Formed in 1982 in Manchester, England, the Smiths were pop traditionalists in a music world that was ruled by technology. They played guitars and drums, not synthesizers or drum machines. Morrissey wrote lyrics that cited Oscar Wilde and cribbed tales of workaday suffering from the grim, industrial realism of British New Wave cinema. For musical cues, they looked to Leiber and Stoller, the American songwriting duo that wrote “Love Potion No. 9” and many other Top 40 hits, rather than Led Zeppelin. Five years later, exhausted and angry, Marr left the band, which called it quits shortly thereafter, having released four albums and a series of singles.
Even though their music was melodic and familiar, the Smiths courted confrontation. Mostly, this was Morrissey’s doing. In his strained, warbly falsetto, he crooned about serial killers and child abandonment. A devoted vegetarian, he named the band’s sophomore record “Meat is Murder.” Rather than exuding sexuality, he publicly professed his celibacy.
But he didn’t go on record for the book, so his thoughts and opinions are mostly represented by secondhand sources. And the picture those accounts paint isn’t very flattering. In one anecdote, a video director recalls traveling with Marr to Morrissey’s home, where he was hiding, to beg and plead for the singer to attend a scheduled shoot. “I remember very distinctly that I had no idea if Morrissey was standing behind that door laughing at the three of us pleading with him or crying,” she recounts.
The Smiths lacked camaraderie, the glue that hold bands, and their biographies, together. Morrissey and Marr had envisioned the Smiths as a duo, a songwriting partnership, rather than a band. The rhythm section was mostly an afterthought. Fletcher goes to great lengths to make Joyce and Rourke into three-dimensional characters, but ultimately, there isn’t much to say about them, other than that they delivered in the studio. And to anybody in a cash-starved contemporary rock band, the Smiths’ bratty transgressions — cancelling tours at the last minute, declaring physical exhaustion with only a handful of dates left to perform — probably seem pretty obnoxious.
Because Fletcher could talk to only two of the four Smiths, he leans heavily on the managers, producers, label owners and business-types who surrounded the band. From them, he squeezes out the hard data on the recording dates, the contracts and the series of studio effects used to make the swirly sounds on the band’s most famous single, “How Soon is Now?” But you’re left with a sense of reading about the band from the perspective of middle management. Maybe that’s the biography that the Smiths deserve. The usual rock-and-roll bonding experiences — the tales of endless drives, tough gigs and filthy hotels that make band members seem human — never really happened for them. They made great rock music but weak rock literature.