Autobiography

One of my favourite quotes is from Zach De La Rocha, singer with Rage Against The Machine. The quote goes like this: "Your anger is a gift". Bearing this in mind is important while reading "Autobiography".While some who have read this autobiography - written by one of the most important persons not only in culture but in public existence and now - seem stuck on the idea that Morrissey is nasty and a vile, damp cloth for not whitewashing things, I think he is writing what he feels, even though I'm sure that certain things in this book are debatable and arguable.However, a nascent non-philistine will know the contents of this book for what they are: a receptacle that will live on and that has, to the best of my knowledge, yet to find its real match.During my reading, I often found myself invigorated, filled with an urgency of life; paraphrasing and punning not the point; you will find much of that in the book, for instance, where Morrissey semi-starts, by writing of his teachers:<blockquote>Miss Redmond is aging, and will never marry, and will die smelling of attics.</blockquote>I won't defend Morrissey any more - which is futile, as his work speaks for itself and really needs no defense - but say this: the past is the past, and I have often read Morrissey's referrals to this book in the past, where he's been quoted by laying out the truth in his autobiography. If his troubled pre-teens were terrible, why not write about it in more than song?<blockquote>I was small and I couldn’t swim, and the panicked roll to the corn-plastered depths terrified me for years after. This ringing hum of panic returned at Leaf Street Baths on our induction day, and I refused to jump into the pool. Ever-present Miss Dudley made no effort to understand the secret agony of a troubled child, and I was lifted up and thrown into the water in an act that, these days, would count as extreme physical and psychological assault.</blockquote>It is not without merit that the reader may question Morrissey's sincerity, given his glamor for strong adjectives used in the prop way of a Carry On film; that's his style, not an Attenborough documentary.Reading Morrissey's words on music at the start of his life is just heartbreaking, and something that all can relate to:<blockquote>It is only the singing voice, I decide, that tells us how things became how they are, and You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’ by the Righteous Brothers had led me to the light. In this duet between Bill and Bobby, the language of despair becomes beautiful, and the final forty-five seconds hit such call-and-respond excitement that I am now in danger of feeling too much. Bobby’s rooftop falsetto is the fire in the belly, whilst Bill’s deep-chested leveling is the full invasion. Suddenly everything else in life is in question.</blockquote><blockquote>There are visions of divine things: Tommy Körberg sings Judy, my friend, Matt Monro sings We’re gonna change the world and Shirley Bassey sings Let me sing and I’m happy.</blockquote>His sketches on what is "male":<blockquote>The masculine man hates the feminine man because soft is the enemy of hard.</blockquote><blockquote>My notepad resting on my lap takes the scribbles of unspoken truth: effeminate men are very witty, whereas macho men are duller than death.</blockquote><blockquote>The womanly David Bowie is attacked by the Daily Mirror as being ‘a disgrace’ – although how he is a disgrace, or why, is not explained.</blockquote>And, of not being "male":<blockquote>Female nudity is generally easy to find – if not actually unavoidable – but male nudity is still a glimpse of something that one is not meant to see. In mid-70s Manchester there must be obsessive love of vagina, otherwise your life dooms itself forever.</blockquote>All the while, school exists:<blockquote>St Mary’s Secondary Modern School on Renton Road in Stretford may indeed be secondary, but it is not modern.</blockquote><blockquote>Sealed up like an envelope, he is unable to act with kindness or humanity, for he has neither, and there is evidently nothing to humanize him. For five years I witness the monumental loneliness of Vincent Morgan as he busies himself day after day with the beatings of small boys.</blockquote>Good. Wash out the old. Bring crimes to the surface. However, unlike Questlove and other autobiographers, Morrissey doesn't invite anybody else to the party; why should he?, he thinks. Well. It's Morrissey. It's his trip.Still, there are plenty of self-critical points throughout the book, not least on a fashion tip:<blockquote>T. Rex are my first concert and my dad and sister drop me off at daunting Belle Vue on June 16th 1972, watching me waddle away alone in my purple satin jacket – a sight ripe for psychiatric scrutiny.