The misunderstanding may well have come about because the bandleader was in some form of denial when it came to the bass-playing role. “No one who was good who I liked as much [as Andy] ever came on my radar,” said Marr. “And I think that I may have always known that I was going to go to Andy because I actually didn’t try very hard to go for a bass player, and I was working very hard to get all the other pieces together.”
The call, when it came, was welcomed by Rourke. “Even if he didn’t want me in the band,” said the bassist, who knew about Marr’s new group through Wolstencroft, “friendship-wise I wanted to hear from him.” As it turned out, though, Marr was on a mission. The Smiths were going into the studio imminently, for EMI; did Rourke want to play on the session and take it from there? He did, and he was driven to the session, at an 8-track studio called Drone in the basement of a Chorlton Victorian house, by Si Wolstencroft, who, like Hibbert, had no immediate regrets about watching someone else take his place in the studio.
Rourke’s first impressions of Morrissey proved much the same as those of the long list of drummers. “He just shook my hand and then stood in the corner in his long overcoat and didn’t really say anything. I thought, ‘Hmmm, this is a bit strange, but let’s see how this goes.’ ” At least in Rourke’s case, he had been forewarned that Morrissey’s aloofness was largely due to shyness—and given the extent to which Marr had already talked up his new partner’s lyrical talents, the fact that EMI was invested in the band, and that he didn’t have anything else going on except the crushing manual work at the lumberyard, Rourke was determined to prove himself. Besides, Mike Joyce was there, as drummer, and although “there was still a little bit of the punk left in him,” not necessarily an advantage in Rourke’s eyes, his easygoing nature put the bassist at ease.
Marr played through the three prospective songs a couple of times for Rourke’s benefit, and then the tape rolled. The Smiths as we came to know them started playing together—and something special occurred, one of those rare moments in rock-music history when a great lineup comes together for the first time. “It was like it wasn’t me playing the bass, it was like I was possessed,” recalled Rourke. “The energy was just there and it was right. And we were all looking at each other, just going. ‘Fucking hell.’ ” Certainly, it was a positive reflection on Rourke’s talent that many of the bass parts he came up with that day remained essentially unchanged throughout the Smiths’ career. And where that proved not to be the case, where he and Marr engaged in some slapping bass and slashing guitars during a lengthy version of “Miserable Lie,” well, that was a fun throwback to Freak Party, the thrill of two old mates playing together after so long. Similarly, the session provided an opportunity to try out the addition of brass—as was all the rage at the time—on “Handsome Devil,” a doubled-up saxophone part opening the song with Stax-like embellishments. And even if the hired hand, Andy Gill, played a little too enthusiastically across the rest of the song, and despite the fact that his exuberance ultimately sounded incongruous, well, there was no harm in trying. To the same end, “What Difference Does It Make?” was emboldened with Marr’s backing “oohs” and an odd outburst of applause in the middle of the song; there was a general sense of reaching in this recording session, of flexing musical muscles and instigating new ideas. If there was an evident overall weakness, it was Morrissey’s vocals; they were still tentative, unassertive, pitched low in velocity and quiet in the mix. It might well have been for this reason that, after the tape was dispatched to London, EMI’s Stanley-Clarke listened and, failing to hear “What Difference Does It Make?” as the hit single it would turn out to be, or the other two songs as classics in their own right, told Tony O’Connor to keep an eye on the Smiths and let him know when they would be playing in London. It might also have been because that’s just how the major labels worked at the time: Next.4
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Each of us had the potential to feel invincible. But we needed the other’s backup, belief, and support.
—Johnny Marr, March 2011
So stay on my arm, you little charmer.
