Imagine a scene and in that scene, there’s you and there’s someone else. But you know that you don’t want them there, because you’ve done it so many times before that the obverse now seems like a welcoming respite. From all this bullshit. Imagine you’re all alone and it feels good. It feels good because you’ve transcended that same bullshit. You are no longer tethered to those worldly ideals that confine you to boredom. You are finally released from the bleak bondage of normalcy and you breathe…you inhale the sweet scent of that worldly beauty that eludes the normies. I mean, in a nutshell, that’s what The Smiths makes me feel like.
Morrissey and his mellifluous voice, serenading me through it all, ups and downs but most of all, through all the boredom. His is a lyrical, literary and other-worldly art. Johnny Marr and his rhythmic tunes snaking and meandering in unison, what a gift to the world. There is no other band like The Smiths, and I’m not saying it to spite your personal tastes. I’m saying it because it needs to be said. Just like we’ve preserved the legacy of Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin and Tchaikovsky, The Smiths will go down in time, in the same pristine fashion. They’re better than the Beatles, than the Stones, than the Clash. Because they made something that still invigorates young minds. They transcribed the visceral into the lyrical. And that isn’t just an ordinary feat.
The songs are as unique as the melodies, lullabies for when you abhor adulthood, panegyrics of a patrician kind that overwhelm you and soothe you. Whether it’s about railing against the status quo or realizing that you’re doomed to an asexual existence or finally embracing your bigmouth proclivities, they’re all sui generis masterpieces that give your worldly experiences the sounds they deserve.