severing of the alliance there has been no contact and little common ground between this once great partnership. Their post-Smiths exploits represent an ongoing epilogue rather than a continued chapter, and increasingly demand separate treatments. Morrissey and Marr now resemble Lennon and McCartney apart and in later years each will require independent books detailing their post-alliance career. And how worthy will their standing be in the 21st century?

Such thoughts are scattered by the compelling nature of Morrissey’s performance. He oozes charisma, offering that peculiar combination of gauche vulnerability and athleticism that characterized his gait during previous concert evenings in The Smiths’ years. His rockabilly backing group are dynamic to a manic degree and bring a much needed animation to some of the understated work on his recent Kill Uncle collection. The decision not to include Smiths material is wise – not so much as a statement of policy, but as a matter of artistic pride. Morrissey needs to establish his present work and look to the future for inspiration and relevance. For a performer whose oeuvre, indeed his very philosophy, seems based on endlessly re-examining a lost, painful past, this is a brave and arguably necessary move.

The ‘relaunched’ live Morrissey displays a considerable power onstage. He revels in the messianic adoration and transforms the audience by his sheer presence. Looking around me, I am reminded of the words of Vini Reilly, who summed up Morrissey’s appeal in an eloquent flourish. Morrissey is a star, he proclaimed quietly. Stardom is being in love. It’s like a transference that exists between a psychoanalyst and his patient. I’ve watched Morrissey onstage – he has charisma and people sense it. The audience transfers its ideals and adoration on to him, and he reflects it back. He becomes something other than mere mortal, and that is the essence of stardom. Morrissey is genuinely a phenomenon and a star, and there aren’t many of those around. ‘Morrissey’ is not an invented thing. It’s real. There’s not a moment of untruth in his life.

Morrissey’s power as a performer lies in his unorthodox manipulation of sound and movement: the abandon in dance, the unpredictability of gesture, the wayward microphone technique and the unbridled love of eccentric phrasing. Onstage, his tattered garments resemble a shredded Richard Hell. Morrissey looks as though he has just squeezed through a gauntlet of frenzied, grasping fans. Mid-song, he stops to adopt a Carry On ‘hand on hip’ pose; he creases his brow, traces his chin with his fingers and becomes Rodin’s Thinker. While the group soar past him like exploding comets, Morrissey is abruptly transformed into life. Suddenly, he becomes the deranged stripper, restlessly tugging at his scanty top. He flails his inexhaustible compatriots into further action by using the microphone as a whip, falls to his knees, then collapses across a monitor. In a single motion he arises, arches an eyebrow and continues. This is a movement of Chaplinesque simplicity that appears to question, condone and vindicate his unique theatricalism. The sounds that emerge from his mouth are pure Morrisseyspeak. Single syllables are stretched to breaking point and merge with otherworldly gargles, close microphone kisses and indecipherable phrases which, in their own way, probably say more than can be gleaned from any lyric sheet. The star’s relationship with his audience is effectively summed up in that wonderful finale, ‘Disappointed’. Every night he can promise to sing his last ever song, only to announce that he has changed his mind again and thereby provoke an uproar. The song also serves as an invitation to invade the stage against impossible odds.

Remarkably, one youth evades the security guards and, in a desperate feat of athletic prowess, lands on stage, where he clings to Morrissey like a limpet. This is much more impressive than those easy ceremonial hugs performed for the video shoot at Wolverhampton back in 1988. Morrissey smiles with satisfaction and appears to enjoy being clung to so lovingly. Away from the stage, he does not like being mauled or touched, but here the opposite is the case. Finally, he waves farewell to his friendly assailant as a bouncer prises him free. Stage left, another interloper crashes through the mixing desk and is buried beneath three guards; it takes three more to subdue him. The singer looks on askance and announces: Goodnight, and thank you. It is a consummate performance.

There is an almost operatic quality to Morrissey’s onstage persona. Famously, he once said that the art of performance enabled him to express his true self. It is an act of self-realization. This is the Morrissey of the Nineties, audaciously attempting to shrug off the legacy of The Smiths and construct an enduring stage persona that is not subservient to the past. Suddenly, in this moment, he looks as though he is ready to begin again.

4 OCTOBER 1991

After a season of Morrissey performances at which audiences marvel at his newfound power, the final London gig of the year promises much. The sound system at Hammersmith Odeon is most impressive, but such considerations are soon dwarfed by more dramatic events. Not surprisingly, the show commences with everybody on their feet, as Morrissey lunges his way through the pulsating ‘The Last Of The Famous International Playboys’. A surge to the front of the stage is intercepted by zealous security guards, whose collective muscle will be in constant need this evening. Gradually, the crowd settles. Morrissey, sensing frustration among his more expressive enthusiasts, quizzically enquires whether we are feeling fettered. Almost inviting a display of stage-invading worship, he suggests that it only takes one, before adding I will forgive you. At the beginning of the poignant ‘Driving Your Girlfriend Home’, at least one youth takes him at his word, and can be seen desperately clambering onstage, only to be brutally beaten back by a barrel-bodied security guard. Morrissey hovers uneasily at the side of the stage, questioning the need for such security and demanding: Why does it have to be so UGLY? Seconds later, he signals for the group to stop and leaves the stage, claiming that he will sort out the security problem. It is at this point that an already promising performance is utterly transformed.

