Three years between records, moving to yet another record label, more misunderstanding in the press (and with the FBI), living “in the absence of your love” and an abundance of refusal has put Morrissey in a frisky mood. His new album has an up-tempo distorted swagger with Ennio-Morricone spurts of Mariachi, T-Rex guitar chords, tommy-gun drums and crooner orgasm synths. It’s basic Morrissey flair. It focuses on the rockier end of the spectrum with added dramatic flourishes—in short, he continues to be the glam rock Leonard Cohen; a permanent moping bachelor sporting a tailored suit who talks of gloomy eternal truths.
Like Cohen, Morrissey uses insouciance and dry bawdy humor to deliver his sermon. He’s like a sad clown in reverse: the tears are on the outside and the goofy makeup and coy smile are hidden just beneath the surface. The subject matter gets pretty grim. “When Last I Spoke To Carol” is about hopelessness and death (suicide even?), “That’s How People Grow Up” is about disillusionment and spinal injury, and as far as I can tell “It’s Not Your Birthday Anymore” (the album’s best track) is about pretending to be nice to someone on their birthday and then raping them the day after. Aside from that minor detail, it is pretty catchy and could be a hit.
Like every Morrissey record that will ever be recorded (and generally misunderstood), the darkness on this one is equally matched and even surpassed by sharp-witted gallows humor that borders on stand up comedy. Sure “It’s Not Your Birthday Anymore” infers sinister things but the title is playful and silly, like the Smiths’ “Unhappy Birthday:” “I came to wish you an unhappy birthday/ Because you’re evil and you lie/ and if you should die/ I may feel slightly sad but I won’t cry.” His Oscar Wilde-ian turns of phrases are so well calculated and humorous that it is sometimes difficult to take them seriously. Take the aside in “Sorry Doesn’t Help:” “Sorry will not bring my love into my arms (as far as I know).” This is the wise cracking role that Morrissey seems most comfortable playing, adding one quick line like “I may feel slightly sad but I won’t cry,” or “…as far as I know” like a TV comic winking at the camera. The very hubris of the song title “All You Need Is Me” deserves a rim shot. As does the album cover. Moz holds the little fat baby like it’s a rubber chicken or a machine gun. And is it inappropriate to notice that his hand is on the little guy’s private parts? Morrissey’s hand, which held the microphone phallus on the cover of Your Arsenal has morphed into some sort of chastity belt for the young lad.
What this amounts to is, of course, a terrific record. It is layered and dense and suggests that repeated listens will uncover secret treasures. It doesn’t soar to the heights of Your Arsenal or Viva Hate, but far surpasses Your Uncle and You Are The Quarry. (He uses a lot of “You” in record titles, doesn’t he?)
It’s good to see Morrissey enjoying his revival, and he seems to want to rock out more than chill out, which is somewhat of a shame. His strengths in singing and turning lyrical phrases are best suited in slow burners like “I’ve Changed My Plea To Guilty,” “I Know Very Well How I Got My Name,” and “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.” The tempo slows down on Refusal except for the weakest, slightly jazzy number “You Were Good In Your Time” which plays like a mix between “Rubber Ring” and “Driving Your Girlfriend Home” and would have been better relegated to a b-side or oblivion. Still, even his weakest, most complaining songs are interesting. Here’s hoping that Morrissey continues to get beaten, battered, and refused.
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