Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Morrissey - You Are The Quarry (2004)


I can't get over how much the guy on the cover looks like Daniel Day Lewis and James Van Der Beek.

"America Is Not The World" is a bit too on-the-nose and preachy to lead off my introduction to Morrissey. It's hard not to feel right away that he's a pretentious self-righteous dick, which he probably isn't, but this song is just so heavy-handed. There's also a line about America never having a black president or a woman president that was true in 2004 but is looking pretty dated now. I mean, we haven't had a woman president yet, and I guess I shouldn't count my chickens before they hatch, but we're pretty damn close. I'll eat my words if it doesn't happen, and to be fair to Morrissey we still haven't had a gay president (or have we?). But the lyrics are so direct it would be off-putting even if it were true. And I do know where I can stuff my hamburger. Right in my big fat mouth because hamburgers fucking rock.

Morrissey mostly sounds like he really misses the 80s when every popular singer needed to have a thick English accent and sing like he hated life. I lamented how all those britpop bands hated key changes and actual compositions in favor of just droning backing tracks. At least Morrissey has a real band that plays a clear melody. But I can't stand his voice or his lyrics. I'm largely reminded of The Divine Comedy's Casanova, which I felt had similarly banal, heavy-handed lyrics that took away from somewhat competent and interesting instrumentals.

My guess is You Are The Quarry is meant to be classified as indie rock, because it's slightly weird, definitely maudlin, and I find a lot of indie rock bands have some kind of 80s music roots. In any case, I just looked up Morrissey and discovered that he was formally the singer for britpop band The Smiths. I've only heard one of their albums and I remember hating it. I don't hate You Are The Quarry. I'm almost maybe sorta leaning toward kinda liking it. But I'm torn. I guess it was a'ight, so 3 stars.

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