</blockquote>And early bits, before personally getting to know the surviving members, decades from now, on the New York Dolls:<blockquote>An even darker force controlled the personalities of the New York Dolls, who are younger than Bowie and who are more-or-less transgender in appearance. Melody Maker announces them as ‘the world’s first homosexual rock band’, which, of course, is what they are not. On face value, the Dolls are menacing rent boys who are forcing the world to deal with them. Their arms drape lovingly around one another in photographs at a time when young men are assumed to want to look like Bobby Moore, Jimmy Greaves or Terry Venables.</blockquote>Morrissey writes - unsurprisingly - about liking Betjeman (the poet), but his words on Housman (another poet) made me cry. Here are some of them, but not all, and I believe they are key in providing valuable insight into Morrissey's writing:<blockquote>New air is discovered in the words of A. E. Housman (1859–1936), scholar-poet, vulnerable and complex. On the day of his twelfth birthday his mother dropped dead, sealing a private future of suffering for Housman, who was said to be a complete mystery even to those who knew him. With no interest in applause or public recognition, Housman published three volumes of poetry, each one of great successful caress, each a world in itself, forcing Housman into the highest literary ranks. A stern custodian of art and life, he shunned the world and he lived a solitary existence of monastic pain, unconnected to others. The unresolved heart worked against him in life, but it connected him to the world of poetry, where he allowed (in)complete strangers under his skin.</blockquote><blockquote>The published poetry makes the personal torture just barely acceptable. The pain done to Housman allowed him to rise above the mediocre and to find the words that most of us need help in order to say.</blockquote><blockquote>It’s easy for me to imagine Housman sitting in a favorite chair by a barely flickering gas fire, the brain grinding long and hard, wanting to explain things in his own way, monumental loneliness on top of him, but with no one to tell. The written word is an attempt at completeness when there is no one impatiently awaiting you in a dimly lit bedroom – awaiting your tales of the day, as the healing hands of someone who knew turn to you and touch you, and you lose yourself so completely in another that you are momentarily delivered from yourself. Whispering across the pillow comes a kind voice that might tell you how to get out of certain difficulties, from someone who might mercifully detach you from your complications. When there is no matching of lives, and we live on a strict diet of the self, the most intimate bond can be with the words that we write:Oh often have I washed and dressedAnd what’s to show for all my pain?Let me lie abed and rest:Ten thousand timesI’ve done my bestAnd all’s to do again.</blockquote><blockquote>I ask myself if there is an irresponsible aspect in relaying thoughts of pain as inspiration, and I wonder whether Housman actually infected the sensitives further, and pulled them back into additional darkness. Surely it is true that everything in the imagination seems worse than it actually is – especially when one is alone and horizontal (in bed, as in the coffin). Housman was always alone – thinking himself to death, with no matronly wife to signal to the watching world that Alfred Edward was now quite alright – for isn’t this at least partly the aim of scoring a partner: to trumpet the mental all-clear to a world where how things seem is far more important than how things are? Now snugly in eternity, Housman still occupies my mind. His best moments were in Art, and not in the cut and thrust of human relationships. Yet he said more about human relationships than those who managed to feast on them. You see, you can’t have it both ways.</blockquote>And, naturally, words on Oscar Wilde:<blockquote>As the world’s first populist figure (first pop figure), Oscar Wilde exploded with original wisdom, advocating freedom for heart and soul, and for all – regardless of how the soul swirled. He laughed at the squeezers and the benders and those born only to tell others what to do. Tellingly, a disfigured barrister and a half-wit in a wig destroyed Wilde in the end, and in doing so one lordly barrister and one lordly judge deprived the world of further works from Oscar Wilde. Solitary confinement was deemed judicially right for the man who had brought more positive change and excitement and fun to the London literary world than anyone else – dead or alive.</blockquote>On finding a friend in youth, among others:<blockquote>Anji’s nightly telephone calls to Kings Road are marathon, and even the most vague generalities of her day are spiced with such absurd account that the two hours kneeling in an unheated hall, ears numb and jaw aching, are always worth the labor.</blockquote>At times, not for long:<blockquote>‘Oh, I went to the doctor today,’ begins Anji. ‘Y-e-e-s?’ I say, impatient for Part Two. ‘He said I’ve got six weeks to live,’ she breezes, almost throwaway. I laugh because everything in Anji’s delivery is funny – and she knows it. ‘Yeah – leukemia ... hang on, there’s someone at the door ...’ Some weeks later Anji’s life has met its deadline, liberating laughter leading her every step to the grave, never losing her edge for an instant, bearing sadness with dignity, and always explaining herself so well, at peace with death as she was with life, the black earth of Haslingden entombing seventeen years of best endeavor and generosity. I see her now – peeling potatoes in the sun and laughing her head off.</blockquote>On being a fan:<blockquote>At last I am face to face with Marc Bolan – as his flutterers flutter about him in the lobby of the Midland Hotel in Manchester. I am nothing and look nothing. ‘Could I have your autograph?’, I ask softly. ‘Oooh, no,’ he says, and slowly walks away to nowhere –</blockquote>Manchester, growing up, thinking, tormenting:<blockquote>I am suddenly full of sweeping ideas that even I can barely grasp, and, although penniless, I am choked by the belief that something must happen. It is not enough just to ‘be’. I am reliant upon the postage stamp, and tactlessly revealing letters are catapulted north and south – anywhere where a considerate soul might lurk. There is such a godsend as ‘penpals’ – friends known only via letters, and these are easier to construct than any living embodiment. The lineage from Dolls to Ramones seemed like a Himalayan missionary’s trek from which a thousand lessons could be applied. But I want no more. I want it to stop now. I cannot continue as a member of the audience. If only I could forget myself I might achieve. I am crumbling from the top downwards – in mad-eyed mode, finding daylight difficult. Unemployable, my life draws in tightly. At 17 I am worn out by my own emotions, and Manchester is a barbaric place where only headless savages can survive. There is no one to take me on, and no one to bother about me. Months go on for years. I explode from intensity. I cannot cope with anything other than my inability to cope. I want to sing. I am difficult and withdrawn – a head, really, but not a body – full of passion within, but none outwardly. There are no sexual guidelines and I see myself naked only by appointment. It is simply a funnel, and there is no one around who suggests otherwise, and my mental horizons are so narrow and no soul is interested in the me that is beneath the chastity belt.</blockquote>On Sparks, and upon meeting Russell Mael on one of Morrissey's US trips:<blockquote>I wander into CBGBs, where I find Russell Mael, and I blush my way through a request for a photograph, and there I stand – 17, clumsy and shy, with Russell, smiling beneath the CBGBs canopy. The first five Sparks albums had been constant companions. I had first heard This town ain’t big enough for both of us as Radio One’s Record of the Week, which they played daily at around 5:15. I had no idea who Sparks were, but I thought the singer – whoever she was – had the most arresting voice I’d ever heard. In time, of course, Sparks exploded, the color of madness. Ron Mael sat at the keyboard like an abandoned ventriloquist’s doll, and brother Russell sang in French italics with the mad urgency of someone tied to a tree. It was magnificent, and the ferocious body of sound was a speedboat in overdrive. The life and death question was: what is it? As children the Mael Brothers probably slept in bunk-coffins in an unused wing of the house, playing with surgical instruments whilst other kids of Los Angeles addressed the surf. The straitjacket sound of Sparks could never be fully explained, and even now their historic place is confusing since they belong apart. Lyrically, Ron Mael is as close to Chaucer as the pop world will ever get – elevated and poetic, nine parts demon, and I am very thankful: You mentioned Kant and I was shocked ... so shocked; You know, where I come from, none of the girls have such foul tongues. The lyrics of Ron Mael and the vocal sound of Russell Mael are solid and original factors, so unique that by the very laws of existence I can hardly believe they exist. The sound registered is very tough, although the faces are fixed in imperishable marble. What are Sparks? A miracle, of sorts, and the dead child is momentarily revived."You’ve been waiting for your first encounter – what a let-down.I’m just finishing my first encounter – what a let-down."</blockquote>Further awaiting life:<blockquote>Deserts of boredom dripped by, thinly disguised as years.</blockquote>Indeed, language becomes quarry where Moz is concerned:<blockquote>James was one of the first people I had ever met who spoke in complete sentences, minus the ‘kind of, sort of, like, y’know, actually’ redundancies that prop up most people’s tautological cobblers. Londoners especially over-used the word ‘actually’, and usually placed it where it meant nothing.