—Morrissey, “Hand in Glove”
Joe Moss and Johnny Marr had been growing closer since the guitarist had put the Smiths together; it was evident already that the older man was set to be the band’s manager. Not so much to facilitate that role as to get Marr away from another employer, enjoy the teenager’s company on a daily basis, and, in his own words, “so he could run his band and still get paid,” Moss had opened a third Crazy Face store in the Portland Street basement and put Marr in charge of it. Now he provided a floor at Portland Street for the group to rehearse in and bought a PA for them to play through. More or less every weekday evening, at five p.m., Johnny Marr would shut up shop in the basement, ascend the work elevator to the fourth floor, and open up the gates for the arrival of the other three. Then they would rehearse through the evening, closing up only when it was time to get the last bus or train back to Stretford, Sale, Chorlton, and Bowdon in the late-night cold and damp of their Manchester midwinter. The desire to push forward was self-evident. At the same time, they were careful not to get ahead of themselves; the debut gig having gained the band serious attention, Joe Moss insisted they hold off on another show until the new lineup was properly rehearsed and capable of a full set.
Moss’s role as Marr’s mentor and father figure took on even greater gravity when he invited Marr to move out of Shelley Rohde’s house and into his own family home in Heaton Chapel. The official reasoning was to get Marr into work on time at Crazy Face in the mornings, but the net result was that the pair grew closer still, frequently commuting together, and discussing music, pop culture, and the future of the Smiths at pretty much all times when not otherwise engaged. If Morrissey had any reservations about the close bond between his musical partner and his manager, he did not express them.
In the meantime, Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce needed to acclimate themselves to the band in general and their lead singer in particular. It was not an easy process. “I had a hundred percent faith in the music,” said Rourke of his early impressions, “but I had some doubts with Morrissey. I liked the lyrics. They were provocative, and going against the stream of what was going on at that time. I just knew that it was different.” Given that his listening pleasures these last couple of years had been in the lyrically uncomplicated if musically sophisticated world of jazz funk, it’s understandable that he should recall his first six months as a “strange” time.
Intrigued by his front man, Rourke desired “to scratch the surface and go a little deeper,” but found that “ultimately that’s impossible, because Morrissey won’t let you through the surface; he only lets you see what he wants you to see.” The pair would share the bus home from rehearsals in near silence. “You started counting the lampposts,” Rourke recalled. “This is a guy who lived in his bedroom. He was a recluse. And he’s difficult to communicate with. To have a serious conversation of his choice—or my choice—was impossible. We had nothing in common.” The fact that there was a five-year age gap between the oldest and youngest members of the band surely played a part in this failure to connect, but Rourke noticed something else in Morrissey that he was never able to shake off: “He always had a little sense of superiority.”
Rourke had often served as the funny man in his relationship with Johnny Marr; his tendency to say the hilarious thing at the wrong time had earned them many a whipping at school. Recognizing Morrissey’s love of dry wit, Rourke played into and up to it as a way to connect, and “I ended up being the clown. It was the only level I could meet him on.” In doing so, he realized that he was doing himself a long-term disservice. But if he suspected that Morrissey wasn’t looking upon him as an equal, at least he could rely on his oldest friend to do so.
“I would elevate him, and he would ground me,” said Marr of Rourke. “He could switch my intensity down. He was the one person who could do that. I don’t think the other two were
even aware of that importance, of that core chemistry in the band. So even aside from the fact that he’s one of the most unique bass players of all time, his personality was really important to the band.”
At the same time, it was never Marr’s intention to ignore the reasons he had walked away from his friendship with Rourke a year earlier. He had invited the bass player into the Smiths, he said, “with the condition that he doesn’t bring the drug habit back in.” Rourke, naturally, promised accordingly. But it proved easier said than done. “Every time Johnny would see that look in my eyes, he’d sigh and say, ‘Fucking hell, are you still taking the smack?’ ” admitted Rourke. Faced with the prospect of sacking his friend already, right at the point that they finally had something going for themselves musically, Marr took a different stance; he confided in Joe Moss—who took immediate action, calling the bass player to say that he understood Rourke was having some “problems,” and suggesting that he remove himself from the temptation. “He took me into his house,” recalled Rourke. “He had a basement apartment; he put me in there for two weeks to try and get me off the smack. It worked for a while.” And though it would not prove permanently effective, “I’ll never forget his generosity in doing that, and his concern,” said Rourke, who added, “I loved Joe. Joe was a fucking saint. He was never in it for the money. He was like our dad. He was looking out for us.”
