For many sullen, bequiffed teenagers and '80s indie pop stalwarts, this week has been a long time coming. The autobiography of the elusive and oft-morose Smiths frontman Morrissey has finally been unleashed on a suspecting public, and suffice to say it was worth the wait.
Admittedly, Steven Patrick's earlier, pre-fame years make for a more fond and engaging read than his later life bemoaning video shoots, the tabloid's prolific use of the 'Heaven Knows he's Miserable Now' headline and the infamous court case, but that's not to say the tome in its entirety isn't a touching, hilarious and deftly-scribed memoir; a music biography that will doubtless grow in time to warrant its pretentious front cover, and is a refreshing cut above the likes of Being Jordan, or indeed any of the lightly-researched journalistic biographies churned out in place of Morrissey's own over the years.
His early years recall damp Manchester backstreets, northern working-class oddballs and hellish schoolmasters decaying in cold, shadowy classrooms. If Charles Dickens had been born in 1960s Salford, perhaps David Copperfield would have read similarly. Autobiography is subtitled by the suitably incongruous photograph of a smiling baby Morrissey in sunglasses, but the childhood recounted is signposted by myriad family deaths, introverted indifference and constant fear of the purgatorial classroom, while the path to Smiths glory is weaved through biting, hilarious and unmistakably Mozzean turns of phrase, whether it be describing his unadventurous palate as 'A working class host of relentless toast' (rhyme intended), or 'Turn(ing) a thousand corners without caring'.
As the legendary singer grows into adulthood, the slightly dubious nature of some aspects of the memoir begin to become apparent, particularly the characterisation of some of the pivotal players in his professional life. Rough Trade staff, particularly Geoff Travis, appear as comic sidekicks plucked from one of Moz's beloved Carry On films while, amusingly, David Bowie pops up intermittently to ask pointless questions and showcase his impressionable carnivorousness - surely one of the least cliched depictions of the living legend.
Nevertheless, the mostly present-tense syntax is exquisite, even during the most bitter of recollections, and lilts along with all the poetic grace of his Smiths lyrics. It is with this in mind that the decision to write without chapters is understood. Often the memoir will blindside the reader with an atypical deviation from the observational misery and celebrity anecdotes; lengthy, prosaic analyses on 1960's television and the explosion of androgyny in the rising punk movement manage to never feel superfluous, and a surprising, post-Smiths account of a supposed paranormal encounter on the dark Yorkshire Moors is nothing short of chilling. Foreknowledge of the author's lyrical themes and interests would likely benefit the reader during these diversions, as they are befitting his disposition for the bleak, the beautiful and the darkly funny sides of English life. His observations are as removed and baffling as one would expect, as he describes everything from moshing ('Some heads are squashed, some aren't') to the fallout of 9/11 with an unmatched sense of societal alienation which only increases as his celebrity does.
The only laborious section of the book comes in its latter half, as Morrissey issues a lengthy account of the infamous Mike Joyce royalty court case; an account that almost matches the entire life of the Smiths in terms of page count. One wishes that a sterner editor could have been on hand to trim the largely repetitive, spiteful indignation offered here, although it is quite clear that the author intends this to be the key focus of the book, being as it is continually referenced and foreshadowed throughout. This is unfortunate as many of what fans perceive as the most defining stages of his life are briskly breezed through in favour of the self-justifying rhetoric Morrissey seems to revel in when making his own defense.
The decision to release the book under the Penguin Classic umbrella - a format usually reserved for the likes of Dickens, Austen and Kafka - has been met with some derision, specifically as Morrissey is the first living author to have released a book this way. But, as aptly quoted on the reverse, he has seemingly achieved the legendary status that most songwriters don't find until death, standing alongside Bob Dylan, the aforementioned Star Man and few others in that respect. Furthermore, to his most die-hard fans, Autobiography is already something of a classic; as it was some years ago that the man himself claimed that the book would probably never see the light of day, due to its relentless, inherent bitchiness. It is true that few beyond his closest friends and family (and, tellingly, his current band) come out unscathed; although bygone brother-in-arms Johnny Marr seems to be granted a distant, begrudging respect. At times his hard-done-by righteousness can be fatiguing, given that the man can seemingly do no wrong beyond his modesty in the face of mass adoration and the odd, harmless act of endearing clumsiness (losing a job for throwing a cheque away on account of not knowing what it is makes for a laugh-out-loud anecdote). Surely he hasn't passed his fifty-plus years on this Earth without being the bad guy at least once? Fans may be quick to accept this but it must be remembered that Moz has had a lot to salvage in recent years; with his media-portrayal as the villain in the royalty case, the NME's libelous claims of racism and the ill-received comments stemming from his animal protectionism. Autobiography's release certainly seems conveniently timed.
Ultimately, readers non-versed in Morrissey's prolific, bittersweet brand of deprecating humour may come away from Autobiography a little put off by all the complaining and hubris, while fans will almost certainly close the book to a renewed sense of admiration and appreciation of their big-mouthed idol. A Katie Price-esque series of follow ups seems unlikely, which is a shame because Autobiography is just the sort of funny, melancholic and beautifully crafted memoir that the saturated genre needs more of.
