Set the Boy Free

by Johnny Marr

  It was winter now, and being holed up in the countryside on dark nights brought a mood that was good for the music. It reminded me of being in my bedroom as a teenager when the future was uncertain and the street light outside my window shone through the gloom. Once I identified it, I tried to capture the feeling on the new recordings, and when we did ‘I Know It’s Over’ and ‘Never Had No One Ever’ I thought we’d created something utterly beautiful. I was hugely proud of the band and of my songwriting partnership with Morrissey.

  Our lawyer turned up one afternoon when we were recording. I’d not been warned that he was coming and I resented having to stop working. Everyone vacated the room and left me and Morrissey to it. The lawyer informed us that Rough Trade had officially received notice that The Queen Is Dead would be our last album for them and that we would be going to EMI. It sounded exciting, but to me it felt reckless. We were alienating the people we were working with, and it seemed weird to me that we were going to EMI without having met them. We then discovered that even though they’d been given notice, Rough Trade did in fact have more records due to them, and the conversation got worse when we heard that they were threatening to put an injunction on the album and were within their rights to stop The Queen Is Dead from coming out. That information was devastating. All I cared about at that moment was finishing the record. Every day was dedicated to it, and now it might be shelved indefinitely. Our lawyer left, and we were supposed to continue working on the record, a record I’d just been told was probably not going to come out without a legal battle. I messed around with my guitars for a while and tried to ignore it. I’d have to put it out of my mind and just say, ‘Fuck it, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.’

  When tomorrow came, I got a call from Geoff Travis telling me how disappointed he was in us and that he was going to injunct the album if we tried to break our contract with Rough Trade. He talked about everything we’d been through and I felt lousy. I got back to working. Andy was putting down a bass part in the live room and I was behind the mixing desk. We were back to making music, and then I was called to the phone. Someone from Rough Trade needed to speak to me urgently. I took the call and was told that Salford Van Hire were threatening to take action against the band because the roadie had returned the van a few days late from a previous session and the invoices hadn’t been paid. The record company felt the band needed to deal with it. I looked out at Andy waiting with his bass in the studio, and I screamed, ‘Get someone else to fucking deal with it.’ It might have been a simple thing, but after the phone call I’d had with Geoff it made me feel like I was in a situation that had become completely anti-music.

  The album got made and I was satisfied with it. I always liked it when a record was finished and I could listen to it at home, before the outside world knew it. It feels like a secret that represents your world, and you’re excited about it coming out because it could be good news for everyone. With the record finished, the band went back to Manchester and hung out together, because that’s what we did. It was a nice time for us all. The Queen Is Dead was good.

  Morrissey and I were supposed to meet our lawyer about the Rough Trade situation at my house in Manchester. I had gone back into the studio in Surrey for a few days to mix a song and was supposed to have driven back the night before the meeting so I would be there the next morning, but I forgot about the meeting and didn’t remember until the middle of the night, by which time I was a little the worse for wear. I had to make the meeting, so I took off with Phil, my roadie, around 5 a.m. and we raced the 250 miles back up the motorway through commuter traffic to pick up our lawyer at the train station. By the time we got to Manchester, and with only minutes to spare, Phil was too exhausted to drive any further and with no way of contacting our lawyer I decided that I’d have to go to pick him up myself. There were a couple of problems with this plan: one was that I was completely deranged, having been up for two days, and was well and firmly in the rock ’n’ roll zone; and the other was that I couldn’t drive. Undeterred by either of these factors, I got in the BMW, started it up and zoomed off in the direction of Piccadilly station.

  The journey went by in a flash as I improvised my way into town, ignoring blaring horns and oblivious to the bewildered expressions of anyone who happened to cross my path. When I got to the station, I could see our lawyer waiting with the other passengers on the pavement. I came hurtling towards them at top speed and then continued right on past as I tried to work out how to stop. About fifty feet down the road, I took my foot off the pedal and the car came to an abrupt and jerky halt. Nice job. I jumped out and walked jauntily up to my lawyer, who offered me a weak handshake and an even weaker smile. I acted as if everything was completely normal, and reasoned, ‘Well, if I get into any trouble on the way back it’s cool, I have my lawyer with me.’ He got in the car, and as I barged into the traffic and zigzagged down the road I kept looking at him and was chatting away like we were ambling through the countryside. I screeched around corners without slowing down and sped up at every traffic light, and his eyes went from me to the road and back again in rapid movements. We came to a roundabout and I lurched into it enthusiastically, letting out an involuntary ‘Wo-agh!’ and then went around again as I’d missed the turn-off. All the while he was clutching on to the door handle, the look on his face turning to dread with the realisation that dying at the hands of a deranged rock star might be his karma for wearing those sneakers with that suit. We eventually got back to mine, and I fell asleep in the chair as soon as we started the meeting. When I woke up I found out that he’d insisted that I stay asleep and really didn’t mind taking a taxi back to the station.