Rourke made his live debut at Manhattan Sound on January 25, 1983, followed ten days later by the Smiths’ third gig, at the Haçienda, a show that was professionally filmed and recorded and therefore remains a permanent testimony to the Smiths’ near-enough immaculate conception as a gigging four-piece. At both venues, the Smiths opened up for other Manchester acts as part of a local-band double bill, though there was little doubt that the Haçienda show, on a Friday night, alongside Factory’s new signing 52nd Street—a primarily black Manchester act who were mixing Britain’s jazz-funk sounds with those of the New York electro scene, essentially combining Rourke’s dominant taste with one of Johnny Marr’s—was the more prestigious of the two.
But that was not to belittle Manhattan Sound, a gay club on Spring Gardens that Marr and Moss, in particular, had often frequented for happy hour before the Smiths got going, and which had turned itself over to local promoter Rick Stonell for fortnightly local showcases. The Smiths played on the dance floor, nose-to-nose with the crowd, while “porn” films were broadcast in a side room. “We were all shitting ourselves,” said Rourke of the close contact. “But with that comes adrenaline and with that comes concentration and with that comes an amazing gig.” The audience included not only their mates on the Manchester scene, but many of that scene’s leading lights, including Richard Boon and Tony Wilson. The Factory boss later claimed, “I was blown away, it was fantastic,” and that Morrissey, in particular, “was amazing.”
Of that, there seemed to be little dispute. If Morrissey had still been partly ensconced in his shell at the Ritz, he left it behind at Manhattan Sound—for good. Morrissey the performer emerged in his place—and, it could be argued from the convenient perspective of history, pop music was destined never to be the same. As far as Marr was concerned, “he was pretty much the finished article at the second show.” And when Morrissey concluded the set by throwing confetti in the air—something he’d neglected to mention to his band members—they understood, perhaps for the first time, the power of the personality in front of them. A “masterstroke,” said Joyce; a “magician,” thought Rourke.
The confetti did not make a return at the Haçienda. Instead, Morrissey came onstage clutching a bouquet of flowers, which he then slammed on the stage floor at the conclusion of the opening song, “These Things Take Time.” Neither did James Maker return to dance alongside Morrissey. What had seemed like so much good-natured bonhomie over four songs at the Ritz had become something of an encumbrance over the longer set at Manhattan Sound, especially now that Morrissey appeared to have found his performing persona. It was Moss who insisted on the break, and that was fine by Maker, who had never intended anything more than to help out and have fun with one of his best friends, and who happily watched the subsequent Haçienda show from the audience. He retained a closer friendship with Morrissey than most, and would return to share the stage with the Smiths on tour three years later, fronting his own band, Raymonde.
Observing the footage of the Smiths at the Haçienda that February Friday night, it’s worth noting that the concept of group image, which was important to Morrissey but more so to Marr, is evident in the band’s perfectly coiffured quiffs (courtesy of Andrew Berry), but then pretty much gives up and gives way to the four individual personalities beneath. Marr has a white polo-neck underneath a jacket that’s turned up at the collar, like an errant school pupil of the era (or James Dean); his rockabilly rebel revival look is given additional credence by the manner in which he rolls around his side of the stage with his Gretsch guitar, making enough noise for two, occasionally mouthing the lyrics, sometimes checking one of his friends out front, grinning throughout at the wonderful sensation of being onstage and feeling it happening, in a band of his own creation. Rourke has the sort of colorful sweater preferred by the jazz-funk crowd, and accordingly—and studiously—plays a borrowed Guild bass at a height that Level 42’s Mark King would have approved of. Joyce, the only member with substantial gigging experience, performs in a workmanlike white T-shirt, which only serves to emphasize the drummer’s naturally muscular physique and his spiky hair, a holdover from his punk days.
