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waxwingslane's review
2.0
Everyone authors an autobiography with a spin in mind, and rewriting the history of a legal battle nobody but the author cares about is such a dull spin.
3.5/10.
3.5/10.
diegoo21's review
3.0
It's been almost ten years since I discovered The Smiths and by proxy, Morrissey's music. Pretty much since then I've considered The Smiths as my favorite musical act of all times. Back when I first met them, and for the years to come, The Smiths music will speak to my teenage and young adult self in a very dear way. Nowadays, even though I don't listen to them as much, their music still rings through, and although I'm no longer the lonely soul I thought myself to be, musically and lyrically speaking, their music still has much appeal. Morrissey on the other hand, a still active musician, pretty much stays on the headlines not for his music, but for his witty remarks. He's got a grand personality as his autobiography cover and Penguin Classics publishing shows. He's pretty much an asshole, and as this book states, he pretty much knows he is.
What I enjoyed about this book, is precisely how much the author's voice is felt through its pages. You can really tell this is the same guy who wrote those self-weary songs in the 80s (and as a solo artist on the 90s and 00s) and not a ghostwriter. On the other hand, the book can get weary at times, especially since just about a hundred pages cover The Smiths run (pretty much anyone's interest focus), with an additional 100 pages (or what felt like more than that) covering the famous Smiths' trial of the 90s, with a very whiny Morrissey coming through. Its way more interesting fragments cover more personal stuff, like his account of 9/11, but even those fragments where he talks about important people on his life (and how many reached premature deaths), like "sort of lovers" and past band members, most of this stories lack closure or fail to tell it all, leaving us wondering if they'll come back in the following pages. The musician's resentment towards media portrayal (especially from NME) and his failure of not having become even a bigger celebrity and success appears constantly throughout; and even though he pretends to shove it off, it's clear from his reiteration that he cares more than he dares to admit. Morrissey's final appreciation words for his then current band members, fail to read sincere, after having read him pretty much bash over any of his previous band members.
Having said all that, Autobiography is pretty much a book for The Smiths fans and for those who are centered enough to find Moz venomous personally somewhat of a treat and not an annoying nuisance.
What I enjoyed about this book, is precisely how much the author's voice is felt through its pages. You can really tell this is the same guy who wrote those self-weary songs in the 80s (and as a solo artist on the 90s and 00s) and not a ghostwriter. On the other hand, the book can get weary at times, especially since just about a hundred pages cover The Smiths run (pretty much anyone's interest focus), with an additional 100 pages (or what felt like more than that) covering the famous Smiths' trial of the 90s, with a very whiny Morrissey coming through. Its way more interesting fragments cover more personal stuff, like his account of 9/11, but even those fragments where he talks about important people on his life (and how many reached premature deaths), like "sort of lovers" and past band members, most of this stories lack closure or fail to tell it all, leaving us wondering if they'll come back in the following pages. The musician's resentment towards media portrayal (especially from NME) and his failure of not having become even a bigger celebrity and success appears constantly throughout; and even though he pretends to shove it off, it's clear from his reiteration that he cares more than he dares to admit. Morrissey's final appreciation words for his then current band members, fail to read sincere, after having read him pretty much bash over any of his previous band members.
Having said all that, Autobiography is pretty much a book for The Smiths fans and for those who are centered enough to find Moz venomous personally somewhat of a treat and not an annoying nuisance.
lalelilolu19's review against another edition
3.0
Morrissey es un señor payaso, pero a la vez interesante.
Me parece algo enrollado la forma en como redactó el texto y cómo va la cronología.
Siento que si no eres fan de Moz no te va a llamar mucho la atención lo que está contando.
Realmente es su Autobiografía, no la de The Smiths ni de él como solista.
Me gusta mucho su música y también me gustó lo que cuenta en este libro; le daría una estrella más, pero la redacción más la mala traducción me quita las ganas.
Me parece algo enrollado la forma en como redactó el texto y cómo va la cronología.
Siento que si no eres fan de Moz no te va a llamar mucho la atención lo que está contando.
Realmente es su Autobiografía, no la de The Smiths ni de él como solista.