  With the album finished, I looked for something to do. The record was in limbo because of the dispute with Rough Trade, and there was no imminent release schedule to work towards. Morrissey and I took advantage of the time by making pilgrimages to record shops to track down rare sixties and seventies singles, and we made a pact to find any record that we either once owned or once loved. They were great days out, and we’d have an interesting time and always had a laugh. We both looked forward to these times away from the insanity; it was a relief to just be ourselves and have some fun. We went off around Brighton and took off to Morecambe one weekend. It gave us an opportunity to discuss what we were dreaming up for the band, and it kept our relationship exclusive.

  The Red Wedge was a political movement launched by Billy Bragg to help bring about public awareness and support for the Labour Party, which was under the new leadership of Neil Kinnock. Britain had continued to witness the disastrous effects of Thatcherism, and it was felt by the more idealistic of us that there needed to be some solidarity in opposition to the Conservative government. I was of the opinion that if you were an alternative musician, you were by definition anti-right wing, and though it wasn’t explicitly discussed between the bands at the time, there was an understanding that the government was our common enemy. The Smiths were asked to play on the Red Wedge tour, but turned it down as it didn’t seem like the right musical fit. I wanted to lend my support though, and I decided to play some of the shows by joining Billy Bragg onstage for a few songs.

  The first Red Wedge show was at the Manchester Apollo, and I turned up for a press conference with the Labour leader during the day. After waiting around for a while, the big moment came and Mr Kinnock swept in with a huge fuss and fanfare. It was the third time I’d been in the presence of a politician, the first being when The Smiths met Ken Livingstone at the Greater London Council concert and the second when we played a concert in Liverpool for Derek Hatton. I was to witness the showbiz nature of politics once again when Mr Kinnock made his entrance with a smile so wide you wondered how he’d managed to squeeze his face through the door. His confidence was incredible as he sucked every bit of attention from the room. If Liberace and Diana Ross had been fighting naked and on fire in front of him, he still wouldn’t have noticed. It was then that I decided that most politicians are ultimately fame hounds. They ma
y have the rhetoric and may even stand for the right things, but they’re more than a little ambitious and they’re definitely more than OK with being famous. They just weren’t cool enough to be musicians and not good enough to be footballers.

  I played with Billy at the Red Wedge show in Manchester, and then I brought Andy along to do another one with me in Birmingham. Andy and I got treated with pretty short shrift in Birmingham by some of the other bands and their crews, and we took off straight after we’d played. The next day the rest of The Smiths were all at my house. I was talking about what had happened, and then someone suggested that we all turn up at the Red Wedge show that night and play as a band. We got in the car, and Angie drove us to Newcastle. I walked into Newcastle City Hall with my band, went up to the stage manager and said, ‘We’re here to play.’ He looked at us and asked us where our roadies were, and where we would be setting up our equipment at such short notice. I told him that we didn’t have any equipment, not even any guitars. The word went around that The Smiths were playing, and Paul Weller offered to loan us his gear. When the time came for us to go on, Billy introduced us, and when he said ‘The Smiths’ there were a few seconds of silence and then an almighty eruption of hysteria. The audience were still in disbelief as we grabbed the borrowed guitars and roared into ‘Shakespeare’s Sister’. For the next twenty-five minutes we played a blistering set and debuted ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again’ as our next single. I tore into the intro, knowing that it was the first time anyone had heard it, and Morrissey was as good as I’d ever seen him. When we finished it was as if the place had been hit by a tornado. We’d walked into the venue as a sign of unity. We’d had three years of success on our own terms, and with The Queen Is Dead not even out yet I thought no one could touch us. That moment was the peak of The Smiths’ career.

  Having the injunction on The Queen Is Dead was confusing. I didn’t know what it meant, except that I had made an album and I was now just expected to sit around and wait for someone to do something. I was up one night when I decided to take matters into my own hands. I talked Phil into driving me from Manchester to Surrey to steal the master tapes. I had it in my mind that if the band weren’t allowed to have the album then no one else was. I would break into the studio and liberate The Queen Is Dead. We left Manchester at around one thirty in the morning and it started snowing. I wasn’t deterred but was buoyant with the spirit of indie justice. About fifty miles down the motorway the snow started falling more heavily and I sensed that Phil was having second thoughts. I turned up the car stereo and was determined to follow our quest as we forged ahead at a noble pace. Dawn was breaking when we finally got to the studio and by then I was tired out, but we’d made the journey and I didn’t want to have gone all that way for nothing. We parked the car down the road and I gestured to Phil to wait for me as I tiptoed through the snow towards the farmhouse and up to the kitchen door, which I hoped would be unlocked. I turned the handle and the door opened. I crept in, hoping that whatever band was staying there had been long tucked up for the night. Status Quo had been there a few weeks before and I didn’t fancy bumping into any of them. I made my way through the studio and into the store cupboard, where the tapes were kept, and as I found the shelf with our tapes the light went on behind me and I was confronted by Tim, who was one of the owners. He was startled to see me.

