"Autobiography" by Morrissey - reviews and media - part 4

Updated list of Autobiography reviews / media reviews.

Funny, sad, bitchy, frustrating: it’s Morrissey, all right by Johnny Rogan - The Irish Times. Link posted by punky (original post).
Despite the fanfare, this pacy autobiography reveals little about the Smiths singer

Mein Camp Memoirs: Luke Haines Reviews Morrissey's Autobiography - The Quietus. Link posted by carnal artist (original post).
Mr Luke Haines, musician, author, artist and wearer of excellent hats, reviews Morrissey's autobiography

An Open Letter To Morrissey About His New Book… by John Robb - Louder Than War. Link posted by Famous when dead (original post).

Morrissey's Autobiography: The Dream Is Gone but the Book Is Real by Rob Sheffield - RollingStone. Link posted by @RollingStone / Twitter.

Manchester, So Much to Answer For by Sasha Frere-Jones - The New Yorker. Link posted by an anonymous person and also BrummieBoy (original post).

The Morrissey myth by Michael Henderson - The Spectator. Link posted by BrummieBoy (original post).
Not a seer, or a pioneer, or a free spirit — just a bore

Fame, fame, fatal fame by E.H. - Prospero blog / The Economist. Link posted by the_kaz (original post).

Popcast: Morrissey on Morrissey - The New York Times.
Slate’s Jessica Winter and The Times’s Ben Ratliff discuss “Autobiography,” the new memoir by the polarizing British pop star. (25:37 podcast)

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both the rolling stone review and John Robb's letter are superb!
 
"There was never any reason for Morrissey to turn into an artist, much less a wildly successful one, except his own stubborn determination that he should be one"


That's not fair or accurate, historically, although it's a perfect summary of his current predicament in thinking "Kid's A Looker" is a hidden gem which will be recognised as such if he just plays it another 1000 times.

He was supernaturally on form from the outset, up to "Vauxhall & I" even if there were some absolute facepalms along the way. Sadly, this quote from the Rolling Stone review is a perfect summary of his work-horse Dad Rock On Tour career car-crashes since 92.

And, no, you cannot will "Autobiography" into the canon of 'classic' literature, no matter how many herd culture fools buy or review it, no matter how often Penguin fellate Morrissey's ego. It's really very poor quality and, once the digital hacks on it is done, will be reduced to about 50 pages maximum. It's a bag of crips, not a gourmet meal. Sadly.
 
"Only last week I had to talk about whether the book should be allowed out on Penguin classic on the BBC with an upset sounding posh person from the Observer who believed that the Penguin classic should be a place of Dickens or maybe and, bizarrely, Bob Dylan if he so wished to become a penguin"

Never-was pop-star turned paid blogger-journo Robb fawns before has-been almost pop star & failed journo Moz. The results are unedifiying. Note reverse class snobbery, as if having a 'posh' voice excludes you from a debate with tiresome Manc Boomers struggling to try and remain 4 real, pretending punk was more than just junk, their sunk investment in the whole Madchester Heritage Industry now their meal ticket or passport to the giddy heights of BBC news.Bob Dylan can write prose. Morrissey cannot.

"it’s a rare skill to keep your privates private (a little bit of carry on humour there – thought you might like that"

Except, this isn't humourous. It's just trite.

" like me, you seem to love the rush of ideas and the burning keyboard rattling them down- paragraphs are for the weak and syntax is a constricting and cruel gimp suit. The English language is something to be toyed with, a seething mass of words to surf around and all that boring stuff, like the aforementioned paragraphs, and stoic, sensible sentences are discarded in a cascade of lovely, beautiful and fascinating words that make such great sounds and convey such deep meanings. Poetry in motion as XTC once sang!"

Mutual admiration for mediocrity. Morrissey simply doesn't have the technical skill to write either prose or poetry. Just brilliant lyrics. And if the English language is something to be toyed with, Robb, send Moz a few rap albums for Crimbo, OK?

"Also I have never heard meat breath used as a put down before,"

No, but cock-breath is pretty popular in certain bars in Birmingham. And Manchester. You need to get out more.

