Paris. Looking out through the window you can see a ladder outside Christian Lacroix’s shop in Rue Du Fauborg. At the top of the ladder stands a little Frenchman with a paint pot in his left hand, a brush in his right hand and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. At the moment he’s busy filling in the x in the designer’s surname. This is the view from room 315 on Hotel Le Bristol, 112 Rue Du Fauborg, St Honere, Paris.
In a gilded rococo armchair, right next to the window, sits Steven Patrick Morrissey, entertainer, singer and pop star, giving interviews to the European music press. I’ve tried to arrange an interview with Morrissey several times before. But he’s always declined. Once I had already arrived in London, when the record company phoned my hotel and explained to me and three German journalists that he had changed his mind. Morrissey belongs to a category of people who might’ve been watching an episode of the TV series Dad’s Army the night before, felt sympathy for the lads at the front and therefore cancelled all interviews with the German press. To wake up one morning and believe it’s 1941 is nothing unusual with him.
But now we’re finally in the same hotel room. With no Germans in sight. Morrissey’s wearing a striped button-down shirt, 501's, black socks and black loafers. He’s not as tall as I expected. A little shorter than myself. He smiles and stretches out his arm.
"Here you are, this is your chair."
I explain to him that I’m from Sweden. Neither the Smiths nor Morrissey the solo artist has ever been there.
"No, but I’ve heard about it. It’s a country. And why have I never been there? Because I’ve, honestly, never been asked. It’s a pity. But it requires a considerable amount of money to be able to play in certain countries. And nobody in Sweden has offered me enough to make both ends meet yet. Unfortunately. But I’m invited to play in the oddest countries. Israel, India, South Africa and Japan. Besides, I really hate to travel. I like to be in strange places. But I hate to get there. To fly is terrifying. You could die. And when I’m finally there, I never find any food that I appreciate, so consequently I don’t eat very much when I’m abroad."
Mick Ronson, who off and on lives in Sweden, produced Your Arsenal?
"Yes, I’ve always appreciated Ronson. He’s a very refined musician who was immensely huge in England in the early seventies when he played with David Bowie’s Spiders From Mars and who also made two partly brilliant solo records. He was very pleasant to work with. Which you can hear on the record, if I may say so. Mick is actually one of the nicest people I’ve ever met."
I’ve heard he’s suffering from cancer.
"Mmmmm, but he refuses to let that affect his working pace. He’s not confined to his bed or disabled in any way. Neither has he showed any signs of bitterness. On the contrary, he’s been, to say the least, entertaining, uplifting company. Even to a person such as I surprise, surprise!"
Your Arsenal is much more rock n’ roll than what you’ve done before.
"Hahaha! You can’t be rock n’ roll! It’s such a funny word. Especially when you say it hahaha!"
Thank you.
"But if you dismount the word to it’s three components, 'rock' 'and' 'roll', it comes out as even more absurd. But there is no alternative term so we continue to use it for want of something better. And much of what’s categorised as rock n’ roll I have the deepest respect for and consequently don’t laugh when I hear the music in itself. On the contrary. But I could never call myself a rock n’ roller. That’s a very old word, most often used by very old men from a decade which was called let me think the seventies. Things change. Before the Sex Pistols you couldn’t use the word pop if you wanted to be taken seriously. And after the Sex Pistols you haven’t been able to use the word rock n’ roll. I myself always call all music I appreciate popular music. Which is a very 1950-ish word. I think that the word pop has been accepted because there isn’t very much pop music. In England there exists almost nothing but dance music on the charts. And that’s hardly what we would call pop, is it?"
I got the CD of Your Arsenal yesterday.
"Did you bring it with you? You are one lucky man. Even I haven’t seen it yet. Could I have a look at it?"
Morrissey studies the cover carefully. When he’s unfolded it I ask who’s adorning the photograph in the booklet.
"He’s a very famous British criminal from the early sixties called Charles Richardson. Do you know the Kray brothers? Excellent. The Krays were from East London and the Richardsons were a rival gang from South London who never really became as famous. Charles was the oldest brother of the Richardsons."
