This month saw the publication of Autobiography, the long-awaited memoir of Morrissey ÔÇô bequiffed singer, lyricist and iconoclast famed for fronting the 1980ÔÇÖs alt-rock band The Smiths. Owen Spalding tells us his views on the Penguin Classic
Usually reserved for such literary luminaries as Plato, Hardy and Nabokov, Autobiography was published, at MorrisseyÔÇÖs request, by PenguinÔÇÖs venerable Classics imprint. The news that the memoir would achieve a status never before achieved by an inaugural work understandably came laced with controversy. I can confirm, however, that PenguinÔÇÖs decision to publish Autobiography as such is entirely justified.
Beautifully written in a lyrical prose laced with an inimitable, deadpan humor only Morrissey himself could conjure, Autobiography is a joy to read. Smiths-related talk is kept to an absolute minimum, occupying a mere 70 pages in this 457-page opus. This does not prove problematic, however. The brilliance of Autobiography lies not with MorrisseyÔÇÖs brief account of his time spent fronting the seminal Manchester band but in the self-portrait he paints of the man himself. From his school days, ÔÇÿKafka-esque in its nightmareÔÇÖ, spent dodging the brutality of his teachers, to the teenage years spent locked in the bedroom of his motherÔÇÖs Manchester terrace immersed in the poetry of Auden, Wilde and Housman, we are given a glimpse at chapters of the Morrissey legacy that are seldom explored. More tantalizing still is a hint at MorrisseyÔÇÖs ever-mythologized sexuality. His account of the two-year relationship he shared with one Jake Owen Walters during the 90s is a truly moving vignette. ÔÇÿFor the first timeÔÇÖ in my lifeÔǪÔÇÖ Morrissey recounts, ÔÇÿÔǪthe eternal ÔÇÿIÔÇÖ becomes ÔÇÿweÔÇÖ, as, finally, I can get on with someoneÔÇÖ.
On several occasions, Autobiography teeters on the edge becoming a platform for Morrissey to vent his rage at everyone who has ever wronged him. His account of the infamous court case involving Morrissey and Mike Joyce, the former Smiths drummer, in which Joyce successfully won the right to a full 25% of the SmithsÔÇÖ posthumous revenue, clocks in at a mammoth 40 pages. Even for a die-hard Mozophile (the affectionate nickname ascribed to devout followers of the Moz), having to endure the rant of the aggrieved singer borders on the tedious at times. It is, however, the brilliance of MorrisseyÔÇÖs written style, his acerbic wit and his ability to hilariously tear into his adversaries with such rancor that saves such anecdotes from becoming stagnant.
Although we can forget any chance of a Smiths reunion, I can only hope that the success of Autobiography provides the much-needed impetus for a new musical effort from Morrissey – a pop star unquestionably as important now as he has ever been. As the man himself solemnly reminds us, ÔÇÿI will sing. If not, I will have to dieÔÇÖ.