Me gusta mucho su música y también me gustó lo que cuenta en este libro; le daría una estrella más, pero la redacción más la mala traducción me quita las ganas.
hetauuu's review
5.0
It was a regular day in early summer of 2014 when I first heard The Smiths. It certainly wasn't the first time I'd heard of The Smiths, but it wasn't until I was listening to a ready made Spotify playlist of the biggest indie hits that This Charming Man graced my ears and changed my life for the better, introducing me to the songs that made me smile, the songs that made me cry and the songs that saved my life. So, it was only natural for me to read the autobiography of the man who sings all of them.
Morrissey is obviously an extremely polarizing person. Some love him, some love to hate him and some straight up despise him. Throughout this book it is clear that not even the man himself knows what to think of himself, as in the midst of being loved by audiences for over three decades he still is surprised every night that those people wait in line to see him. Morrissey is ready to sling the sharp knife of words at the direction of others - calling Sarah Ferguson 'Duchess of Nothing', mocking his former bandmate-turned-foe Mike Joyce, etc. - but does not spare himself from it either. That's what makes reading this book and reading from his point of view so fascinating: while he certainly adores himself and his own voice to a long extent, throughout the book you see that the insecure Mancunian boy is there all along. And boy oh boy do you root for him, pompous as he is, a natural-born drama queen, but so endlessly lovable and deeply human.
You could argue that Autobiography could have used an editor, as it felt like stream-of-consciousness at times and was highly unorganized. No chapters, paragraphs that go on for pages upon pages, random tangents where Morrissey suddenly spends a page or two describing or criticising a song, an album, a film, what have you. But would this book have shown the true essence of the Pope of Mope had it been cut up and rearranged with the help of an editor? I doubt it. Morrissey certainly has shown himself to be a man of his own making, who would not welcome warmly the idea of someone trying to tell him how to tell the story of his life. I'm glad no one cut the wings off this butterfly - flaws, tangents, self-important monologues and all, Autobiography is fantastic.
What drew me in to the music of The Smiths and Morrissey's solo work were the lyrics. Morrissey has a way with words like no other, and this book only further highlights that. Sure, his attempt at Mexican slang is funny and rather embarrassing, and when listing the details of his tours, not every sentence can be as stunning as the lyrics of his best tracks. Still, his dry humor and over-exaggerated style is hilarious and I found myself laughing out loud at many points. And on nearly every page, there was a sentence or more that demanded to be read again, underlined, highlighted, tattooed on skin. The images he paints of the Manchester of his childhood, the way he describes the crowd - '--and singing back to me the crowd is love itself, with eyes too blue to be true' - or the way he writes about death and loss in just a few words, yet simultaneously says everything ever needed. I want to get another copy of this book just to highlight every line that amazes me. Describing Anji, a friend from his youth who suddenly died of cancer, he wrote 'I see her now, peeling potatoes in the sun and laughing her head off' and I could no longer keep my eyes dry, seeing images of a beloved person of mine, now passed, laughing too. And once again Morrissey has spoken right to my soul.
If you love Morrissey, read Autobiography. If you don't love Morrissey, hell, read Autobiography. How you see the book will depend a lot on which end of the spectrum you are when it comes to him, but I'm sure someone who hates him can also take away a lot of what I took away from this book. Beneath the articles and the persona and the countless songs is a human being, flaws and all, annoying at times, certainly overly dramatic, but someone who isn't afraid to speak his mind. Regarding some aspects of the book, especially the court case, this is clearly just one side of the story and it can be hard to be objective of your own actions - but it is a side worth reading about, a POV worth hearing from. We are our own worst critics and our own biggest fans, and I see both of that in him as I read this book.
'Whatever is sung is the case', a quote from WH Auden concludes this book, and certainly could not describe Morrissey any better. Off to my Favorites shelf you go, you charming man.
Morrissey is obviously an extremely polarizing person. Some love him, some love to hate him and some straight up despise him. Throughout this book it is clear that not even the man himself knows what to think of himself, as in the midst of being loved by audiences for over three decades he still is surprised every night that those people wait in line to see him. Morrissey is ready to sling the sharp knife of words at the direction of others - calling Sarah Ferguson 'Duchess of Nothing', mocking his former bandmate-turned-foe Mike Joyce, etc. - but does not spare himself from it either. That's what makes reading this book and reading from his point of view so fascinating: while he certainly adores himself and his own voice to a long extent, throughout the book you see that the insecure Mancunian boy is there all along. And boy oh boy do you root for him, pompous as he is, a natural-born drama queen, but so endlessly lovable and deeply human.
