Some days you just wake up in a mood. You’re all emo even though you have no reason to be. Maybe you had a bad dream, maybe you’re PMS, maybe you just like reverting back to your young adult self when life was full of emotional pitfalls and unhealthy relationships. And you remember when you used to sit in your room and overthink every situation in your life and imagine that you are the saddest person in the entire world, so sad that they should probably hold a benefit for you, something like Hands Across America, where everyone joins together to try to bring you out of your intense funk. But you’re all like, leave me alone, let me wallow in my belief that I am alone with my sadness.
That’s when you take out The Queen is Dead and you listen to the whole album five or six times while nursing a drink in one hand and a stronger drink in the other and by the time you get to the last playing of I Know It’s Over, you realize there is no one in this world sadder or more pathetic - in a completely adorable way - than Morrissey. And you’re ok with that, because someone has to write depressing songs and your poem “My Heart is Blacker Than That Black Outfit You Wore to the Cure Concert And I Hate You” is just a ripoff of Bigmouth Strikes Again, complete with Joan of Arc reference.
#31 on my list of my favorite songs of all time (and this one dedicated to crookedindifference)
Listen, we’ve all been lonely. We’ve all been heartsick. We’ve all felt at one time as if we would live the rest of our lives in a deep, dark place that never sees the light of love. But no matter how many goth poems you’ve written, no matter how many times you sighed and declared your life to be meaningless, no matter how many times unrequited love slaps you in the face, you could never, ever pull off patheticness quite like Morrissey. It’s in every note he sings. It’s in every syllable, every word. The pain that emanates from his tortured soul reaches out like a disembodied pair of arms searching for a hug.
Listening to this song makes me want to track Morrissey down and give him that hug he yearns for and tell him, don’t worry, baby. Here, have some Xanax and a nice shot of tequila and comfort yourself with the fact people still like you. Perhaps not Johnny Marr, but people, nonetheless.
1984. Winter. Lots of snow. Working at Record World. 12” and 7” imports piled up in my room. This song on repeat.
Morrissey, oh Morrissey. You were my soulmate when I was young and morose and wanted to go on lockdown in my bedroom for days or months at a time, just me and you under the covers, hibernating until spring, sharing each other’s misery. But always, always, this song made me smile through my daily existential crisis.