Over five minutes pass. The backstage scenes must be extraordinary, but they can hardly match what is occurring in the theatre. The atmosphere is electric. The audience voice their antipathy towards the security guards with a stream of abuse that grows louder and more insistent as the minutes creep by. One beer-bellied, burly bouncer crouches at the front of the stage looking uncannily like an unleashed Rottweiler. The unstoppable cries of You fat bastard reverberate around the auditorium. One playful fan takes this opportunity to run across the stage and back, much to everyone’s amusement. By now, it seems that Morrissey is absolutely adamant about neutering the security, even at the cost of abandoning the show. The tension is tangible.

Finally, the singer re-emerges with a look of victory on his face. Even before he announces the lifting of the draconian security measures, the spattering of overweight guards has retreated. The scenes that follow are amazing. Having spotted the signals, I join the first wave of invaders, hurtling down the aisle to within a couple of feet of the stage to commander the now vacant seats. This is where opportunities are seized and territory claimed. I find myself the perfect niche by climbing atop the back seats of row c and spread-eagling my legs onto row b. Surprisingly, it is possible to sway in an unencumbered clockwise fashion, while still straddled across two rows. The soft seat beneath serves as a safety net and trampoline from which to springboard back into position in the event of a fall. A fellow interloper is not so fortunate. Suddenly, there is a wrenching sound, and the seat disintegrates from under him as he spirals Humpty Dumpty fashion into the blackness. The stage is now under constant invasion, but in such a gentle, organized fashion that the bouncers need only serve as polite ushers, should they choose. One ugly scene ensues at the end when an overeager youth is pushed from the stage and comes spinning backwards. For those like myself, precariously perched nine foot in the air atop the wooden backs of seats, his approach is akin to a cannon ball. Several of us tumble like dominoes but, after hitting the floor, rapidly reassemble to reclaim prime viewing positions. By the end of the show, having spent an hour bouncing across and off seat tops, my knees, thighs and shins are covered in light coloured bruises. Thankfully, there are no cuts or abrasions. Throughout the show, the audience is remarkably courteous. The usual one-off flare-ups and displays of violence that some concerts produce are absent. This is, in fact, a far gentler and more tolerant audience than the ones attracted by The Smiths during their final phase in late 1986.

The evening ends with the realization that Morrissey has single-handedly transformed an enjoyable performance into an event. The show also underlines his acute appreciation of audience psychology, as well as revealing his own desires and needs. Contrary to his actions, he does not seek to break down the gap between star and audience, but to strengthen its power through the notion of possibility. Morrissey’s strength lies in his simultaneous remoteness and accessibility. The message he conveys to his followers is that he can be seen, can be reached, can be touched … but only for an instant. Soon he will return to Altrincham, to a house surrounded by security cameras, to a telephone whose (061) 941 **** number is known only to a select few, to tastefully laid out Chinese rugs, to a grand piano that he will never properly learn to play and to a solitary but orderly life whose introspective moments are already enshrined in an ever expanding list of songs. In one sense, this is just another concert on the tour but many people will remember this evening for the remainder of their lives. At moments such as these, the money problems, abandoned friendships, frustrated outbursts and contractual conundrums that have dogged the performer’s career fade into relative insignificance. At his best, Morrissey can still transform event into myth.

16 OCTOBER 1991

For the past fortnight the names of Electronic and Morrissey have dominated the news pages. Marr has announced his intention to play his first London performance at Wembley in December, while Morrissey has been cascading across the stages of the capital, but declining all interviews. It’s been a tough week for the NME. Editor Danny Kelly longs to have Morrissey’s photograph back on the cover, but knows he has no hope of obtaining an interview. However, the singer’s name continues to emblazon the front page, enticing eager readers. Last week, a concert reviewer in the paper bemoaned the absence of the priceless Johnny Marr, complained sadly about the singer’s supposed loss of dignity, and concluded: "I hasten away from the carnage. Come on Morrissey, let go." That, of course, is the last thing that the NME really wants to happen. They still hang on his every word, even if this takes the form of a handful of phrases scrawled in crayon. Today, the paper runs a three-page photo spread of Morrissey in Japan, which the star has reluctantly agreed to caption. This slight concession is regarded as a major scoop, and was evidently not won lightly. To arrange that, I had to prostrate myself, the editor moans. For some reason Morrissey thinks I’m out to get him the whole time because I did write in a Christmas issue that he’d had a terrible year. Of course, he’s been a source of endless great crack for us over the years, so it’s a two-way street. The point I’m making is, I’m almost tired of the intricacies, the byzantine web that he weaves. If the NME have at last grown weary of Morrissey’s determined aloofness, then there is little evidence of that in their news features or letters columns, which endlessly debate his every creative move or utterance. In a media world where artistes barter for front covers in return for exclusive interviews, Morrissey secures the accolade without having to say a word.