You could argue that Autobiography could have used an editor, as it felt like stream-of-consciousness at times and was highly unorganized. No chapters, paragraphs that go on for pages upon pages, random tangents where Morrissey suddenly spends a page or two describing or criticising a song, an album, a film, what have you. But would this book have shown the true essence of the Pope of Mope had it been cut up and rearranged with the help of an editor? I doubt it. Morrissey certainly has shown himself to be a man of his own making, who would not welcome warmly the idea of someone trying to tell him how to tell the story of his life. I'm glad no one cut the wings off this butterfly - flaws, tangents, self-important monologues and all, Autobiography is fantastic.
What drew me in to the music of The Smiths and Morrissey's solo work were the lyrics. Morrissey has a way with words like no other, and this book only further highlights that. Sure, his attempt at Mexican slang is funny and rather embarrassing, and when listing the details of his tours, not every sentence can be as stunning as the lyrics of his best tracks. Still, his dry humor and over-exaggerated style is hilarious and I found myself laughing out loud at many points. And on nearly every page, there was a sentence or more that demanded to be read again, underlined, highlighted, tattooed on skin. The images he paints of the Manchester of his childhood, the way he describes the crowd - '--and singing back to me the crowd is love itself, with eyes too blue to be true' - or the way he writes about death and loss in just a few words, yet simultaneously says everything ever needed. I want to get another copy of this book just to highlight every line that amazes me. Describing Anji, a friend from his youth who suddenly died of cancer, he wrote 'I see her now, peeling potatoes in the sun and laughing her head off' and I could no longer keep my eyes dry, seeing images of a beloved person of mine, now passed, laughing too. And once again Morrissey has spoken right to my soul.
If you love Morrissey, read Autobiography. If you don't love Morrissey, hell, read Autobiography. How you see the book will depend a lot on which end of the spectrum you are when it comes to him, but I'm sure someone who hates him can also take away a lot of what I took away from this book. Beneath the articles and the persona and the countless songs is a human being, flaws and all, annoying at times, certainly overly dramatic, but someone who isn't afraid to speak his mind. Regarding some aspects of the book, especially the court case, this is clearly just one side of the story and it can be hard to be objective of your own actions - but it is a side worth reading about, a POV worth hearing from. We are our own worst critics and our own biggest fans, and I see both of that in him as I read this book.
'Whatever is sung is the case', a quote from WH Auden concludes this book, and certainly could not describe Morrissey any better. Off to my Favorites shelf you go, you charming man.
dernichtraucherin's review against another edition
emotional
slow-paced
1.0
just read the other reviews for this book, i could never measure up to them and unlike morrissey, i know when to shut up xx
Content Warnings
Moderate: Fatphobia
deeclancy's review
5.0
Look, I find it hard not to give a book by Morrissey five stars. Aside from the fact that listening to Morrissey tends to bring out my nurturing instincts, and I tend to have the constant vague feeling that I should be making him a hot drink when I have his music on, I am constitutionally incapable of objective criticism once an artist (of the music-producing kind) has gained my affection. If someone's music has touched my life or got me through a tough period, then the artist becomes pretty much immune from criticism unless they do something to seriously alienate me, like become a serial killer. This is especially the case if there are vampires in the world who make a career out of criticizing them (because they can't find any other way to make a career, presumably), which certainly appears to be the case with Morrissey and the some of the journos within the NME (having had a brief stint as a music journalist, the knives coming out didn't overly surprise me and I take what I read in the music press with several pinches of salt). The world doesn't need more vampires or vultures, or people who go through the rubbish bins of the famous looking for scoops, while also claiming to like them.
