Librarian On Fire
Active Member
I'm sucker for reading GQ and Esquire magazines. Both the UK and American editions. Came across this little bit about Morrissey written by Tony Parsons in the June GQ (English edition). I don't think it's been acknowledged on Morrissey Solo. Tony's column was looking at how the older you get rock music seems less relevant. Morrissey and Julie Burchill together. Now that would be a good gossip session. Opening paragraph.
"I realised that rock music was getting a bit long in the tooth on the day that Morrissey came around to my house for tea.
I was newly married, and as I fussed over the tea and biscuits, my young wife called out to me when she saw our visitor approaching.
"Darling" she said. "There's an old man coming up the garden path". I almost dropped the Jaffa Cakes. An old man? Morrissey? An old man? This was not last week. This was way back in the 20th century when Morrissey's solo career still seemed like a bit of a novelty, and the Smiths still loomed large in what was once called youth culture.
But my wife was in her early twenties at the time. And to her, this rock icon looked as though the might need a bit of help across the road, or perhaps be off to the shops to splash out on a couple of tins of cat food. He certainly didn't look young, or vibrant, or potent - all those things that rock music had looked like for as long as I could remember.
An old geezer called Morrissey. I remember that he was fabulous company - as sharp and funny and starling as the songs. "Ohhh," he said, as he looked at my bookcase. "I can already see half a dozen books that I want to borrow."
He went away with a first edition of Albert Goldman's Elvis biography and he still hasn't given it back. An it was a lovely afternoon - like sharing English breakfast tea and Jaffa Cakes with Oscar Wilde. But something changed for me that day.
Morrissey came up our garden path and my young wife saw someone from an older generation. I suddenly realised rock music itself was becoming a lot like bingo. You had to be of a certain age to really enjoy it."
"I realised that rock music was getting a bit long in the tooth on the day that Morrissey came around to my house for tea.
I was newly married, and as I fussed over the tea and biscuits, my young wife called out to me when she saw our visitor approaching.
"Darling" she said. "There's an old man coming up the garden path". I almost dropped the Jaffa Cakes. An old man? Morrissey? An old man? This was not last week. This was way back in the 20th century when Morrissey's solo career still seemed like a bit of a novelty, and the Smiths still loomed large in what was once called youth culture.
But my wife was in her early twenties at the time. And to her, this rock icon looked as though the might need a bit of help across the road, or perhaps be off to the shops to splash out on a couple of tins of cat food. He certainly didn't look young, or vibrant, or potent - all those things that rock music had looked like for as long as I could remember.
An old geezer called Morrissey. I remember that he was fabulous company - as sharp and funny and starling as the songs. "Ohhh," he said, as he looked at my bookcase. "I can already see half a dozen books that I want to borrow."
He went away with a first edition of Albert Goldman's Elvis biography and he still hasn't given it back. An it was a lovely afternoon - like sharing English breakfast tea and Jaffa Cakes with Oscar Wilde. But something changed for me that day.
Morrissey came up our garden path and my young wife saw someone from an older generation. I suddenly realised rock music itself was becoming a lot like bingo. You had to be of a certain age to really enjoy it."