"that strange piece in the Guardian that blamed you for all the ills of the country because the ‘Smiths generation’ was running everything – well, slap my behind with a wet kipper (not a real one obviously) I know The Smiths were a popular band in their time, but no one was owning a whole generation in pop by those heady times, the days of the Beatles and the Stones being the young kings was over, but that’s not saying the Smiths were not important.OF COURSE THEY WERE! but…"

Here, Robb shows us how " paragraphs, and stoic, sensible sentences are discarded in a cascade.." of nonsense.

" like the eternal New York Dolls swaggering down a New York street in the early seventies, dressed like the most hetero gang of MF’s to walk pop’s sequinned catwalk in woman’s blouses you are designed to get a strong reaction in a way that Gary Barlow could never dare or care to do."

Have you read the book? Moz 'comes out' as a Stones fan, finally realising that there's a reason why sensible people think Jagger did it all before Johansen in a more "funky but chic" style. Whilst others, like me, were watching the Stones live at 12 AND vibing to the Dolls, Moz was wandering round the playground with is 'look at me!' LP covers thinking if you like one thing, you can't like another. In one area, at least, he appears to have come to his senses. And why is faux trans-outrage more important than entertainment? Gary Barlow is talented. Take That have sold more tickets than Morrissey! And by M's endless counting of such things in the book, he'd obviously defer to Gary. Gary can also do live t.v. Morrissey? ahem..

"it sings the song of the post war baby boomers growing up in the smashed, post industrial wastelands and makes sense of the end of the twentieth century and of that post punk confusion -nice work Morrissey- enjoy the praise and the slings and arrows in equal measure…"
And, as Cadwalladr rightly noted "Morrissey, you're a fraud". Just another useless Boomer punk conservative, re-selling rebellion and Outsider chic for a last desperate grasp at a fame that never quite arrived, other than in the minds of other clueless Manc boomers like Robb.
Dreadful 'open letter' to someone who is clearly not "a man of letters" by someone who also should refrain from writing letters. Or certainly from publishing them on their 'blog'.

http://louderthanwar.com/an-open-letter-to-morrissey-about-the-book/
 
The biggest problem with 'Autobiography' - a book which I haven't yet read - is that the grammar is utterly atrocious; while (or whilst, if you're Moz) some of the sentences are so lacking in finesse and grace that, however great the other elements, one cannot overlook the missteps and trips and general literary dyspraxia visited upon literary dysphasia, piled upon literary dysmorphia, fed through a shredder and reconstituted. Morrissey cannot write prose, nor can he tell a story. This matters not in song where the music gives the words a context sadly lacking in prose and the impressionistic quality creates a space - a void even - which adds to, rather than subtracts from, the experience of hearing the words. In song, he is impossibly textured, complex, coherent, vivid, poetic and unique. In prose, he is impossibly confused, messy, disjointed, vague, purplish and ... unique. Unique among 50-somethings, at least; there are plenty of 12 year olds who write like Morrissey, without the effort Joyce put into the portrait of the artist!

I hope he writes another album, and soon. Years of Refusal was stonking, one of my favourites.

However, the world of writing can do without sentences such as these:

" I will never be lacking if the clash of sounds collide, with refinement and logic bursting from a cone of manful blast"

We had always preferred to imagine Morrissey as the poet/novelist who was above writing his poetry and novels. We had preferred to consider him the poet of the song, the activist of the disenfranchised, the diarist of the overlooked. However, this book has forced us to adjust our perceptions and to come to terms with the reality: in fact, he is the poet of the fifth form and author of the ultimate adolescent diary. His flair for language and love of himself aid us in overlooking his technical defects, but ultimately we preferred the idea of the frustrated writer to the reality of the mediocre writer.

The book is like a compendium of 'poetic essays,' True-to-you notes and vicious asides from his secret journal, overlooking the horrendous description of the court case, which is like an email sent to his lawyer at 4am after a few too many vodkas.

Astonishingly, this is a book one can hate without even reading it, for not only does it damage the literary reputation of the author and of Penguin, it also disappoints the fan. Our imaginings were wrong. He is quite dull, self-obsessed and trivial. Sadly.
 
Rolling Stone raved about Autobiography! :rock:

The Johnny Rogan review is an interesting read. He certainly has an unique point of view. Some of his criticisms are not without merit. Moz does get bitchy at times, but that's part of who he is. Mr. Rogan however, is clearly jealous of the books instant success.

