Does Morrissey have black friends?
- Thread starter MozzaBedfordSpur
- Start date
Tomorrow
Banned
Why should he? There is no law suggesting that he has to, if Black people want to listen to Morrissey they can walk to their local record store and buy a few albums, walk home, listen to him and then book a few tickets to go and see him live. Morrissey shouldn't have to appeal to anyone.
Hellie
Lost
Quite right.The whole world has gone PC mad and it makes my blood boil.Pavarotti(not sure if fatsos still shuttling about this mortal coil)doesn`t try and reach out to R&B fans.
DAnn Coulter
Banned
MLK is one of my heroes and I want Obama to be our next Prez...... but for some reason black peeps and I just don't mix.....Don't have any black friends and never had them.
Danny
Senior Member
I think what music most people listen to isn't anything to do with the music itself. It's more people identifying with a group or artist. Unfortunately a large part of that is determined by what society tells us we should identify with. So black people are told that Morrissey has nothing to say to them, he is just for white people.
It's when an artist breaks through and appeals to an unexpected audience that we realise how stupid these categorisations are. And then you get the journalists running around in circles because all their certainties are challenged. So they write thousand word essays trying to work out why Mexicans like Morrissey when really the question is not "Why?" but "Why not?".
It's when an artist breaks through and appeals to an unexpected audience that we realise how stupid these categorisations are. And then you get the journalists running around in circles because all their certainties are challenged. So they write thousand word essays trying to work out why Mexicans like Morrissey when really the question is not "Why?" but "Why not?".
Bluebirds
Well-Known Member
This article mentions a black person!!! WOW!
Seriously though this is a great read for those who have never read it. And if you have... oh read it again
An audience with Morrissey
Jonathan Rendall
Sunday May 12, 2002
The Observer
I was walking down a decrepit south London street looking for a certain chain of petrol stations that does cash-backs where they only check your card for amounts over £10. I know every branch in south-east England. No doubt it is a loophole that will soon be closed, but they have become a vital cash outlet now that supermarkets have started checking them even for a fiver.
While I was getting it, I remembered that I was supposed to be going to a comeback concert by the great tragedist Morrissey in Norwich that night in company with my friend Alvin. I'd met Alvin in Battersea Park where he ran the hut by the athletics track and I was undergoing what was then my one night of sleeping rough. He was going straight after a stretch for armed robbery and, unusually for a black guy, was a great devotee of the Smiths and in particular the great tragedist.
Inside, Alvin had done a writing course and started a manuscript based on his life of crime. He left it lying round his cell and his cellmate, Sampson, a tough Liverpudlian with arms like Popeye, upon reading it was so impressed that he resolved never to let Alvin stray again and to become the protector of his poetic calling.
Alvin finished the book in the Battersea hut and indeed it was a great work, getting good reviews if crap sales. Then Alvin started falling back with some Brixton brethren from the old days so Sampson moved him to Lowestoft, a grim place but where the housing is bloody cheap. The bad thing was that Alvin then got hitched to a tight-lipped literary-mafia type called Mel. She was his editor and loved flaunting him. He is built like Mike Tyson, Al.
Within weeks Mel had moved Alvin to a nice cottage down the coast in Southwold - a different world, it's where all the lit.-mafia types go. Sampson was out the door. She won't let Alvin smoke his spliffs and fags inside any more. He has to go out in the garden where his loyal dog, Logan, a strapping, noble mongrel with some discernible Alsatian in him, joins him.
I rang him from the Deptford Arms and he said Morrissey was still on and it was perfect because Mel had gone away for the night and we could smoke inside. I felt a terrible disproportionate sadness that a true poet such as Alvin should be reduced to such bitter little pleasures, but I didn't say anything as I was out of change and I didn't want to break into the 10.
When I arrived at his cottage, Alvin was in the back garden swinging Logan round by a plastic bone, his Tysonesque frame incongruous against the rather fussy garden. I greeted Logan in the high voice I reserve for dogs, Logan cantered up with the stride of a steeplechaser and Alvin reflected that it was only because of that high voice that Logan didn't attack me like he did everyone else. 'What, everyone?' I asked.