</blockquote>On meeting Linder for the first time:<blockquote>During the soundcheck for the Sex Pistols’ third Manchester gig I begin a conversation with Linder Sterling, who is with the group Buzzcocks. Linder is nine parts sea-creature, and alights with all of the conversational atmospherics of someone steeped in machine-gun artistry.</blockquote><blockquote>‘Are you still ill?’ asks Linder, as we meet our weekly meet at Kendals rooftop restaurant, and while a song is born, so too is a lifelong friendship fortified and not weakened by time.</blockquote>And starting the love of a non-lifetime, The Smiths:<blockquote>History had trapped me for a long time, and now it must let me go. But my time with Billy is already over. He has been lassoed into joining the excellent Theatre of Hate who are ready for Top of the Pops, and rather than bury my face in the mud I am happy for him. And history takes the strangest of turns. I return to the have-nots, with more reason to cry than anyone else on earth, but Billy has left me with a parting suggestion. He tells me of a boy called Johnny Marr, who also lives in Wythenshawe and who ‘is a much better guitarist than me’. The suggestion is thoughtful, but I am not the type to tap on people’s windows. Luckily, Johnny Marr was the type to tap on people’s windows, and Billy had also turned Johnny to face my direction.</blockquote>On Thatcher:<blockquote>Dispassionate and obviously mad, Margaret Thatcher is presiding over political England, raging war on the needy and praising the highborn.</blockquote>More on the start of The Smiths:<blockquote>There are months to follow when Johnny and I – along with Angie (Johnny’s lifelong girlfriend) – concentrate deeply on the realization of the dream. For the first time in my life the future is more important than the past. Angie’s view in 1982 (and for the next five years, at least) held a bravely impartial and apolitical quality, and she would never be of the Girlfriend Syndrome who are famously destructive of the band that causes their love life momentary pause. Angie would always be intelligently supportive and ready to block gunfire; an honorable tack far superior to the commonplace and dreaded musician-girlfriend who would habitually cause infallible destruction and petty squabbles at Thatcherite levels. I suggest to Johnny that we call ourselves the Smiths, and he agrees. Neither of us can come up with anything else. It strikes me that the Smiths name lacks any settled association on face value, yet could also suit a presentation of virtually any style of music. It sounded like a timeless name, unlikely to date, and unlikely to glue itself to come-and-go movements: it could very well be Hancock Park of 1947, or Hulme of 1968; it could be primitive or developed – the Smithy poets of bygone Russia, or the servitude of the hard-working, and so on.</blockquote>On the Hate for Rough Trade boss Geoff Travis:<blockquote>I foolishly looked to Geoff for an explanation when the single Panic stalled for two weeks at number 11, inching no higher even though it is generally accepted that here is the Smiths’ first unstoppable number 1. Johnny sends me a postcard yelling ‘PANIC: NUMBER ONE !!!!!!!!’, a common sentiment, yet once again, here we are, derailed by non-existent competition. Geoff leans forward and removes his glasses. ‘Do you know why Smiths singles don’t go any higher?’ I say nothing because the question is horribly rhetorical. ‘Because they’re not good enough.’ He puts his glasses back on and shrugs his shoulders. I glance around his office searching for an axe. Some murders are well worth their prison term.</blockquote>Re. Linder's pregnancy:<blockquote>Linder appears at Caroline Place to tell me that she is pregnant. As the full-stop locks the T in ‘pregnant’, the legs of my bent-wood chair give way and I splat onto the floor. We are both bagged. There can be no composure. Reason is lost for ten full minutes, as Linder and I are unable to look at each other, each fit dying down only to start up again with a further convulsion, and out peals laughter and tears combined. ‘Well,’ I begin, with postgraduate’s calm, and suddenly we are both deranged all over again, painful laughter now causing concern, leakage imminent, sealed-up frenzy running loose.</blockquote>When solo, hardships remain indefinitely:<blockquote>‘You have made alternative music mainstream,’ says the President of Sire Records, ‘and you have done it without the help of MTV – which is incredible.’ Yes, I thought, and I’ve also done it without the help of Sire Records.</blockquote>All in all, this autobiography is a triumph. It contains much, much more than the above, which is culled from the start of the book. I strongly recommend it to all. The only downside to the book is Morrissey's bitterness, which can also be a strength, but where it goes on for far too long, it stains; still, this is a truly epic book and should be digested by all, swallowed whole and infused forever.