Rogan questions Moz's ability as a reliable historian. I don't think any of us were looking for that in Autobiography. We know this is Morrissey's life as he sees it. It is the people and events in his life as he has experienced them and how he has been affected. That is what it should be. It is not the history of 1970's Manchester, it's the man's life. I too doubt the other children experienced such a bleak childhood, but it's not their book! I love that it's told in Morrissey's voice, his way. It's truly unique and it is "accurate" because it's his life as it felt to him.
 
How can someone accuse an AUTOf***INGBIOGRAPHY of being narcissistic? Was he supposed to share his mother's cooking recipes and chat about television?
 
Same kind of person that says a personal blog is narcissistic? Idiot.

You, in general, are a narcissist. Do yourself a favor and read your last 20 posts as though through a different person's eyes. It's embarrassing.
 
How can someone accuse an AUTOf***INGBIOGRAPHY of being narcissistic? Was he supposed to share his mother's cooking recipes and chat about television?

I have to agree with you.

However, he does chat about television, quite a lot in fact. He also spends many pages on movies, music(especially The NY Dolls)and poetry.

As Johnny Rogan points out he spends more time on these things than his immediate family and other important people in his life.

Somehow, it seemed perfectly logical. Morrissey is at his best when he discusses his passions. :love:
 
The biggest problem with 'Autobiography' - a book which I haven't yet read - is that the grammar is utterly atrocious; while (or whilst, if you're Moz) some of the sentences are so lacking in finesse and grace that, however great the other elements, one cannot overlook the missteps and trips and general literary dyspraxia visited upon literary dysphasia, piled upon literary dysmorphia, fed through a shredder and reconstituted. Morrissey cannot write prose, nor can he tell a story. This matters not in song where the music gives the words a context sadly lacking in prose and the impressionistic quality creates a space - a void even - which adds to, rather than subtracts from, the experience of hearing the words. In song, he is impossibly textured, complex, coherent, vivid, poetic and unique. In prose, he is impossibly confused, messy, disjointed, vague, purplish and ... unique. Unique among 50-somethings, at least; there are plenty of 12 year olds who write like Morrissey, without the effort Joyce put into the portrait of the artist!

I hope he writes another album, and soon. Years of Refusal was stonking, one of my favourites.

However, the world of writing can do without sentences such as these:

" I will never be lacking if the clash of sounds collide, with refinement and logic bursting from a cone of manful blast"

We had always preferred to imagine Morrissey as the poet/novelist who was above writing his poetry and novels. We had preferred to consider him the poet of the song, the activist of the disenfranchised, the diarist of the overlooked. However, this book has forced us to adjust our perceptions and to come to terms with the reality: in fact, he is the poet of the fifth form and author of the ultimate adolescent diary. His flair for language and love of himself aid us in overlooking his technical defects, but ultimately we preferred the idea of the frustrated writer to the reality of the mediocre writer.

The book is like a compendium of 'poetic essays,' True-to-you notes and vicious asides from his secret journal, overlooking the horrendous description of the court case, which is like an email sent to his lawyer at 4am after a few too many vodkas.

Astonishingly, this is a book one can hate without even reading it, for not only does it damage the literary reputation of the author and of Penguin, it also disappoints the fan. Our imaginings were wrong. He is quite dull, self-obsessed and trivial. Sadly.

YeR

yea

Year of Refusal is a great album is the only thing I agree about this post. Are we both talking about about the same morrissey? I don't think you know what you are talking about, try again....I have never spoken with b
him, but I imagine he speaks elequently, the whole room listens.
 
Luke Haines calls our hero "Stephen" (yeah, he's the vampire who keeps a diary.) :squiffy: Ha! But I just love this one:

"Every carnivorous dinner table walk-out is catalogued as Stephen makes the point, again and again, that he will not dine with murderers."

GO MOZ!!! :thumb:

THOSE CALLOUS, IGNORANT, STUPID MEAT EATERS. :mad:


both the rolling stone review and John Robb's letter are superb!
 