'Yeah man,' Alvin averred. 'Even Sampson once, which I would never have expected. He done the postman again the other day. You're a bad, bad boy, Logie, aren't you?'
From Al's mellow tone I surmised he had taken considerable advantage of indoor smoking opportunities. While doing so, he'd also prepared a beaut Caribbean meal for us to have before setting out to the great tragedist's gig: golden dumplings, rice and peas, fried cod and approximately three bottles of ice-cold German Pils. Alvin said he was worried for Morrissey. Although Morrissey was still quite big in America, everyone had forgotten about him here. I realised that Alvin really did have a love for Morrissey and that, though I did too, his was more true. We drove to the dank university hall where the gig was, knocked back a few more beers and noticed how clean the students were. Me and Alvin were practically the only people smoking/drinking. There was a discernible chilliness about them. They didn't used to be like that did they, students?
A squad of rugby players - pissed, though obviously no fans of the great tragedist - came in and began loud sneering ruminations on the sexuality of a terrible Morrissey-impersonator support act. I've had an irrational dislike of English rugby squads ever since the mid-Eighties TV references to 'the guys'. I always wanted the Welsh to win. (27-18. Hooky Hooky!!!) Now everyone says 'guys'. I turned round to confront them or at least flick them the V, but reflected that another fight was the last thing I needed. Also, Alvin would feel the need to join in and he was still on parole.
Anyway, what is this fighting thing? I am no fighter. And in addition Morrissey was about to come on and he would disapprove. Love. Yes. I felt my chest swell with anticipation at the great tragedist's arrival and the pure stream of his voice and words. I knew Alvin was feeling it too. We both lit fags at the same time.
Our joint exhalation of smoke was greeted by the student couple standing in front of us as the greatest passive-smoking offence ever perpetrated by mankind. They were holding hands. It's normally a good sign but not in their case. She was blonde and good-looking and the smell of perfume and shampoo that rose off her hair obliterated our booze and fag fumes, but such was her hatred that I couldn't find it in me to feel pity or lust. They just stood there with looks of mild 'interest' and I knew that Alvin had been right and that they didn't know who the hell Morrissey was or had been.
Morrissey couldn't find the pure stream. There had always been a collision between his fey poeticism and his genetic docker's looks, and now the latter had won. He looked about 60. He was still younger in heart than the student couple, but he was too old for rock'n'roll and he wasn't the type to go on with Vaudeville tours.
With every song Morrissey kept trying to find the pure stream. He must have known he wasn't going to but he kept trying. Now that is bravery. I looked at Alvin and noticed that his eyes - transfixed on Morrissey - were glassy and tearful, either from the indoor smoking or from real tears.
I said: 'Don't you think he should knock it on the head?'
'Nah,' Alvin said. 'He will be all right
Seriously though this is a great read for those who have never read it. And if you have... oh read it again
An audience with Morrissey
Jonathan Rendall
Sunday May 12, 2002
The Observer
I was walking down a decrepit south London street looking for a certain chain of petrol stations that does cash-backs where they only check your card for amounts over £10. I know every branch in south-east England. No doubt it is a loophole that will soon be closed, but they have become a vital cash outlet now that supermarkets have started checking them even for a fiver.
While I was getting it, I remembered that I was supposed to be going to a comeback concert by the great tragedist Morrissey in Norwich that night in company with my friend Alvin. I'd met Alvin in Battersea Park where he ran the hut by the athletics track and I was undergoing what was then my one night of sleeping rough. He was going straight after a stretch for armed robbery and, unusually for a black guy, was a great devotee of the Smiths and in particular the great tragedist.
Inside, Alvin had done a writing course and started a manuscript based on his life of crime. He left it lying round his cell and his cellmate, Sampson, a tough Liverpudlian with arms like Popeye, upon reading it was so impressed that he resolved never to let Alvin stray again and to become the protector of his poetic calling.
Alvin finished the book in the Battersea hut and indeed it was a great work, getting good reviews if crap sales. Then Alvin started falling back with some Brixton brethren from the old days so Sampson moved him to Lowestoft, a grim place but where the housing is bloody cheap. The bad thing was that Alvin then got hitched to a tight-lipped literary-mafia type called Mel. She was his editor and loved flaunting him. He is built like Mike Tyson, Al.