Any response to Morrissey’s Autobiography likely depends somewhat on what you bring to the book as far as your attitude about him as an artist. Zealots will love it and critics will loathe it simply because of their attitude toward the author going in.So, I should say from the start that although I was late to The Smiths (discovering them almost exactly as they were ending as a group), I am a fan, albeit not of the rapid, religious sort. I’m also a casual fan of at least some of Morrissey’s solo work. As do most who admire him, I have always appreciated his willingness to put into song thoughts that, while probably quite common, rarely find articulation in mainstream pop.Given that, I’m probably predisposed to like the book, and I did. I worried that getting to know Morrissey better might spoil the music for me--and I admit it came close to doing that for a time. Morrissey himself notes at one point (when talking about a boyhood idol he meets later on) that it’s a danger to get to know artists you love, since they so often don’t match your vision of them. In the end, however, I think I got a better sense of, and appreciation for, the music, albeit in a way that is probably not at all what the author had in mind.If Autobiography had ended after the first 150 pages or so--about the time The Smiths find success--I’d happily and eagerly give it five stars. Morrissey artfully, lyrically, yet darkly describes what was like to come of age in a working-class area of Manchester well past its heyday (and which was not terribly hey even in its day, it seems). As with his lyrics, Morrissey expresses the outrages of persecution, arbitrary power, and meaningless violence powerfully. If the book focused simply on this journey from the awkward and gangly boy from the backstreets of a grimy northern town to alternative Adonis, alchemically transforming pain into glory at center stage, it would be a highly moving sort of bildungsroman.But the narrative goes on, obviously, through the decline and end of The Smiths, the beginning of the solo years, a (lengthy) account of the suit against Morrissey and guitarist Johnny Marr by former Smiths drummer, Mike Joyce, and finally concludes with an extended and drawn out coda of the most recent years, focusing on a sort of travelogue of global conquests at arenas around the globe.Most will pick up Autobiography for this material, particularly the stuff on The Smiths and the lawsuit. But the actual substance here is oddly thin. Suddenly, The Smiths simply “are.” We get almost no insight into the Morrissey/Marr creative partnership. Songs are mentioned only as commercial releases whose position on the pop charts Morrissey seems obsessed with, not as creative expressions. Virtually no account is given of how Morrissey pulled on the experiences he’s told us about in the first 1/3 of the book to create the unique poetic voice of his lyrics. We don’t even get a sense of how/why/when/where/how Morrissey truly realized he could sing or what it was like for someone so shy to stand in front of a live mic and an audience for the first time.Not that he owes readers any of this. Perhaps this would be exposing too much of the magic to dissection. But it as an odd and unexpected silence for such an articulate voice.One topic on which much ink is spilled, however, is the lawsuit filed by Joyce against Morrissey and Marr (although Morrissey makes clear he feels himself the primary target). Something approaching roughly 10% of the book focuses on this episode directly or indirectly. However, the treatment is again oddly superficial, focusing primarily on repeated claims of the outrage of it all, the greed and denseness of Joyce, and the villainous heart of the judge who Morrissey feels holds a personal grudge against him, despite apparently knowing nothing of The Smiths.This turgid section ends with an ill-advised close reading of the actual judicial decision by Morrissey, who unleashes torrents of criticism in a way that reminds one of a grumpy university teacher ripping apart a particularly idiotic student essay.That this event would be the gravitational center of Autobiography is a bit odd, but then again, maybe not. Throughout the book, Morrissey shows an interest in settling scores against those he feels have mistreated him. When those someones are sadistic instructors from Morrissey’s boyhood, it feels justice is at last being served, and quite wittily as well. But by the time we get to the trial, although the withering ire is still there, the targets have changed, and