I would give Tarantula by Bob Dylan five stars, even though I haven't a clue what he is going on about for large portions of the book. I purchased a translation of Tarantula to Swedish once (with English on the opposite page), despite not having that much Swedish beyond 'Hej' and 'Hej Da', and not really comprehending the text in English in the first place. This is just who I am in relation to Bob Dylan. I am not remotely as bad when it comes to Moz, but Meat is Murder got me through a period in the early '80s when, as a child, I had just become a vegetarian after seeing a documentary on slaughterhouses, and there were no vegetarians in my immediate surroundings. I had an understanding mother who adapted graciously, but school was a different story. Then I discovered Bob Dylan and fell in love, and remained in that state monogamously for years. Then in later life I grieved for the same mother by listening to Years of Refusal incessantly, specifically the refrain to 'Mama Lay Softly on the Riverbed', which I shed cathartic tears to many times, though my mother's life did not in any way resemble that of the woman described in the song. For some reason, it was the only record that would do, and I had something of a Morrissey renaissance, so to speak, following him to some weird, small venues in the middle of nowhere on the Irish branch of the Years of Refusal tour.
Despite my lack of ability to be entirely objective about certain artists, I cannot put my years of copy-editing training and practice totally to one side, and I do think Morrissey can write really great prose when he wants to. The first half of the book is way more interesting and engaging than the second; Morrissey's descriptions of the Manchester of his childhood really echo those of Jeanette Winterson in her memoir 'Why be Happy When You Could be Normal?'. Due to post-grad work I did years ago that required me to look into the background to the life of Eva Gore-Booth and Esther Roper, I knew that life had been incredibly grim for the Manchester working class up until the middle of the twentieth century. I'd just had no idea that this state of affairs had continued unabated well into contemporary times. The two narratives combined (Winterson's and Morrissey's), both from artists of more or less the same vintage, conjure up images of a place littered with religious fanatics and twisted, monstrous, child-hating, embittered teachers and authority figures. No wonder Manchester has been a breeding ground for radical thought since the start of the Industrial Revolution.
There are parts of the second half of the book that consist of pages and pages of rant, but I don't begrudge this to Morrissey (I've already stated my lack of objectivity). The scores of pages on the court case taken by Mike Joyce against Morrissey and Marr are hard to get through if you don't understand the legal context fully. However, to a large degree it does seem as if his anger at the judge and at Mike Joyce has justification, and it does sound as if there was something of a resentful witch hunt behind the entire charade. Any questions about whether Joyce might have some of the moral high ground are somewhat thrown into doubt when you find out that his solicitor went sniffing around the house of Morrissey's mother with a view to gaining possession of it. Court cases of any nature are stressful (I know this myself), but if you're Morrissey and dealing with a hostile judge, this must be multiplied by a zillion. I found myself wondering why he didn't get a decent, sympathetic legal team, which clearly was something he didn't have, and feeling frustrated that he didn't (knowing personally how this can make all the difference in the world).
The final part of the book is devoted to the joys of performing live and interacting with fans. Having been to a few Morrissey gigs, I can't say I understand the tattoo-getting, quiff-wearing expression of adoration that seems to accompany Morrissey fandom. It totally mystifies me why these trappings are important to anyone beyond the age of about 15 (which is when I last attempted to look like an artist I liked, and in that case it was Stevie Nicks, whose look has a certain appeal to teenage girls anyway). As adults, we are supposed to develop our own sense of style that reflects who we are as individuals, and which evolves as we evolve, or so I thought. However, the descriptions are interesting and, at times, hilariously funny. I don't get all the references to popular culture in the book (only about 50% of them), and there are individuals I'd like to have read more about (David Bowie) and ones I felt got too many pages (Siouxie, or however she spells it). It's well worth a read, though, for the hilarious turns of phrase and acute sense of the ridiculous elements of human nature.
I am not overly interested in the personal life of artists beyond the point where it might shed light on their work. However, one interesting aspect of Morrissey that does emerge in the book is his strong business instincts. He monitors his position in the charts (and the factors influencing it) like a stockbroker looking at the market. Much of his criticism of the music industry (apart from the hypocrisies and greed) is related to how it handles his publicity/marketing. Having seen endless documentaries about how bands and artists have been mercilessly fleeced by their management, one can only assume that this is one of several reasons Morrissey has survived and thrived. A fact for which many of us are eternally grateful.