Why this fascination with criminals from bygone times?
"I’ve always been of the opinion that they, and especially the Krays and the Richardsons, were very style conscious and well-mannered. I can’t but admire people who manage to heckle the British establishment and the Royal House by committing different kinds of crimes. And still being considered glamorous role models to the British people and who make them, or more correctly us, laugh at laws and orders."
Let’s dwell upon the word "style" for a moment. Throughout the years you’ve shown an enormous appreciation for working class sub-cultures, such as skinheads and rockabilly
"Most youth cultures come from the U.S.A. Except skinheads, which as I understand, is an exclusively British invention. That the rest of the world around us looks upon skinheads as people who tattoo swastikas in their foreheads and throw fruit at innocent football supporters is a shame. Of course I’m aware of the fact that there exists such 'skinheads.' But the original idea of skinheads was just about clothes and music. And in England it still is to a pretty great extent. Style and everything it involves for me have their roots in the British working class. That’s where all culture I appreciate passes on and in some degree is updated. The British working class and its youth cultures are never vulgar or excessive. Whereas the middle class never has created a bit."
And the upper class?
"They don’t have to do anything. They spend all their time in bed. But only sleeping, of course."
But the culture you’re talking about only exists in England?
"That’s right. And the rest of the world is copying it as best as it can. England may be a very small country. But why is it so important for pop musicians all over the world to be famous in England of all countries? Why? I tell you why, because the English have always been born with a sense for good taste. And in this particular case, we’ve had a lot to offer. Probably more than anyone else."
Those style manifestations you’re mentioning have been around for a long time. But what about those we have today?
"They are much harder to find today because it’s about many smaller groups. There is no mass movement connected to everybody. Skinheads, rockabillies, mods and so on are just small sects today."
But hip hop? Home-Boys, B-Boys?
"Are there clothes and any kind of style that you’re supposed to connect to hip hop? Hmmmmm I have to ask one of my younger friends about that. That sounds interesting. Even though very awful and tasteless."
Morrissey smiles all the time. Not friendly. Not unfriendly either. The question is if it even is superior. He just smiles consciously. In some way he just seems to think that everything is humorous. Not my questions. Or his own answers. In Morrissey’s book life in itself is something ironic.
Why do we love Morrissey?
To everyone who considers pop music as important as the air we breathe, the answer is so simple, so completely obvious that you barely have the strength perhaps even less the will to even try to explain it to someone uninitiated. Either you love Morrissey and everything he personifies or you’ll never, ever, understand the innermost secrets of pop music.
There’s a scene in Barry Levinson’s classic film Diner where a young man discovers that his wife’s been poking into his record collection. He understands this when he finds a record by James Brown filed under the letter J. And she’s put it under J in the shelve for "rock."
"Don’t you understand that it’s supposed to be in the 'rhythm and blues' section?" he yells, his face bright red with anger.
His wife shrugs her shoulders. The young man desperately tries to explain. He asks her to question him on Little Richard’s b-sides. He knows them all. His wife shrugs her shoulders. She can’t understand what’s so special about some b-sides.
"It’s the hit you want to hear," she says exhaustedly. Who wants to hear some silly b-side?
The young man gives up, puts on his overcoat and goes down to the "Diner." His friends sit waiting there. They understand.
The film takes place in Baltimore 1959. But this particular scene could just as well had been about Boras [Swedish small town. Ulf.] in 1966, Glasgow in 1975, Bremen in 1983 or Paris in 1992. And it describes Morrissey and his fanatic admirers so well. The image of Morrissey as the lonely cynic, who in his little house outside Manchester grows daffodils, drinks tea and reads Oscar Wilde is completely true. And that’s why we love him. Morrissey the Singer may make the worst records imaginable. That doesn’t matter. Because it’s Morrissey the Flower Grower, the Record Collector, the Pop Aesthete and Tea Drinker we want.
