That Marr and Rourke were pointed toward Edwards may not have been mere coincidence. Richard Boon was certain that he told Morrissey and Marr when they came to see him with their tape, that “if you want to do an indie thing, maybe you should talk to Simon Edwards at Rough Trade.” For his part, Edwards generally desired an introduction. “They must have said something,” he recalled. “They probably said ‘Richard Boon said we should come down.’ I knew Richard and liked Richard.” Indeed, from years of front-line involvement, Edwards had developed an instinct as to what would and would not sell in the independent marketplace, and it had been his own rapidly reducing orders for New Hormones product that had sounded the death knell for Boon’s company. When Edwards played “Hand in Glove” through the office’s Tannoy speakers, however, he heard something he felt would sell. “I thought it was excellent,” he recalled. “The mouth organ sounded fresh and interesting. I said, ‘OK, I’m interested in distributing this if you like.’ ”
Distribution was Plan B: the Portland Street label. And if that’s as far as the meeting had gone, the plan would have been immediately put into operation: Joe Moss confirmed, “I was really looking forward to doing our own label and putting it out ourselves if we hadn’t have gotten [Rough Trade] interested.” But Marr was determined to push for Plan A: he asked to see Geoff Travis, with a view to putting it out on Rough Trade itself. And Edwards obliged. “This was something that didn’t sound like ninety-five percent of the bands” that were coming through his door at that time, he recalled. “When they said they wanted Geoff to hear it, I thought it was fair and true for him to listen to it. It was good enough as far as I was concerned.”
Whether Edwards, as he recalled it, took Marr and Rourke directly to Travis or just sent them back and told them to try their luck (which was how Marr recollected the event), the guitarist seized his opportunity once it finally arrived with both hands. Literally. “I did actually grab Geoff and say, ‘You won’t have heard anything like this before, we’d like for this to come out as a Rough Trade Records track’—and my knees were knocking—‘but if not, we’re going to put it out on our own label and put it out through Rough Trade.’ So he had two options. I didn’t give him the option of not doing it at all.” Travis, like Edwards before him, instantly recognized something about Marr—“the look of him; he was an interesting character”—that caused him to pay attention. He took the cassette and promised to listen to it over the weekend, and Marr and Rourke went off to stay (up) at Matt Johnson’s flat for the night.
When he listened to “Hand in Glove” as promised, Travis reacted much as had Edwards. “I was just really intrigued by it. I loved the sound of it, I loved the guitar playing, I loved the springy beat.” And although he “couldn’t tell what the song was really about,” he grasped that “the lyrics were really interesting.” But like Simon Edwards, what really caught him was that it sounded of itself. “It wasn’t obviously derivative of so many of the other demos that you would hear those days.… I just loved it. And I just felt a little bit of a thrill.”1
Travis’s reaction to “Hand in Glove” revealed why he was known for having some of the finest ears in the business: he could hear, in a murky mix on a cassette tape, the essence of brilliance. His business reaction then confirmed why so many of the most important singles in history had been released on independent labels to begin with. He didn’t take the tape into an A&R meeting, where it could be discussed, dissected, and perhaps dismissed; he didn’t seek second opinions (although he had that of Edwards already, which counted for plenty). He didn’t second-guess the quality of the recording, as he had, fatally, with “The ‘Sweetest Girl,’ ” and he didn’t demand to see the band play live first, as had EMI. Instead, he did precisely what independent labels were meant to do, what they were famous for doing, what they had been doing to undermine the majors since the birth of the record industry.
On Monday morning, while Marr and Rourke were still recovering from their long weekend down South, Travis called the phone number on the cassette inlay and spoke to Joe Moss. He told the presumptive manager that he would like to put out “Hand in Glove” on Rough Trade, and as soon as possible. Given that Marr had requested as much, he correctly assumed that he wouldn’t need to make any sales pitch of his own.
The Smiths played their first London gig on Wednesday, March 23. The booking at the Rock Garden, a basement club in Covent Garden popular with tourists, may have been made directly by Joe Moss; it was a comparatively easy venue to secure. It might also have been handled by All Trade Booking, the castoff Rough Trade booking agency still operating out of Blenheim Crescent. All Trade was the major player in the independent sector; its roster included just about every act that was on Rough Trade, and many of those that weren’t, including the Birthday Party, Orange Juice, and the Sisters of Mercy. But having just been abruptly thrust onto their own financial feet, the agency’s key figures, Mike Hinc and Nick Hobbs, were actively looking for their own Echo & the Bunnymen—“a credible live act that could tour without that much support from a record company,” as Hinc put it.
It was a given that Travis would recommend the Smiths and All Trade Booking to each other—as he did on the group’s first visit to London, when they came down to master “Hand in Glove” just days after Travis first heard the recording. But both Hinc and Hobbs claimed to have already been aware of the band. Hinc, the primary British venue booker, was at some point sent a tape of the Haçienda desk mix by Mike Pickering, whom he knew well enough to consider a friend, and therefore took the recommendation seriously. To confirm his own enthusiasm (he had been raised on Chicago blues and was a big fan of guitar bands), “I played it to Andrew Eldritch [singer with the Sisters of Mercy], who was sleeping on my floor, and Roddy Frame, who lived round the corner from me. And they both liked it.” Figuring that these were two of the most diverse people on the scene, he sensed that the Smiths were an immediate winner.