I would give Tarantula by Bob Dylan five stars, even though I haven't a clue what he is going on about for large portions of the book. I purchased a translation of Tarantula to Swedish once (with English on the opposite page), despite not having that much Swedish beyond 'Hej' and 'Hej Da', and not really comprehending the text in English in the first place. This is just who I am in relation to Bob Dylan. I am not remotely as bad when it comes to Moz, but Meat is Murder got me through a period in the early '80s when, as a child, I had just become a vegetarian after seeing a documentary on slaughterhouses, and there were no vegetarians in my immediate surroundings. I had an understanding mother who adapted graciously, but school was a different story. Then I discovered Bob Dylan and fell in love, and remained in that state monogamously for years. Then in later life I grieved for the same mother by listening to Years of Refusal incessantly, specifically the refrain to 'Mama Lay Softly on the Riverbed', which I shed cathartic tears to many times, though my mother's life did not in any way resemble that of the woman described in the song. For some reason, it was the only record that would do, and I had something of a Morrissey renaissance, so to speak, following him to some weird, small venues in the middle of nowhere on the Irish branch of the Years of Refusal tour.
Despite my lack of ability to be entirely objective about certain artists, I cannot put my years of copy-editing training and practice totally to one side, and I do think Morrissey can write really great prose when he wants to. The first half of the book is way more interesting and engaging than the second; Morrissey's descriptions of the Manchester of his childhood really echo those of Jeanette Winterson in her memoir 'Why be Happy When You Could be Normal?'. Due to post-grad work I did years ago that required me to look into the background to the life of Eva Gore-Booth and Esther Roper, I knew that life had been incredibly grim for the Manchester working class up until the middle of the twentieth century. I'd just had no idea that this state of affairs had continued unabated well into contemporary times. The two narratives combined (Winterson's and Morrissey's), both from artists of more or less the same vintage, conjure up images of a place littered with religious fanatics and twisted, monstrous, child-hating, embittered teachers and authority figures. No wonder Manchester has been a breeding ground for radical thought since the start of the Industrial Revolution.
There are parts of the second half of the book that consist of pages and pages of rant, but I don't begrudge this to Morrissey (I've already stated my lack of objectivity). The scores of pages on the court case taken by Mike Joyce against Morrissey and Marr are hard to get through if you don't understand the legal context fully. However, to a large degree it does seem as if his anger at the judge and at Mike Joyce has justification, and it does sound as if there was something of a resentful witch hunt behind the entire charade. Any questions about whether Joyce might have some of the moral high ground are somewhat thrown into doubt when you find out that his solicitor went sniffing around the house of Morrissey's mother with a view to gaining possession of it. Court cases of any nature are stressful (I know this myself), but if you're Morrissey and dealing with a hostile judge, this must be multiplied by a zillion. I found myself wondering why he didn't get a decent, sympathetic legal team, which clearly was something he didn't have, and feeling frustrated that he didn't (knowing personally how this can make all the difference in the world).
The final part of the book is devoted to the joys of performing live and interacting with fans. Having been to a few Morrissey gigs, I can't say I understand the tattoo-getting, quiff-wearing expression of adoration that seems to accompany Morrissey fandom. It totally mystifies me why these trappings are important to anyone beyond the age of about 15 (which is when I last attempted to look like an artist I liked, and in that case it was Stevie Nicks, whose look has a certain appeal to teenage girls anyway). As adults, we are supposed to develop our own sense of style that reflects who we are as individuals, and which evolves as we evolve, or so I thought. However, the descriptions are interesting and, at times, hilariously funny. I don't get all the references to popular culture in the book (only about 50% of them), and there are individuals I'd like to have read more about (David Bowie) and ones I felt got too many pages (Siouxie, or however she spells it). It's well worth a read, though, for the hilarious turns of phrase and acute sense of the ridiculous elements of human nature.
I am not overly interested in the personal life of artists beyond the point where it might shed light on their work. However, one interesting aspect of Morrissey that does emerge in the book is his strong business instincts. He monitors his position in the charts (and the factors influencing it) like a stockbroker looking at the market. Much of his criticism of the music industry (apart from the hypocrisies and greed) is related to how it handles his publicity/marketing. Having seen endless documentaries about how bands and artists have been mercilessly fleeced by their management, one can only assume that this is one of several reasons Morrissey has survived and thrived. A fact for which many of us are eternally grateful.