Morrissey loves to talk about his favourite records. And at irregular intervals he chooses to publish lists of books, records, films and people he worship in the British music press. When I meet Mozzer in Paris I’ve brought a three years old list from the New Musical Express with me. A list he called singles to be cremated with. On the top of the list is a single called "The loneliest man in the world." The artist’s name is Vince Eager.
"Vince Eager was an English singer have you heard of Vince Taylor?"
No.
"Billy Fury? Good. Mister Eager was made from the same mould as Billy Fury. He released eight singles on the record company Top Rank. But the other seven are, honestly, completely impossible to listen to. And yes, I know that your next question will be about the title 'The loneliest man in the world' well, that’s pretty Morrisseyesque. Could I have a look at that list?"
The list consists of exclusively obscure sixties singles: The Crystals’ "What a nice way to turn 17," The Toys’ "Attack," Timi Yuro's "Insult to injury," Paul Jones' "I’ve been a bad, bad boy" and Dionne Warwick’s "Loneliness remembers what happiness forgets." The last one is a song title that could be one of Morrissey’s own.
"I love pop singles. And I have ever since I heard Marianne Faithful for the first time. I think I was six years old then. And yes, I’m obsessed with pop music. All my life, all thirty-three years, have I devoted to pop music."
Which is your absolute favourite song? Do you have one?
"It’s different songs every day. I always listen to music and to list just one song, among the two hundred foremost that make me cry, would be an impossibility. And the fact that they make me cry doesn’t necessarily have to imply that they have dramatic, tragic lyrics. They just touch me in a way that nothing else in the world could. Could you, offhand, name the two or three best singles ever recorded, yourself?"
Number two is "Past, Present & Future" by the Shangri-Las and number one is always, always "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes, because...
Morrissey interrupts me in the middle of the sentence.
"You don’t have to explain why! I understand, Andres, I understand. But so many fantastic records have been made that I know that I have the opportunity to listen, discover and rediscover all this music as long as I live. And I will. No matter if pop music dies tomorrow or if it might already have died."
Do you still buy a lot of singles?
"Absolutely. The question is if not seven-inch singles with perfect two-and-a-half-minute pop songs are the best thing life has to offer. By the way, could I keep the list you brought? It’s always so nice to be reminded of my excellent taste."
Do you think you’re capable of writing such two-and-a-half-minute songs that you love yourself? Aren’t you too aware of what you’re doing to be able to re-create the naivety that existed within pop music before, say, 1965?
"Hmmm perhaps times have changed, even if I personally find that hard to accept, and it’s not possible to write such simple songs today. But I think I’m as close as you possibly could get in my aspiration to write modern lyrics with the same drama and contents. The ideal with pop music was that these two minutes and twenty-three seconds would contain absolutely everything. Today nobody understands that logic. Everybody seems to have all the time in the world. I try to keep from making long records."
Which of your own songs are you most happy with?
"Hard question there are very few that I’m not satisfied with. There are just about seven or eight songs that I can’t stand to listen to. But apart from those, I’m proud of most of them. It’s probably the most melancholic of my ballads that have the honour of sharing a spot closest to my heart. Although, right now, in real life, I would rather prefer to sing more powerful, hard songs (The telephone rings) especially a song on the new LP, 'We’ll let you know' (The telephone rings again. Morrissey portions out the sentences, so they’re heard between the signals) but also 'Last night I dreamt somebody loved me' [sic] (Riiiinnnnggg!) 'Everyday is like Sunday' hahaha!"
Morrissey begins to find the telephone signal really amusing. So he lets it continue: Riiiinnnnggg!
"...'November spawned a monster'" Riiiinnnnggg!
"...'Girlfriend in a coma'" Riiiinnnnggg!
Maybe it’s an important call? I ask.
"Nothing’s important," Mozzer says and the phone gives up.
Recently a biography on the Smiths, Morrissey & Marr - The Severed Alliance, by Johnny Rogan was published, which you reacted strongly against?
