The Smiths, "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out"

In late last year, a new book arrived that promised to tell in vivid detail the history of the Smiths, one of my all-time favorite bands. This past weekend, I decided to check it out from a local library (the college one at Clemson), and I've been engrossed in it ever since.

It's a story that, for me, goes back to my ill-fated turn as a Gamecock in Columbia, circa 1997-1998. I went there because Hootie and the Blowfish came from those hallowed halls, basically; I thought for sure that I'd fall in with like-minded music or comedy fans who wanted to start a group or something. What I found instead was a lot of douchebags in frat gear who never, ever suspected that I stole their newspaper every morning because I went to class at the crack of dawn while they slept in and got over their hangovers (well, the fact that such thefts stopped after I moved out at the end of the first semester probably clued them in to that fact). Where I ended up after that was rooming with Charlie Long, the first of my many post-high school "best friends" who only really were in my life for a brief period (mostly thanks to me flunking out that second semester). He was a kindred spirit, a fellow nerd from the academic team, and we bonded over our shared love of music. But he knew some stuff that I, classic rock fan that I was, had never heard of.

My first culture-shock moment was listening to Morrissey and the Smiths, the Manchester band that, for a brief period (not as brief as my Columbia existence, but close) ruled the indie-rock/alternative rock world. I was a country boy from Walhalla who had yet to know anyone like...well, Morrissey (there was one kid in high school who sure seemed to like wearing make-up and listening to the Spice Girls, but you don't think he was...? You know?). Charlie said that Mozza (as he is affectionately known) was celibate and even had a huge female following because he was "sensitive" and effeminate. I just nodded and sat through Meat Is Murder and "How Soon Is Now," the most famous Smiths song (you've heard it, even if you didn't know what it was at the time. It's a staple of Eighties-set "coming of age" soundtracks for films).

Against my early reluctance, I found myself getting into the Smiths, and eventually, when I stumbled across a copy of their best album (to me), The Queen Is Dead, used at a record store in Columbia, Charlie congratulated me on my astute eye. From the Smiths, it was a quick jump to that other legendary Manchester band, Joy Division (I think I've written about that before). It's kinda the way I work with pop culture; I started out liking Paul McCartney before realizing John Lennon was better, I discovered Truffaut because of Godard, etc. But the Smiths were and are one of my all-time favorites, becuase they're just so weird and awesome at the same time.

"There Is a Light..." should be the album closer on Queen (instead of the forgettable-if-not-for-its-clever-title "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others"), but it is the best song they ever did. It's an ode to death (of course, this being Mozza) but a romantic one, about riding around with the one you love until a double-decker bus cuts your joyride short (and, as is the case with those who buy into Morrissey's celibacy, there's no telling who he's singing to). It crops up in one of my favorite movies from the past few years, when Zooey Deschanel sings along to it in the elevator in (500) Days of Summer. If I had to pick an introductory song for the Smiths to anyone who hasn't heard them, this would be it. Then you might end up like me, giddy that a big book about the band has just come out and eager to read it despite the fact that it's close to six-hundred pages. Or maybe not. But it's your call, music is totally subjective. I'm a Smiths fan thru and thru. There's very little about that time in Columbia that I carry with me (Charlie and I lost touch long ago, and I am sure those frat douchebags wouldn't remember me if they tried). But I carry the Smiths with me, and the other bands I discovered at that time. When you hear the Smiths, Hootie and the Blowfish are just wannabes (though in closing, I do still like the occasional tune from the Blowfish. Maybe it's part of getting old).