it makes all the difference.Stabbing critiques of sexually predatory physical education instructors leering at their charges is one thing, but when the same baleful eye is turned on the (apparently fictional) promotions staff at Rough Trade records for committing the unpardonable sin of not doing enough work to get a certain Smiths single or album to debut at the #1 position on the charts (oh, the shame of being merely #2!), it seems a bit of overkill.Even if one grants that Morrissey’s account of everything is 100% accurate, and that the long list of bandmates, lawyers, agents, musicians, judges, record company executives, journalists, reviewers, etc. who come in for criticism deserve every single insult hurled at them (even the gratuitous pot-shots at personal appearance), there remains an uncomfortable fact: Morrissey is bigger than all of them. He’s more wealthy, more successful, more famous, more adored, more admired, and more influential than any of them. In such a context, the barbs and cutting sarcasm seem like Zeus unleashing lightning bolts on any mere mortal who doesn’t fully acknowledge his genius.Take the Joyce case. Morrissey criticizes Joyce (probably rightly) for claiming to be not interested in money when suing for millions. But of course, this is in the context of incredible self-pitying by Morrissey because he is being deprived of . . . money--something Morrissey will have more of than he could ever need regardless of how the case played out. If it makes sense that Morrissey would feel stung by having a former bandmate sue him for money he doesn’t feel he deserves (and it does), it also makes sense that someone in Morrissey’s fortunate position and with his intelligence and sensitivity might reflect with a bit more nuance on the circumstances that brought about this turn of events.After a while, it almost seems that Morrissey is in fact acting in a way that is reminiscent of the bullying authorities he eviscerates in the first part of the book--using his position to hurt those he feels have unjustly challenged his position or not given him his due in some way.All this sounds like a criticism of the book, and perhaps of Morrissey himself. But I actually found that some of what was disappointing or absent in the book actually served the purpose of Autobiographically admirably. We get a keen look at Morrissey’s world and his understanding of his place in it. Perhaps it’s not the one he intended, but it comes across quite clearly.What we see is someone who, throughout the entirety of the book, sees himself as being acted upon by life rather than acting in it. He is at the whim of forces around him. Sometimes, these forces are bright (family, adoring audiences); often, they are dark (headmasters, unappreciative bandmates, lackadaisical record labels, death itself). This remains true from grim Manchester rowhouses to sunny L.A. mansions. He is unwilling or unable to frame events in terms of his own will or desire. Hence, a lack of almost any account of him *creating* the songs, but lots of handwringing about how they are (or are not) accepted by the world. Hence several pages of vivid and lovely descriptions of his reception by Latino/Hispanic audiences, but not a hint of a curiosity about what it is about his art that has *caused* this particular fan base to be so rabid (and it *is* an interesting issue).The view that emerges is of a Morrissey who, regardless of circumstance, feels under attack by life itself, and whose method of coping is retreat (with several quivers-worth of Parthian shots unleashed on the menacing hordes to keep them from following too closely).In the end, this actually says a great deal about where his music comes from, albeit indirectly. Morrissey lyrics are often about people who feel overwhelmed by life, impotent to change their circumstances, cut off from others, and mystified by those who possess the ability to get what they want. Most us feel that way, at least sometimes, yet such feelings rarely get put into lyrical form at all, let alone with the verbal dexterity of Morrissey. That Morrissey continues to feel these ways despite having few clear reasons to do so speaks to the truism that the child is father to the man. The sometimes pointless viciousness is a sad but perhaps unavoidable side effect of someone whose view of life is such that he can still sing words so sad half a century after it began for him.In the end, Morrissey’s Autobiography is not so much an account of how he has lived his life, but of how he feels life has lived him.

