The Smiths

Product Information

Of course I know that The Smiths were not the only band doing this, but man, they did it better than anyone else. But I could only listen to these songs a few times before the sheer weight of them locked me into an angst that one does not instantly see coming on. The US edition adds "This Charming Man," for which John Porter provided a flattering and dynamic production. So no, I don’t hate The Smiths, hating something that I can avoid is like trying to rearrange the air in front of my face, it’s pointless and a waste of time.

Annotation on leaflet packaged with the box: "All eight albums by The Smiths remastered from the original tape sources and packaged together for the first time. Reissues of the first ten UK-issued 7-inches plus the Dutch only release of The Headmaster Ritual and the Still Ill / You've Got Everything Now DJ promo. A similar pressing, [Invalid Release], has a similar runout but no E A S T emboss in the center ring. It also has a wider outside pressing ring, the Sire name at the upper R of the logo instead of underneath, and ring text at the bottom of the label.Today I’m saddened that I forced myself to listen to this music because it was supposed to be cool, topping the college radio charts, because in fact, what I wanted to hear, and denied myself, was music that sounded as if it were fun to make and fun to sing about. Sleeve, labels and illustrated inner sleeve with lyrics and credits printed in maroon on grey-blue background. Sincerely, how long can fans carry this weight before they are drawn under, stifled from air, and sink beneath the waters of some mossy dark pond.

Sell your first edition Smith albums, purchase yourself something nice, perhaps take a friend to dinner.I know, you don’t have to lecture me, it’s easy to ignore music one doesn’t like, yet in the same breath, when that music was such a part of the scene, it does make me want to comment on it without passing judgement, without making anyone feel badly, because music represents who we are, and if I dislike something you value, that in turn often leads to the notion that I don’t value others personally, and thats just not the case. Now when I hear a song from The Smiths, it’s good for about ten seconds, then I begin to get angry, angry that I allowed myself to be taken down into the bogs by so many sudo-intellectual friends who though we were sharing a bit of a joke on the world, that the answers to all our issues could be solved if only we could touch the lyrics of The Smiths in mid air, where Morrissey would tell us how to live, where to live, who to love, what to eat, whom to hate … when in fact it was merely Morrissey singing these songs to himself, obsessed with everything around him, and the fact that he could not, dared not fit in. Smith fans are fanatics, almost boarding on the religious, right down to their hipster skinny jeans, even making excuses fro Morrissey’s inherent racism [or has he turned a corner since those bygone days? The group consisted of vocalist Morrissey, guitarist Johnny Marr, bassist Andy Rourke, and drummer Mike Joyce.

Whose idea was it to open with "Reel Around the Fountain," with that awful, leaden drum sound introducing the record? I’ve actually begun to believe that people only pretend to love The Smiths, just as anyone who tells you they love Sonic Youth or Radiohead is partly lying, because just because these bands got you though a rough time in your late teens or early twenty’s, doesn’t mean that you’re always going to feel that way.

Yes, I’ll freely admit that I’m a huge Galaxie 500 fan, and there is some darkness there, though mostly from inner band struggles, and not from a genuine or imposed sense of gloom and doom depression. In 2003, all four of their albums appeared on Rolling Stone's list of the "500 Greatest Albums of All Time". For me, Morrisey has bland vocals, and an even more white bread style of poetry, deeply rooted in his sincere struggles with depression and gay theatrics. Recorded at Pluto (Manchester), Eden (London), Matrix (London) and Strawberry (Manchester), winter 1983. It’s more that this angst begins to reshape the listener, ever drawing them in, converting them, infusing them with an unfounded frustration, to the point where I often feel that I’m in the middle of a 1980’s Woody Allen movie where the sky is always cloudy, the washing machine is perpetually broken, and I walk the days away wrapped in an oversized angst coat, shivering against a coldness that’s burrowed its way into my very bones.