For a period of time, Myspace rebranded its social media presence as a music-oriented content site. I both wrote and contributed to a number of pieces published there, all now scrubbed from online existence. In their absence, I share selections of some of that work, albeit in submitted draft versions, sometimes with draft titles, as opposed to edited form.
This piece was originally published at Myspace in July 2014 and later expunged from their site. This is the edited, published version. If you are the copyright holder and wish to have the piece removed from this page, please contact the site owner.
Masculinity is under attack, some dope might say. The abundance of voices—thoughtful, political, well-meaning—tackling issues of gender in culture and entertainment have proven wholly unbearable to bowtie conservative gasbags and myopic "men's rights" redditors. Apparently our middle school guidance counselors were right all along: Words do hurt.
Rather than avoid, we of the amorphous blob-like social media set actively pursue positions and opinions that upset us, so that we might smite these offenders and their pernicious ideas with our pithy, misspelt and effective tweets. Hyper-segmentation of media grants individuals the ability to willfully tailor online experiences to reflect worldviews, yet somehow we can't resist jumping into the fray with our perceived enemies. It is that same antithetical pursuit of human unhappiness that compels us, against reason and good sense, to listen to the music of Steven Patrick Morrissey.
There's something a bit absurd about being outraged about something predictable. Despite your best efforts, pundits like Ann Coulter or Michelle Malkin will keep on saying things that are offensive and in poor taste, so what then is the use in expressing shock each and every time that happens? Similarly, Morrissey has spent more than three decades being dogmatic, cutting and smug. Anyone approaching World Peace Is None Of Your Business (Harvest/Capitol) his 10th proper solo album, knows full well what to expect: stridency.
Lo and behold, Morrissey still thinks meat is murder, that monarchy is welfare fraud, that he is right and you are so very, very wrong. Front-loaded with genuinely great cuts like "Istanbul" and "Neal Cassady Drops Dead," the album gives way to less remarkable slow jams, as is now custom with these later albums. He still so fancies Europe, with lips perennially puckered for southern parts of the continent. (Recall his disdainful "America Is Not The World" off You Are The Quarry should you require a refresher.) As on other late-career outings such as Ringleaders of the Tormentors, Morrissey gussies up his tastefully kitschy British pop with romantic cultural appropriations like the faux flamenco of "Earth Is The Loneliest Planet." "Staircase At The University" is a tender pat on the noggin for Smiths fans pining for the old days of black humored storytelling. Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before.
The key difference between the Viva Hate Morrissey of 1988 and the one wagging his finger at us now is age. The 2014 model emotes with all the subtlety of Elvis in Vegas, an unintentional self-parody tragically committed to the bit. This isn't to belittle Morrissey's beliefs, which to be perfectly honest aren't anywhere as monstrous or insincere as the kiddie cesspool of potential 2016 presidential candidates. Go to one of his concerts (provided, of course, that the show hasn't been cancelled) and watch the balladeer sweat and swagger through a fans-be-damned setlist. All that's missing is the jumpsuit.
None of this gives the music press the right to take cheap shots at a 55-year-old man's health. Morrissey, the insufferable sufferer who suffers no fools, doesn't deserve the gleeful abuse for doing what he does. The tinfoil rockists and antifa sticklers who never understood nor forgave him for "National Front Disco" and other so-called affronts to human decency documented in the old New Musical Express continue to grind their axes, which has poisoned new generations of listeners and would-be journalists. Indeed, it's become quite the intergenerational hobby to poke harsh fun at the most sanctimonious misanthrope in show business.
Still, how pathetic is it to make a pop star your enemy, even if halfway in jest? World Peace Is None Of Your Business reflects the utter banality of Morrissey's evil, an older man grumbling away to anyone who'd listen. Targeting him is as fruitless as attempting to place doddering Henry Kissinger under citizen's arrest. Ornately arranged and soaring, the title track condescends about how governments condescend. "The Bullfighter Dies," a glib little protest ditty with wincingly obvious lyrics, is at least jaunty, as is the suspiciously tender "Kiss Me A Lot." His band, which still includes mainstay guitarist Boz Boorer, deserves a great deal of credit for making even his most unpalatable verbal couplets worth listening to.
Unsurprisingly, Morrissey has a few thoughts on modern manhood, opinions he's none too shy about sharing. On the brusquely titled and slow building "I'm Not a Man," he's vastly more interested in emasculation than masculinity while brazenly rhyming "T-bone steak" with "cancer of the prostate." Nearly eight minutes long, the song is far more damning of the sort of clumsy machismo male-gazing highlighted repeatedly in screechy online thinkpieces. His best song in a decade, it starts like a lullaby, builds up accusatory tension, and peaks at the finish with bloodcurdling Yeezus screams and machinery clomps. It's all a bit dramatic, but that's the damn point. This is nonviolent resistance against the evil men do. Perhaps there's reason for fellas to worry.