  ‘Hello Johnny, what are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Hi Tim,’ I replied chirpily, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. ‘I’ve come for our tapes.’

  ‘Your tapes?’ he said, confused.

  ‘Yeah … Rough Trade have injuncted them and I’ve come to get them,’ I stated matter-of-factly.

  Tim was even more confused and then he apologised and told me that he couldn’t give me the tapes. He didn’t want to get involved in a legal dispute, but the main reason I couldn’t have them was that the studio bill for the album hadn’t been paid. It sounded reasonable, and also typical, and neither of us even alluded to the fact that I was creeping around, trying to nick the album back. We drove back up to Manchester feeling like renegades, even if we had been thwarted by the man.

  The Smiths and Rough Trade came to an agreement whereby we would deliver them one more album. It wasn’t clear what would happen in the future, but for now we just got on with the release of The Queen Is Dead. It was totally fascinating to see the record sleeves coming together. Morrissey would show me the artwork he was working on, and I was as excited about them as the fans were. One night he called me to ask if I wanted to do a photo session the next day in Salford. It sounded like business as usual, so the next morning we gathered at my place, got in Angie’s car and drove to Salford Lads Club.

  It felt natural to have our photo taken on a street in Salford. The band’s aesthetic had drawn a lot from the area, whether it was a quote from the playwright Shelagh Delaney, or images of Albert Finney or the television character Elsie Tanner, so standing on the corner of the real Coronation Street was us in our world, and not that far away from Ardwick. It was a windy and typically grey rainy morning in the North West. The car pulled up and we got out and tried not to look like we were wet and freezing. The photographer snapped a few quick pictures of us in front of Salford Lads Club, and some kids came over on their bikes to investigate. We then walked across to an alley behind some houses to take a few more shots and the session was done in twenty minutes. The photos came back to us and looked good. There were some that were better than others, and the ones I didn’t like I marked as usual, such as one where I was cowering behind Morrissey because I was cold. When the record came out, the one I’d marked as bad was the picture that was used on the cover. I wondered why it had happened. It’s not a good sign when you’re not in control of your own image, especially when it’s your own band.

  With everything going right with the music, things were about to go wrong for Andy. He’d fallen more heavily into his drug habit, and there didn’t appear to be a way he could beat it. We played a few shows in Ireland, and because he didn’t want to be carrying drugs with him he’d gone to a doctor to get some medication to get through it. The pills were harder for him to deal with than the drugs, and they affected him badly. Eventually it became obvious to everyone that something had to be done. I talked to him, and he knew that the situation couldn’t go on the way it was. Things came to a head when he had a nightmare at one show. Half of the reason was a technical issue, and the other was that he wasn’t able to deal with it. Without knowing what else we could do, the rest of us had no choice but to tell him he had to leave the band. It was a moment I’d been dreading. It fell to me to be the one to tell him, and it was right that it came from me. Andy arrived at my house, and even though we both knew what was going on it didn’t make the situation any easier. We were crying and hugging each other, and when he finally left and I watched him walk out of the door with his bass, it was the worst thing I’d ever had to go through.

  We were all in a state of disbelief about Andy not being in the band, and we only had one idea for someone to replace him, which was Craig Gannon. I couldn’t imagine holding auditions with a lot of outsiders. I first heard about Craig when he was playing with Roddy Frame in Aztec Camera and then later when he played with Si Wolstencroft in The Colourfield. He came over to my place and I explained to him what was needed. He was nervous, but we played some guitar together and we got along fine. Craig wasn’t a bass player, but I thought he was the right person and I didn’t think he’d have too much of a problem handling bass duties. He already looked like one of the band, and it didn’t hurt that he was from our part of the world.

  I stayed in touch with Andy. He came over to my house, and it was surreal that he wasn’t in the band. I would fear the worst when he would disappear for days, and one night his girlfriend called to say he hadn’t come back. I didn’t think too much of it, and then she called again, and again. Angie and I became concerned, and in the morning the doorbell rang. I opened it and it was Andy. He’d been busted fo
r heroin. I didn’t know if it was the shock, but he was strangely calm. He’d always been mentally strong, but it was as if by being out of the band and then getting busted, all of his fears had finally come true and there was nothing else that could possibly affect him. Andy needed help, and there was no one around to offer us any advice. We were four very young men in an indie band from Manchester and no one knew what to do. It was a bad situation, so we all rallied round and did the only thing we could do: we got Andy back in the band, and that felt right to us all.

  With Andy back, it meant that Craig was effectively having the rug pulled out from under him. He’d just been offered a place in The Smiths and now it was being taken back. None of us had the heart to do it to him, so we turned the situation into an opportunity and got Craig to play second guitar. It was a novelty to have a new presence around, and it lightened the mood after all the recent heaviness. The insular nature of The Smiths was one of our strengths, but it did us good to have a distraction and a new dynamic. It was freeing for me musically too, as I could play different guitar parts live that I’d done on the records. Craig added a dimension to the sound. He could play well enough to fit in, and with Andy back we were sounding formidable.