Such Bloody Awful Poetry

Mark McDevitt, writing in the February issue of Giant in Morrissey and Me:

I still listen to the Smiths — though maybe not as obsessively as I once did, and their music still speaks volumes to me. I love the writing of course: It’s as adroit and funny as anything by Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker, with the familiar cast of hapless characters (the petty thief, the failed boxer, the suburban misfit) all shuffling toward certain doom. Perhaps the music doesn’t seem as electrifying as it once did when I was 14 and breathless with discovery, but that doesn’t matter either.

While I seldom blog about it, music has always been a large part of my life. As an extreme introvert (Note to noisy extroverts: I am quiet and introspective, not shy), I tend to retreat into literature and music for inspiration, escapism and relaxation. Mark summed it up quite nicely for me. The Smiths, and later Morrissey solo, had a unique way of reaching the inner angsty, moody, cynical kid in me while leaving the angry, bitter kid buried in the subconscious. Looking back now, it was as if A Separate Peace was set to music. While I’m no longer an angsty, moody kid from Central Illinois, I still feel that Morrissey was looking at the world through my eyes as I listen to my old Smiths tapes and Morrissey’s solo works. Some pleasant and not-so pleasant memories always come pouring back as I listen to Morrissey’s vocals and Marr’s guitar work.

And, even when The Queen Is Dead, The Smiths will still occupy a place in my music library, memories and psyche – along with a sponge and a rusty spanner.

Bravo Mark, and thanks for the memories.

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