Of the four, only Morrissey seems to be close to the finished deal, a teasingly unbuttoned collarless work shirt exposing a white undershirt and love beads—an odd contradiction to his tightly belted 1950s office trousers. (Those would soon be replaced at Smiths shows by blue jeans.) Throughout the eight-song set he keeps the microphone in one hand, the other frequently clutching maracas or tambourine, and he stalks the stage and occasionally crouches on it, much as he had to Joyce and Rourke’s consternation in the rehearsal and recording studios—except that at the Haçienda his movements are less those of a caged animal than one claiming its territory. And though his voice lacks for range, his confidence in it is apparent in its volume, the way he pronounces the lyrics meticulously, the occasional yelp for effect, and how for the last song, “Miserable Lie,” he breaks into the falsetto that would become his second vocal skin—and holds it through the finale for several riveting minutes.
Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the Haçienda show is the set itself: of the eight songs, two would become hit singles, and those that did not join them on a bestselling debut LP would become equally celebrated as B-sides, one of them actually recorded from the mixing desk at that show. This simply does not happen in popular music; even those groups fortunate enough to formulate an immediately permanent and ultimately successful lineup are meant to write a set of songs, take them onstage, discard some, write a few more, rehearse them, try them out in public, discard a few more, and only gradually reach the point of no return. And yet, despite the fact that the Smiths had reason to be enthusiastic about all eight self-composed songs played at these first proper shows, one was already creating greater excitement than the others. The initial crop of Morrissey-Marr material, after all, was somewhat dark—a reflection, no doubt, of Morrissey’s interminable bedroom years and Marr’s own musical affinity with the moodier side of the post-punk period. There were a couple of exceptions—“Handsome Devil” being the most obvious—but for the most part, the titles gave away the content: “Miserable Lie” and “What Do You See in Him?” on the face of it, appeared no more optimistic than “Suffer Little Children.”
And then one Sunday evening in January 1983, Johnny was visiting his family in Wythenshawe with Angie when he picked up an acoustic guitar and found himself hammering out a riff. “It was pure inspiration. I didn’t have a concept before we played it. I didn’t feel that ‘we need one that goes like this.’ I wasn’t trying to make a chord change faster or slower or musing on i
t. I just had that exuberant riff that we had to turn into a song straightaway.” There was only one thing to do: drive to Stretford and trust that Morrissey would be home and happy to hear it. But as Brown’s Beetle made its way up the A56 and Marr kept hammering out the chord structure, worried that he might forget it if he put it aside for more than five minutes, Angie implored him to “make it more like Iggy!” Marr obliged—and so did Morrissey, by opening the door (“without an appointment!” as Marr later joked to Simon Goddard) and providing a cassette recorder. After Marr and Brown left, Morrissey wrote the lyrics to “Hand in Glove” that same night.
His mission: to match the music with something “searingly poetic and jubilant.” As was becoming customary, he stole from his idols in the process: the closing line, “I’ll probably never see you again,” was a direct lift from Shelagh Delaney’s plays, while a Leonard Cohen lyric for Buffy Sainte-Marie, “Everything depends how near you sleep to me,” was changed by only a word. But as was to prove equally common, such acts of artistic license couldn’t detract from the emotional effect of the assembled couplets when placed in Morrissey’s order and alongside Marr’s guitar. Most noticeably, the words in the opening verse “No it’s not like any other love, this one’s different because it’s us” were at once both eminently personal and equally universal. Any first-time listener, newly in love, could latch onto the line and sing it to his or her romantic partner, yet it could apply just as well to Morrissey and Marr’s platonic relationship. The guitarist never asked; what mattered most to him was that “the way [Morrissey] sang it and the words he sang had exactly the same spirit” as the riff Marr had taken to Stretford a few days earlier. As a result, he said, “that song set us free. It felt like that the first time we ever played it. It felt like we were free.”
A Light That Never Goes Out: The Enduring Saga of the Smiths Page 23