After digesting the NME photo supplement during the afternoon, I decide to phone Morrissey this evening about his reasons for avoiding media coverage. He sounds polite, but noticeably world-weary. During our conversation, his laconic responses prove instructive. I just don’t want anything written, which must sound strange to you, but I just don’t, he tells me. Far from weaving intricate webs, his attitude towards the music press is one of tired detachment and guarded isolation. His innocent photo captioning is a means of satisfying the Morrissey-fixated NME without the need to open his mouth. For such an articulate pop star this self-imposed silence seems all the more frustrating. Many believe that Morrissey is merely continuing pop’s grand tradition of creating a mystique through unavailability. Like Presley, Bowie and Prince, the dictum ‘less press means more spreads’ seems an easy conclusion in the circumstances. With Morrissey, however, the desire to escape music press scrutiny is neither an affectation, nor a career master plan, nor an egotistical assertion of his own importance, but, rather, a genuine need. I find it, on a personal level, encroaching enough as it is without things appearing in print, he tells me. "Thus, this week’s NME. I feel pretty fatigued to be honest. Not by music, or by making music, but by people who write about music or, rather, write about the people who make music. I’d rather just, as much as I can, stay in a cupboard at the end of the foot of the stairs. Morrissey briefly continues in this vein, ably articulating his ambivalence towards the business of fame. It is an underlying theme that runs throughout this book. People don’t seem to be aware of the terrible paradox of being feted all over the place, given all kinds of credibility, with people hanging on to your every word and feeling incredibly popular, yet being completely isolated and lonely, notes Morrissey’s friend, Vini Reilly. He has a few close friends, but he’s constantly surrounded by people who don’t really understand him. The more successful he became, rather than not being lonely anymore, he became more lonely. Now, he can’t go out. We try to go out. I’ve been to the theatre with him and the whole place is aware that he’s there. It’s really uncomfortable and he has to leave, even though we’ve made arrangements with security, who smuggle him in and out. It’s unbelievable. He’s attempted to shop on a weekday in Manchester or Bristol, with a couple of people with him, and he can’t get very far down the road before two people will be walking behind him and every shop he goes in, they’ll watch everything he does. You have to be there to see it. If you try going in a pub or cafe, it’s not possible. He’s had this constant urge to find somewhere to exist just to be left alone and go about his business. He touches nerves other people don’t touch. He’s had to accept that he can’t live like a normal person, and it’s a drag. He has realized that there are certain people he can trust and, over a period of time, he’s established a trust with them. He’s strengthened his circle, but it’s still very small. I think it always will be."

Morrissey acknowledges this sense of isolation. I exist in a vacuum, he says. Morrissey has, at times, cultivated his own pop godhead by empathizing so strongly with his fans, but even that cannot fully explain the reverence which he continues to command. It has become both a blessing and a curse. When I assure Morrissey of the need to keep his whereabouts strictly confidential, he wearily scoffs: I think everybody already knows.

CHAPTER ONE

November Spawned A Morrissey

1 NOVEMBER 1935

IT WAS ALL SAINTS’ DAY, a Holy Day of Obligation, when Peter Aloysius Morrissey was born at 12 Fumbally Lane, several streets north of Dublin’s River Liffey. His father, who shared his Christian name, was a stoker on the city railway, while his mother, Ellen, like most of the women of the period, worked at home. The Morrisseys were a large family, though not huge by the standards of the time. Peter was the sixth in line, preceded by Thomas, Mary Bridget, Cathryn Patricia, Ellen and Christina. Three more children would follow in later years. When Peter was only eight days old, the family moved from their northside tenement to one of the government’s new housing settlements in Clonard Road, Crumlin. I was a stone’s throw away from Christy Brown, who lived a few roads away, Peter told me.

The Browns were a sprawling family and the severely handicapped Christy was one of 22 children, a figure which made the Morrissey clan seem sparse by comparison. Despite having no control over his body, apart from his left foot, Christy emerged as one of Ireland’s most impressive and original novelists and his autobiography, My Left Foot, was later made into an award-winning film. Another celebrated literary figure who lived near to the Morrisseys was Brendan Behan, whose chequered career saw him join the IRA and serve a sentence in an English borstal (recalled in Borstal Boy) for possession of explosives. Although the late Thirties were a period of great change for Ireland, nationalism was rife, and the future uncertain.

The years immediately preceding Peter’s birth had been dominated by turmoil, grief and tragedy in equal measure. Indeed, recent history had been so full of contradiction and irony as to seem almost fictional. The land had been successively torn asunder by revolution, guerrilla warfare against the British, and a bloody civil war, culminating in the emergence of the Irish Free State (Saorstát Éireann) and suspended dreams of a republic. The fate of the Irish Republican movement and the strange reversals of fortune

Reviews for Morrissey & Marr

[marek2009_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a very detailed biography of primarily Morrissey, despite the title. At times he manages to make claims for what Mozza was doing on a particular date during his school days, without ever providing a source or hint of how he knows. This is intriguing, but the same level of detail becomes, frankly, a little boring when applied to the comings & goings of The Smiths various business managers. Its Morrissey we’re interested in, but inevitably the essence of Mozz still escapes us, despite all the digging & detail.