The biggest problem with 'Autobiography' - a book which I haven't yet read - is that the grammar is utterly atrocious; while (or whilst, if you're Moz) some of the sentences are so lacking in finesse and grace that, however great the other elements, one cannot overlook the missteps and trips and general literary dyspraxia visited upon literary dysphasia, piled upon literary dysmorphia, fed through a shredder and reconstituted. Morrissey cannot write prose, nor can he tell a story. This matters not in song where the music gives the words a context sadly lacking in prose and the impressionistic quality creates a space - a void even - which adds to, rather than subtracts from, the experience of hearing the words. In song, he is impossibly textured, complex, coherent, vivid, poetic and unique. In prose, he is impossibly confused, messy, disjointed, vague, purplish and ... unique. Unique among 50-somethings, at least; there are plenty of 12 year olds who write like Morrissey, without the effort Joyce put into the portrait of the artist!

I hope he writes another album, and soon. Years of Refusal was stonking, one of my favourites.

However, the world of writing can do without sentences such as these:

" I will never be lacking if the clash of sounds collide, with refinement and logic bursting from a cone of manful blast"

We had always preferred to imagine Morrissey as the poet/novelist who was above writing his poetry and novels. We had preferred to consider him the poet of the song, the activist of the disenfranchised, the diarist of the overlooked. However, this book has forced us to adjust our perceptions and to come to terms with the reality: in fact, he is the poet of the fifth form and author of the ultimate adolescent diary. His flair for language and love of himself aid us in overlooking his technical defects, but ultimately we preferred the idea of the frustrated writer to the reality of the mediocre writer.

The book is like a compendium of 'poetic essays,' True-to-you notes and vicious asides from his secret journal, overlooking the horrendous description of the court case, which is like an email sent to his lawyer at 4am after a few too many vodkas.

Astonishingly, this is a book one can hate without even reading it, for not only does it damage the literary reputation of the author and of Penguin, it also disappoints the fan. Our imaginings were wrong. He is quite dull, self-obsessed and trivial. Sadly.

I d



Dear Hater and Pre-judger, I hope Morrisssy doesn't let you into one of his concerts on his next tour, you are not moz worthy.
















I think he is writing a nee
 
I d



Dear Hater and Pre-judger, I hope Morrisssy doesn't let you into one of his concerts on his next tour, you are not moz worthy.
















I think he is writing a nee

I would have to grow a penis and have Morrissey give me a BJ before I had the patience to read 9,896 lines in dactylic hexameter.
 
I have to agree with you.

However, he does chat about television, quite a lot in fact. He also spends many pages on movies, music(especially The NY Dolls)and poetry.

As Johnny Rogan points out he spends more time on these things than his immediate family and other important people in his life.

Somehow, it seemed perfectly logical. Morrissey is at his best when he discusses his passions. :love:

I look forward to reading these things.
 
How can someone accuse an AUTOf***INGBIOGRAPHY of being narcissistic? Was he supposed to share his mother's cooking recipes and chat about television?

Well, after James Maker's "Autofellatio", a better read, it would have been a fun title: if Moz has a long penis and can, indeed, f*** himself up the arse with it. I can do a selfie blowjob after years of yoga, but not bugger myself. Metaphorically, of course, Morrissey is well and truly buggered after this. He may as well shove his book up his arse, so his fans can inspect it at leisure: as they've spent 30 years with their tongue up his fundament. Unlike The Audience who predicted this and now stand vindicated behind the disturbed singer and the equally disturbed first few rows of "The List".

He doesn't share his cooking recipes as he probably only uses room service in luxury hotels since 1983. I doubt he'd have the patience to learn that skill, just as he hasn't had the patience over 3 decades to remedy the defects of his working class education and do an Open University creative writing course before attempting prose.

You haven't read the book, yet feel compelled to comment. I wonder how many books and authors Morrissey has talked about over decades, but hasn't actually read. Of course, I've read almost everything, but we'd expect that, wouldn't we?

regards
BB
 
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The biggest problem with 'Autobiography' - a book which I haven't yet read - is that the grammar is utterly atrocious; while (or whilst, if you're Moz) some of the sentences are so lacking in finesse and grace that, however great the other elements, one cannot overlook the missteps and trips and general literary dyspraxia visited upon literary dysphasia, piled upon literary dysmorphia, fed through a shredder and reconstituted. Morrissey cannot write prose, nor can he tell a story. This matters not in song where the music gives the words a context sadly lacking in prose and the impressionistic quality creates a space - a void even - which adds to, rather than subtracts from, the experience of hearing the words. In song, he is impossibly textured, complex, coherent, vivid, poetic and unique. In prose, he is impossibly confused, messy, disjointed, vague, purplish and ... unique. Unique among 50-somethings, at least; there are plenty of 12 year olds who write like Morrissey, without the effort Joyce put into the portrait of the artist!

