u s e y o u r h a n d s

Track by track, here’s my account of the new Morrissey album, You Are the Quarry.

America Is Not the World

A track detailing some of the shaming hypocrisies of America. I must admit, until about halfway into this track, I was sort of thinking, “Dude, Morrissey, don’t you live in L.A.? Love it or leave it, man.” But he ends the song telling America “I love you, I love you,” either inspite of its’ faults or maybe because of.

Irish Blood, English Heart

A good counterpoint to the first track, IBEH discusses Morrissey’s issues with the British government, including the monarchy. He mentions Oliver Cromwell, and this is one of the reasons why I love him. Because, for a pop song, that is fucking arcane.

I Have Forgiven Jesus

There’s a theme developing in the album. Morrissey, perhaps due to his middle age, seems to be coming to terms with matters that, in previous albums, he would have railed more vehemently against. In this track, Morrissey sings about the sense of abandonment one gets when childhood faith in God flies away. And while you might still demand answers, it’s just no use.

Come Back to Camden

Such a typical Morrissey tune. Your heart will curdle with pain listening to this song. At this point, I’m at my most secure, happiest ever, and still, Morrissey is able to fill me with the memory of past desolation. And while many people would run from this, the Morrissey fan fucking revels in it.

I’m Not Sorry

This one of the few — if not the only — Morrissey songs I can see having sex to. Having sex with the Smiths or other Morrissey in the background is just too Breakfast Club for me, but this is a different song. Sexy, but still sad.

The World Is Full of Crashing Bores

Love it, love it. Have listened to it about ten times. Bitterness and seclusion mask a deep desire to be loved! Yes, yes! “Take me in your arms and love me!” he demands. “This world — I am afraid — is designed for crashing bores,” and he insists he is not one.

How Can Anybody Possible Know How I Feel?

A mix of paranoia and prescience, here Morrissey questions the motives of everyone who likes, admires, or polices him. And maybe this about being a star, but I’d like to think everyone comes to these conclusions. I certainly have. People are terribly hard to trust, harder to decipher, and occasionally, hard to respect. “Even I / as sick as I am / I would never be you.”

First of the Gang to Die

Ok, this is a neat one. Hector’s story, a gangmember, “the first of the gang / with a gun in his hand / the first to do time / the first of the gang to die.” Good story, but it’s interesting he wrote this one. Morrissey lives in LA and most of his fanbase in SoCal is Hispanic kids of all backgrounds: bruisers, drama kids, etc. I wonder if this sort of acknowledges this weird fan-idol combo.

Let Me Kiss You

You know that feeling, when you just love someone and you know they don’t love you, much less like you. But you are desperate, can’t move your attentions away? Drowning in loneliness, wasting away for physical affection? This is your song, you sad son of a bitch.

All the Lazy Dykes

Oh, Morrissey, I too have this issue with this segment of the lesbian community. Whenever you encounter a group really into who/what they are (recovering addicts, i’ve found are also like this) are really santci-fucking-monious about their particular thing, that they know you better than you do yourself. This song is from the POV of those dykes who are just sure that one day, you’ll leave your husband and “join the girls.” He namechecks this lesbian bar, The Palms, that this author has been to several times.

I Like You

This is dancey. I am dancing to this, sans gladioli. It’s actually a danceable song. How weird. And it’s all about how when you really like someone, you’ll let them get away with shit you wouldn’t dream of.

You Know It Couldn’t Last

The last, longest, and perhaps weakest track. It’s a torchy number, containing this line “Don’t let the blue eyes fool you / They’re just gelignite.” Fucking arcane. Gelignite, it seems, is an explosive mixture composed of nitroglycerine, guncotton, wood pulp, and potassium nitrate. Evocative. Does every musician have to put a track on their album about how hard it is to be a pop star? This is, admittedly, a fine one. It must be difficult to be revered then forgotten. “Teenagers who love you / they will wake up / Yawn and kill you.” And yet, Morrissey includes jabs at critics, and references about his royalty battles with former bandmates.

All in all, YATQ is fabulous, better than Maladjusted, for sure. It’s a more mature, level-eyed look at the world. I think many people originally liked Morrissey for the woe-is-me quality of his music and find it hard to age and listen to the same sad songs. But this album melds woe with shoulder-shrugging, as well as the learned wit Morrissey always brings to his songs. Plus, the music is just richer than past albums.

And the cover image? Morrissey is holding up well. And I should know, as I recently saw him shirtless.