"Yes, I did. Mostly because it’s just filled with lies. I was very sad when I realised that many will buy it and make the 'author' enormously rich. It’s got dazzling reviews in the British music press, who should know better. And it’s introduced as the definitive history. And it isn’t! The definitive biography of the Smiths won’t be written before I do it myself. Or choose to tell it to someone. This Rogan-person called me up one night and managed to say just one sentence before I hung up. Still he claimed in the book that he’d have 'deep conversations' with me. For the book he’s only chosen to interview people who couldn’t even imagine themselves saying hello if they met me on the street. People who would vomit if they heard my voice on the radio. He hasn’t managed to speak to any of my close friends or even any of those I’ve worked with after the Smiths. And since I’ve dissociated myself from the book, the press assumes that everything that’s in it must be true. So I only feel sad for all those who pay a lot of money for it. And it seems to be selling very well the whole thing is one of the darkest sides to the music business. And one of the reasons why it can be such an extremely disgusting, horrible industry. And the worst thing is that I’ve become a part of it myself."

He goes on to talk about Warner Brothers’ reissues of the Smiths.
"Yes, well I’ve heard of their plans. But I haven’t had anything to do with it. Nobody asked me to decide upon the contents. But if I’ve understood the thing correctly, there will be two Best Of-records. One in the end of the summer and the other one in November. A lot of people have written to me and begged me 'please don’t release "This Charming Man" again.' Because they want it for themselves. But it’s nothing I can govern."
Do you receive a lot of fan mail?
"Yes, a great lot. Mostly complaints, actually. And they complain about precisely anything. If someone lost his ticket to a concert he writes to me and complains. Or if some other person can’t manage to find his seat to the same concert, they also write to me and claim it’s my fault. And it actually isn’t but I understand that they write. It’s often parents to fans who write and ask me to stop existing. Someone wrote that she couldn’t manage to walk past her daughter’s room, because she constantly played records by a man who had his legs sawed off."
Do you reply to the letters?
"No, never. Because then, they would write again and be upset because I didn’t reply to the next letter. So I can’t reply to letters. I must keep some kind of distance to such things. But the more records I release and the more people that buy them, the more letters I receive. And that’s another reason for not replying to them. Things so easily stop being interesting when they’ve been accepted by the masses. Irrespective of whether it’s about fashion or about music or anything else. When pop artists have reached all over the world, when everybody knows who they are, then it’s over. Because they’ve become public property, they no longer belong to just me and you. It’s always better when there’s a certain mystery making around it."
"We hate it when our friends become successful"?
"Exactly."
Bob Dylan once said that he in fact wanted to become a new Elvis Presley, but since there was a vacant place for a Woody Guthrie, he was content with that.
"He made the wrong decision hahaha! So you wonder if I’ve had, or have, a similar dilemma? Well I’ve always had models such as Billy Fury, Elvis Presley and other persons whose names I don’t want to mention. We all have role models from whom we pick one or two things. And finally we hopefully reach a level where you perhaps could be called proportionately unique. Maybe there’s even someone somewhere who picks up something from me? What do I know? But if they want to, let them go ahead. I think that’s the way pop music evolves. And if you think more closely about it, you could probably narrow down the amount of really unique pop stars to about ten. I don’t know who those ten are but Elvis Presley is of course one of them."
I think it goes without saying that there are bands and artists who have the Smiths or you as role models!
"Yes, well I’d like to think so. But they refuse to admit it."
Of course they do. Suede, for example
"Yes, well I like them. They’ve made a song that I really appreciate. 'My insatiable one', which is a b-side to their first single, 'The drowners.' And they’ve really got a wonderful reception from the British music press. Suede is probably the most exiting thing to happen to pop music since a long time. They and a band called Gallon Drunk."
What do you think you’d done if Marr hadn’t asked you to sing with the Smiths?
