Morrissey pops up quite often hereabouts.
Morrissey croons my Thanksgiving message.
Nine Morrissey albums, all in a row.
Listening to Morrissey with red wine -- again. Now for the Mozz book.
In my estimation, the new album is good, not great, and when you're a "lifer" of a fan, that's perfectly acceptable. For those with a greater interest in objectivity, there's Ben Ratliff's review at the New York Times: Revisiting His Arsenal of Misanthropy.
It wasn’t surprising that “Autobiography,” when published first in Britain, sold very well: His fans are passionate lifers, their consciousness changed by early exposure to his, just as his was changed by early exposure to Patti Smith’s and Oscar Wilde’s. It also wasn’t surprising that the book contained some powerful writing. That is because Morrissey, now 55, is a writer before anything else, and of a particular kind. His major achievement has been a strong and complicated authorial voice: self-effacing and hyper-stylized, large souled and petty, fixated both on bottom-line winning and the temporal long game of literature, in which ancient minds can speak to the future, and vice versa.
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