The now-forgotten British author Horace Vachell introduced polo to the Pacific Coast when he relocated to Southern California in 1882. Purchasing a large cattle ranch near Arroyo Grande, which he renamed Tally-Ho, Vachell bred ponies and even socialized in the costume of the sport. His greatest acclaim came from the 1905 novel The Hill, an aristocratic Icarus fable in which the son of a Liverpudlian merchant attends the elite Harrow boarding school, rising to cricket prominence before his evitable downfall and dismissal due to class difference. On his adopted home Vachell wrote, "In addition to the family fool, the Englishman to be found on the Pacific Slope include the parson's son, the fortune teller, the moral idiot, the remittance man, and the sportsman."
One could lob three of those labels at Steven Morrissey, the most unremittingly Albion presence in modern Los Angeles, but he remains an entirely unique breed of Englishman in home or Hollywood. Bitter, witty, hypocritical, contradictory, self-aware, sardonic, and nostalgic, Morrissey's persona-- in person, or in song-- is never one-dimensional or quickly read. Consider the "I" in his songs to represent "Morrissey" with peril.
The media and his audience have consistently misinterpreted Morrissey's lyrics and statements. Everyone from the Warlock Pinchers to the Windsors levied opinions at his persona. The trend continues with You Are the Quarry. The record is not an anti-American treatise, an encomium to England, an epistolary revelation, or even a bold comeback, and magazines who claim such are lazy and reading off the kit. Laden with brilliant contradictions, press baiting rouse, dark comedy, and real human complexity, You Are the Quarry simply stands as the most entertaining and lushly melodic work of Morrissey's solo career, one of the most singular figures in Western pop culture from the last 20 years.
In an epitomatory 1989 interview with Greenscene Magazine, Morrissey castigated those in chinchilla coats. "It's disgusting. They're disgusting," he spat. "If I see someone wearing fur I ask them to take it out of view." In the same interview, he pointed out that synthetic shoes "look silly" and confessed to wearing leather footwear, as there's "no sensible alternative." The first scenario seems unlikely and makes for a comedic envisioning (At the Savoy: "Excuse me, madam, but that rabbit shawl must be taken out of public view"), while the second statement reiterates that Morrissey never forsakes his role as photo-ready icon and dapper fashionist for a few cows.
Similarly, when he puts his hands on the hips of Liverpool and Hull to slowdance with England in "Come Back to Camden", the lyrics should be taken with the whole of the Winsford Rock salt mine. Obviously, a "discoloured dark brown staircase," a "slate grey Victorian sky," and "the taste of the Thames" fail to paint a whimsical postcard of home. Even those who've never choked for air while riding the 15 down Fleet Street can read the sarcasm without a spider map. Yet those weeping synthetic strings (violins and cellos use catgut and horsehair, by the way) flash "I miss you" in garish American neon.
When Morrissey humorously mocks Americans with, "You wonder why in Estonia they say, 'Hey, you, big fat pig, you fat pig,'" we laugh because most Americans don't know what Estonia is, let alone where it lies on the Baltic; fat Americans travel to Tucson not Talinn. Each of You Are the Quarry's 12 songs contains an equally delicious line. In "Let Me Kiss You", which incidentally features the most romantically melodic quasi-Marr guitar, Morrissey pulls the mask off an ostensible smooching ballad with the desperate gob of, "And then you open your eyes and you see someone you physically despise but my heart is open." Those artificial maudlin strings that sweep back in afterwards seem like the most appropriately feeble yet crushing sound on the record. The supposed ode to his Hispanic fans, "First of the Gang to Die", even contains poetic and dreadful images like solar illumination sparkling in cement reservoirs and on human bone.
Two songs drive home Morrissey's modi operandi. On "The World Is Full of Crashing Bores", the fear of being a suburban meatsuit and an opposing love of cheap pop thrills drives him to an ending refrain of sincerely conveyed cliche with "Take me in your arms and love me." The album closes with the quiff quivering mammoth, "You Know I Couldn't Last". Morrissey's tommy gun is pointed directly at the pop stars who take their passing charge with less zeal and erudition than himself. Robbie Williams and Jason Mraz would never use "gelignite" and "evil legal eagles" in a chorus, or dare stick their neck out for the critics. "The teenagers who love you, they will wake up, yawn, and kill you," he croons. At his most biting he sounds most relaxed. At his most self-deprecating he sounds most energized. By the time the title comes up, after "there's a cash register ringing and it weighs so heavily on my back," it's again clear that "I" is not the first person. But it could be.
Like fellow Southern Californians Harry Nilsson and Randy Newman, Morrissey shows no fear of offending or wrapping emotions in black humor, while exhibiting a deep passion for classic songwriting forms. Few-- possibly none-- would call the police "uniformed whores" and mockingly thank Jesus for bestowing him with love for which there is no receptacle on an album bulging with desire and soppy diapason. With a producer to match the vocal boldness of Morrissey, the record could have been pushed, musically, in a futuristic cinescope folk direction similar to recent The Flaming Lips. Flutes and piano and electric squelches peep through the sidewalk of simple lulling rhythms, acoustic guitar, and synthesizers. Jerry Finn, a Hollywood hack, knows only to throw all the parts out there with money stuffed in the panties. Prancing the choice embellishments in polo gear and avoiding standard rock mixing would have made the album perfect.
That's a rather considerable caveat to tag on the end on a review, but if you're listening to Morrissey albums for riffs and licks you're missing the point. Any instrumental bed under such incandescent personality and booming voice would pale. Envisioning the songwriter at work brings to mind a woman picking at an acoustic or a fellow hunched over a piano with a drink. The genesis of Morrissey music remains ambiguous both physically and in intent.
You Are the Quarry sounds effortless, and seemingly anything that pours from Morrissey's mouth comes wrapped in well-formed wit and melody. Some may want him to simply yearn for his homeland, or a woman, or a man, or bitterly attack pop stars or American culture, as this is seen as some sort of bold personal statement, but personalities rarely run down such black and white divisions. Creating an emotionally muddled, cantankerous, baroque, funny, longing, introspective, world-critiquing album is the most personal act a man like Morrissey makes. It trickles down to the logo on the cover, the resuscitated Attack imprint, a vinyl reggae label that has no relation to his music, yet reflects the taste and scholarship and attitude of man who began his career in music writing geeky teenage letters to NME begging for better New York Dolls coverage.
Often during the course of writing a review, as the CD plays again and again for the 13th and 14th times, a critic finds himself convincing himself more and more that the record is essential. Morrissey's nature inherently emboldens those looking to make a statement, and now that he's on the mark, I similarly feel the need to stick out my neck for his record. Then again, Horace Vachell eventually sold the ranch and moved back to England. You can go home again.