As usual, before buying, I read the reviews. I read a lot of 'hard to follow', 'needs an editor' 'rambling' statements.Um, Have you ever read or seen a Morrissey interview?If you like Morrissey, or have any kind of fascination with him, this book is brilliant. It delivers on every page. It is not chronological, it bounces back and forth on subjects, it meanders, yet every word is Morrissey heading towards either a scathing damnation of archaic Manchester and it's demonic school system, or love, praise and poetry for dead poets, writers, 70's television and searing pop music visionaries.Maybe, because I was born in the 70's Manchester, I got most of the references early, but anyone who knows the Smith's story and their background, should have no problem following the troubadour of tongues in his own soliloquy.It will not give you a potted history of the band and the man himself in a coherent, easily digestible format (there are many books out there that already do that) but what it does provide, is what we yearn for from Morrissey - words, words and more words. I don't always agree with most of them, but you cannot deny the man has a beautiful mind and a craftsman's delivery.I'm not learned enough to know (or care) what metric metres and poetic pentameters he uses, but it is clear throughout that he is offering us prose, rhyming couplets and lyrics disguised as paragraphs.Anyone who feels this needed an editor is missing the point, just let the man roll and be free.The biggest disappointment I had with this book, was finishing it.

As a big The Smiths fan I thought it would be good to read their story from the front man himself.It became clear as I read his autobiography that he hadn't bothered to hire an editor or professional ghost writer to shape the book in the usual way.Not the easiest read and plenty of self grandiose waffle and silly unnecessary prose.A large portion of the book is devoted to the court case which while interesting does not give a balanced view of proceedings unfortunately.Book ends on a strangely bum note.Hard to believe Penguin agreed to publish this under the Penguin Classics banner. Certainly not a classic by any stretch sadly.Delusional all round. Two stars.

I finally got to finish Morrisseys autobiography. And I’m left wondering if it’s actually a piece of parody written by Steve Coogan as a parallel life to Alan Partridge. Lacking insight into the art of wordsmithery and fatally focused on his legal wrangles this exhausting monochromatic slog leaves the reader wondering why he bothered. Presumably cash had something to do with it. Still at least we know the venue capacity of many of the worlds small/medium sized venues which could come in handy at a pub quiz. In the days when he was hopelessly poor I just liked him more. For hardcore obsessives only.

Overall I enjoyed the bulk of this weighty tome. S.P. Morrissey's early years & home life provide a unique insight into the man behind the mask. If only the book had continued in this vein than it would have been a truly excellent read. I feel the large portion given over to the Joyce Court case is undoubtedly overkill. Some points are repeated and makes the author seem somewhat bitter. He could have said what needed to be expressed in a more concise one chapter hatchet job! As a result the final part of the book suffers from the legal derailment and loses its way. Not knowing where to or what to focus on. Shame really because there are some really laugh out loud observations and stories. Much like the verdict in the aforementioned case Morrissey & his 'Autobiography' morphs from humour into truculence finally setting on a hazy oblivion. Ultimately it goes "nowhere fast".

There’s a recent fad in the publishing industry for autobiographies by figures from popular music. You can read extracts on this site and others, and the majority are dire; badly written and unimaginative.Having said that, this book is witty in places. Morrissey is one of the great lyricists of the last 35 years and his prose here is ok. For Smiths fans, it is interesting to have his take on those years. He probably does deserve to have his autobiography taken on by a major publishing house, but the others really don’t. The Rider SongThe Rider Song