"I would probably have become a music journalist. I actually tried for a while. But failed. Nobody wanted me or what I wrote. And now, looking back, it really feels relieving that I didn’t turn out as a music writer. Things turned out fine anyway. When I think about that question, 'what would I be doing if I didn’t blahblahblah' I really despair. Because I really believe that I would’ve committed suicide. Or at least considered doing it daily. Because I can’t imagine myself carrying out an ordinary, 'honest' job. And I know a lot of people who’ve wanted to make a record whole their lives and to reach success, but failed. And they are all deeply unhappy people. So I think I have to consider myself relatively happy."
Do you have a driver’s license?
"No, but I have two cars. When I was eighteen I tried to get a driver’s licence, but as with so many other things in life I failed completely. There were some theoretical traffic regulations that I never managed. But four years ago, I bought my first car anyway. A Ford Consul from 1961. And I drove around with that. But I still haven’t obtained that, oh so important, little card. The funny thing about that car is that it belonged to the widow of a man who died just a couple of weeks after purchasing the car. So it had been standing untouched in her garage for twenty-five years. One day I hope I can drive around with it legally, but, believe it or not, right now I have no time for learning traffic prescriptions. The other car, if you’re interested, is by the way a pretty modern Golf GTI."
So they just stand there in the garage, and sometimes you have a look at them?
"Weeeell only officially. I actually use them sometimes. As you know I’m such a reckless, wild, careless and completely irresponsible person just like James Dean I think not."
You recorded a version of the Jam’s 'That’s Entertainment' last year?
"And it was a completely worthless version. I wanted to make it different from the original, but maybe I shouldn’t have tried that. The original is a classic and Paul Weller is, when he wants to be, a genius. Hopefully we, Paul and I, will record a duet. I don’t know what song it will be yet. But if I’m lucky, he will appear at a huge gala in Finsbury Park where I perform in the beginning of August."
Weller is one of few artists that are as articulately British as yourself.
"Yes, he is. But I had my doubts when he tried to make dance music, not because it was bad. I just don’t like music that you’re supposed to dance to. But he’s absolutely a part of that small genuinely British family tree that somebody should document: The Small Faces, Kinks, the Who, early David Bowie, the Jam well, that’s all. And me. And perhaps also Madness. And some of the things Ian Dury has done. Those who fit into that category are most often those who never really succeeded in the U.S.A. and therefore cultivate their roots."
What do you think of Electronic?
"Nothing. I think nothing of them. That’s my only answer."
What does an ordinary day in your life look like?
"Most often very, very exciting, eventful and rewarding. Just kidding. Actually, it usually looks like any day at all the life of anyone at all. I don’t go out and stand in line at the bus stop in the rain in order to get to work, but stay in bed and let my brain work instead of my body. There are many odd elements in the life I lead. You often have to ask yourself things like 'why, why, why?' and 'when, when, when?'. And you examine everything you do in every detail. But I still don’t want to live a so-called normal life. I don’t want to sell oranges or pack great quantities of the already mentioned fruit into boxes. I don’t want to sew little grey buttons on to grey winter coats. So hear I sit..."
Do you read a lot?
"I’ve decided not to become as thrilled by books as before. I’ve come to the conclusion that there must be other things in life that could make me as carried away like reality. For example."
But you still live alone?
Morrissey’s quiet for a while before he answers.
"Yes, alone. Always alone."
So you really believe that you are, as you sing, "The End Of The Family Line"?
"Yes, absolutely. Which must be a great relief to the rest of the world. I can’t imagine anything as terrible as little Morrisseys running around below the plum tree in my kitchen garden. But they would probably all grow up to become law-abiding MP's and make the world a better place to live in."
Sue, Morrissey’s record company representative, knocks on the door.
"Are you finished?" she asks.
"Yes, I think so," says Morrissey. "What do you think, Andres?"
"I think I’ve got what I need," I answer.
"Excellent," says Morrissey. "Wait a minute!"
Morrissey walks into his bedroom and pokes into a bag.
"I thought I’d act manager for Gallon Drunk," he says and hands me a copy of their debut CD 'You, the night and music.' Just before the door is closed I hear Morrissey ask Sue to bring up another cup of tea.