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“Isn’t this the cutest thing? I came in today looking for chair pads, but I’m just in love with this fish thing made out of beads! I wonder what it’s for … oh, it’s a votive holder,” exclaimed Karen as she put the fish in her bulging basket. She glanced back at Sally for her reaction. She was a few paces behind Karen, fingering a lampshade absentmindedly.

“Sal?”

Sally turned back to Karen. She knew what Karen wanted to hear, but just couldn’t manage the necessary reply.

“Do you need that thing?” asked Sally in a strange, flat tone.

Karen looked like she didn’t understand. Who cares if she needed it? She could buy it. She liked it. So what?

“Of course I don’t need it, but it will look nice on the lanai. It’s sort of glittery. Nice for dinner parties.” Karen stammered a bit, but she was altogether pleased that, under Sally’s lifeless stare, she had found an actual reason to buy the fish.

Sally couldn’t hold back. Her husband had warned her about her increasingly biting sarcasm, but she simply did not give a shit anymore. “I’m sure that’s a great relief to the Cambodian child who strang all the beads together.”

“Sally, are you all right?” She touched Sally’s arm and leaned toward her friend. She’d never seen her like this, listless and judgemental.

“I’m drunk, Karen,” Sally replied. She didn’t slur — Sally was far too practiced for that. Her husband couldn’t even tell when he kissed her on his way out, even though she’d been drinking Riesling for hours.

Karen almost fell over herself as she took a giant step back from Sally. “You’re joking.”

“Not, actually, sweets. I’ve been drunk for years.” A slow smile slid across Sally’s face. She struck the model-ish pose she’d been so fond of in her early twenties. Hand on hip, left foot in front of the right making a T, upturned chin. It looked ridiculous on a woman clad in Liz Claiborne.

Karen stared openmouthed at her friend. Is Sally on something?, she thought. Sure, she’d seen her get a little tipsy at parties or whatever, but Riesling in the morning? “What are you talking about, Sally?” she asked yet again.

She prayed Karen would stop talking. There had been hints, sure. But she was willing to forgive these … transgressions? because Sally had never been boorish. Drunk, maybe, but she always showed up. She always was there.

“Jesus, Karen. Drunk. I’m drunk. Totally drunk. I’m drunk every day by at least noon. I’ve been doing it for years and nobody has noticed.”

Karen turned sharply away and focused on a wicker mail basket, “I’ve been looking for one of these. Perfect. Just what I need.”

Nobody would leave their circle and rescue her, Sally decided. Whatever she did, it would be on her own. It wasn’t the loneliness she dreaded, it was the honesty. Because she had lied for so long, not about booze but about everything, Sally thought maybe she’d forgotten how to tell the truth.

Sally grabbed Karen’s arm and whirled her around. The mail basket tumbled to the ground. “Fuck the basket, Karen.”

“Sally, stop,” blubbered Kared as tears spilled out of her eyes. “Please, don’t.”

Don’t be a drunk or don’t be my friend, Sally wondered. Karen must have known. They spent so much time together, buying things, lunching.

Sally tightened her grip on her friend’s arm and grabber her other hand. “I’m leaving him. I’m going to rehab and then moving out.” Her voice grew raspy with phlegm.

Karen broke free of Sally’s clutch and backed away again. Sally was done trying. Karen would either keep her or find another manicure buddy. She turned away from her maid-of-honor, sorority sister, and Lamaze coach and walked away.

Karen bought the fish.

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I have selected my burlesque music.

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She had forgotten her book. The long bus ride ahead of her seemed arduous without something to read. Elspeth searched her purse, but she’d just pitched all the crumpled receipts, leaflets, and photocopied articles that usually packed it. It held only Elspeth’s wallet, a lipstick, and her keys.

She opened the first of her wallet’s two main compartment. It held her driver’s license, credit and miscellaneous other cards. A hidden pocket behind it contained movie, plane, and theatre ticket stubs, all alphebetized and organized by date. The first note, folded in thirds, given to her by her now husband. Someone’s ATM receipt showing a bank balance of $247, 495.

The other compartment was solely for change. This pocket was separated by a zippered pouch where she stowed postage stamps. To the right, nickels, dimes, and quarters, including one Candian, and one British piece. To the left, pennies sequestered and dusty.

Elpeth examined each article then put it carefully back into the wallet. She zippered it and popped it back into her purse. Only three stops had passed.

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