I hope he writes another album, and soon. Years of Refusal was stonking, one of my favourites.

However, the world of writing can do without sentences such as these:

" I will never be lacking if the clash of sounds collide, with refinement and logic bursting from a cone of manful blast"

We had always preferred to imagine Morrissey as the poet/novelist who was above writing his poetry and novels. We had preferred to consider him the poet of the song, the activist of the disenfranchised, the diarist of the overlooked. However, this book has forced us to adjust our perceptions and to come to terms with the reality: in fact, he is the poet of the fifth form and author of the ultimate adolescent diary. His flair for language and love of himself aid us in overlooking his technical defects, but ultimately we preferred the idea of the frustrated writer to the reality of the mediocre writer.

The book is like a compendium of 'poetic essays,' True-to-you notes and vicious asides from his secret journal, overlooking the horrendous description of the court case, which is like an email sent to his lawyer at 4am after a few too many vodkas.

Astonishingly, this is a book one can hate without even reading it, for not only does it damage the literary reputation of the author and of Penguin, it also disappoints the fan. Our imaginings were wrong. He is quite dull, self-obsessed and trivial. Sadly.


I don't know why I bothered writing this. I must have thought it was still 2004 and there were still thoughtful people on this site. Apart from myself and BrummieBoy, it seems there is nothing but illiterates and those with communication difficulties.

The fact that some of you who can scarcely read and certainly can't write enjoyed the book is neither here nor there. The opinions of a few dim music journalists is also largely irrelevant. In order to justify 'Penguin Classics' one requires serious literary critics and the serious audience to concur with Morrissey's own lofty opinion of himself. Yet it's actually impossible to give the book a glowing review without apologising on its behalf and dismissing the importance of the writing itself. This negates its quality as a book.

When I say I haven't read it, I don't mean that I've read none of it; I mean that I haven't yet read it through properly. But perhaps I never will. It's appalling. And if flogging a few thou copies to idiots like those who live on this site is Moz's objective, fair enough. But it's a stunt, nothing more.

Crystal Geezer wonders how an autobiography can be narcissistic. Look up narcissism, you fool. Obsession with one's status; obsession with associating exclusively with people and institutions of high status (eg. Penguin Classics!); self-obsession; preoccupation with revenge against those who slighted one; self-importance and a self-referential style: these qualities are all flooding from much of the book in abundance.

Given the abject lack of intelligence of most Morrissey fans, the book is sure to be a roaring success. Unfortunately it's no classic. It is not even written competently. To think it took a decade...!
 
You, in general, are a narcissist. Do yourself a favor and read your last 20 posts as though through a different person's eyes. It's embarrassing.

You've shared/over-shared [delete as applicable] your 'mind babies' with an audience beyond your friends/therapists. Not that that's a problem, most do in this age of irrelevant internet culture: the blogs, the website, the playlists, the social networking reveals, all desperately seeking phantoms of status.

I do it, too, but I do it as a meta-narrative on the cultural crisis of Narcissism. I very much doubt either you or Morrissey have any such over-arching framwork to contextualise your blips and blizzards of data. I like your selfie-shrine to esotericism but it's the height of narcissism, just as Morrissey's absurd book is. The difference is this: I do not regard anything I write online as of any importance whatsoever. If I want to make a serious statement on art or culture I will publish real books on a serious imprint. Though, obviously, I could never work with Penguin now. I've had offers and turned everything down because a) I am a control freak and won't pander to commerce, and b) I don't actually want to be famous whilst alive because it would probably mean attracting people like you into my life to pester me.

I can go anywhere unmolested by herd culture 'fans'. I'm rich, loved, sexy, have vast contacts who are baffled by my oblique strategies, but many of them are also fame whores/addicted to the spotlight, just like your hero/cult leader/imaginary 'dream lover'. For you to diss 'reality bites' as a narcissist is hilarious, albeit unintentional.
 

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