Within weeks Mel had moved Alvin to a nice cottage down the coast in Southwold - a different world, it's where all the lit.-mafia types go. Sampson was out the door. She won't let Alvin smoke his spliffs and fags inside any more. He has to go out in the garden where his loyal dog, Logan, a strapping, noble mongrel with some discernible Alsatian in him, joins him.
I rang him from the Deptford Arms and he said Morrissey was still on and it was perfect because Mel had gone away for the night and we could smoke inside. I felt a terrible disproportionate sadness that a true poet such as Alvin should be reduced to such bitter little pleasures, but I didn't say anything as I was out of change and I didn't want to break into the 10.
When I arrived at his cottage, Alvin was in the back garden swinging Logan round by a plastic bone, his Tysonesque frame incongruous against the rather fussy garden. I greeted Logan in the high voice I reserve for dogs, Logan cantered up with the stride of a steeplechaser and Alvin reflected that it was only because of that high voice that Logan didn't attack me like he did everyone else. 'What, everyone?' I asked.
'Yeah man,' Alvin averred. 'Even Sampson once, which I would never have expected. He done the postman again the other day. You're a bad, bad boy, Logie, aren't you?'
From Al's mellow tone I surmised he had taken considerable advantage of indoor smoking opportunities. While doing so, he'd also prepared a beaut Caribbean meal for us to have before setting out to the great tragedist's gig: golden dumplings, rice and peas, fried cod and approximately three bottles of ice-cold German Pils. Alvin said he was worried for Morrissey. Although Morrissey was still quite big in America, everyone had forgotten about him here. I realised that Alvin really did have a love for Morrissey and that, though I did too, his was more true. We drove to the dank university hall where the gig was, knocked back a few more beers and noticed how clean the students were. Me and Alvin were practically the only people smoking/drinking. There was a discernible chilliness about them. They didn't used to be like that did they, students?
A squad of rugby players - pissed, though obviously no fans of the great tragedist - came in and began loud sneering ruminations on the sexuality of a terrible Morrissey-impersonator support act. I've had an irrational dislike of English rugby squads ever since the mid-Eighties TV references to 'the guys'. I always wanted the Welsh to win. (27-18. Hooky Hooky!!!) Now everyone says 'guys'. I turned round to confront them or at least flick them the V, but reflected that another fight was the last thing I needed. Also, Alvin would feel the need to join in and he was still on parole.
Anyway, what is this fighting thing? I am no fighter. And in addition Morrissey was about to come on and he would disapprove. Love. Yes. I felt my chest swell with anticipation at the great tragedist's arrival and the pure stream of his voice and words. I knew Alvin was feeling it too. We both lit fags at the same time.
Our joint exhalation of smoke was greeted by the student couple standing in front of us as the greatest passive-smoking offence ever perpetrated by mankind. They were holding hands. It's normally a good sign but not in their case. She was blonde and good-looking and the smell of perfume and shampoo that rose off her hair obliterated our booze and fag fumes, but such was her hatred that I couldn't find it in me to feel pity or lust. They just stood there with looks of mild 'interest' and I knew that Alvin had been right and that they didn't know who the hell Morrissey was or had been.
Morrissey couldn't find the pure stream. There had always been a collision between his fey poeticism and his genetic docker's looks, and now the latter had won. He looked about 60. He was still younger in heart than the student couple, but he was too old for rock'n'roll and he wasn't the type to go on with Vaudeville tours.
With every song Morrissey kept trying to find the pure stream. He must have known he wasn't going to but he kept trying. Now that is bravery. I looked at Alvin and noticed that his eyes - transfixed on Morrissey - were glassy and tearful, either from the indoor smoking or from real tears.
I said: 'Don't you think he should knock it on the head?'
'Nah,' Alvin said. 'He will be all right
duchess_of_fork
New Member
A black author, Mike Gayle wrote about the Smiths in his book "His n Hers" It wasn't such a great book, but the protagonist wore a Meat is Murder shirt and her soon to be partner knew her as "the girl in the Smiths shirt" before they got together. The only bad thing that i find about it is that theres a quote that goes something like "I wore my Meat is Murder shirt (although I adore chicken)". That made me go "pffffffffff"