In the meantime, Hobbs, ATB’s European venue booker, had received an early demo tape from Ollie May, Johnny Marr’s erstwhile roommate who was now a Smiths “roadie” alongside Phil Powell, and a mutual acquaintance through May’s brother Marcus, a club promoter in Zurich. “I liked it enough to give it to Geoff Travis,” recalled Hobbs. “Geoff obviously got lots of demos from lots of sources; we did too. And I normally wouldn’t pass anything on to Geoff unless I thought it was appropriate for Rough Trade and that it was something that Geoff was going to like. It was a tip from Ollie and I followed up on it.”
That being the case, Travis had not found time to listen to it. “The first I ever heard of the Smiths was when Johnny and Andy came into the warehouse,” he said, confirming Marr’s insistence that “Geoff Travis had no concept of who we were or might be when I went down there.” But later in 1983, the group did give an interview in which Morrissey explained about the group’s path to Rough Trade: “Some mysterious third party just sent a tape to Rough Trade and they got very excited, asked to see us, and we went to see them and we just embraced each other.”
Furthering the sense that this was a band with a buzz, on the very day the Smiths played the Rock Garden, the New Musical Express published a glowing review of their Haçienda show. Conveniently including three comparisons to Howard Devoto’s Magazine (much to Morrissey’s delight, no doubt), and one apiece to former Postcard acts Josef K and the Fire Engines (similarly good news to Marr), the review had the staunch feel of being written by a friend. This was certainly the case with the review of the Manhattan Sound show that had just been published in Manchester’s City Fun.2 In that latter, unsigned instance, Cath Carroll played up her personal acquaintanceship with Morrissey: she made comparisons to his heroes Iggy and the Dolls, called him “a congenital show-off with a dreamily affected baritone,” and after praising his confetti finale, concluded that “if the boy’s head is anything to go by, the Smiths are going to be B-I-G.” Factor in the interview that had just come out in i-D—a surprisingly staid one that indicated the gro
up’s inexperience with the process—and it was evident that the Smiths were, by any measure, especially for a band that had only played four shows, a serious new noise. To that extent, Geoff Travis’s quick response to “Hand in Glove” was additionally fortuitous, as from here on in, several of London’s A&R talent scouts would take to frequenting the band’s shows. The assumption existed, as well it might, that any act on Rough Trade was free for the major-label picking.
That would no longer prove to be the case. What Geoff Travis saw at the Rock Garden he could only compare to that which he had not seen: the likes of the Stones or the Dolls or the Stooges in their early days. His sense of astonishment acknowledged the increasingly familiar truth about the Smiths: that they had arrived “fully formed.” As for Morrissey in particular, what Travis called the “transformation” between the “intense, very serious” individual he had met on their business trip to London and “the man that came out” onstage was nothing short of “extraordinary.” Mike Hinc thought them “equally fantastic,” taken by the “perfect balance” onstage. But he was especially intrigued by his friend Travis’s reaction. “I could see from the smirk on Geoff’s face that they blew him away. He was like the cat that got the cream.” With confirmation of their excellence from a handful of other Rough Trade staff among the very small crowd in attendance (a crowd bolstered slightly by some Manchester friends, including Andrew Berry), Travis returned to Joe Moss with a renewed proposition: he wanted to sign the Smiths to a long-term contract. It was the first time Rough Trade had ever offered one.
(Photo Insert i1.1)
1. Harper Street, Morrissey family home
2. Queen’s Square, Morrissey family home
3. 384 Kings Road, Morrissey family home
4. St. Mary’s RC Secondary Modern
5. 35 Mayfield Road, Morrissey/Ludus flat
6. Hayfield Street, Marr family home
7. Brierley Avenue, Marr family home
8. Churchstoke Walk, Marr family home
9. Sacred Heart RC Primary School
10. St. Augustine’s RC Grammar School
11. Hawthorn Lane, Rourke family home
12. Fallowfield, Joyce family home area
13. Chapel Walks: X-Clothes & Crazy Face
14. 70 Portland Street: Crazy Face/Smiths HQ
15. Decibelle Studios
16. Spirit Studios
17. Bowdon, Shelley Rohde/Marr home
18. Palatine Road: Factory Records, Berry/Marr part-time home
19. Moss family home, Marr/Rourke part-time home
20. Marple Bridge, Marr/Berry home
21. Drone Studios
22. The Ritz
23. Manhattan Sound
24. The Haçienda
25. Rafters
26. Marlborough Road, Marr adult home
27. Hale Barns, Morrissey family home
28. Springfield Road, Joyce adult home
29. Free Trade Hall
30. Palace Theatre
31. G-Mex Centre
32. University of Salford
33. Coronation Street/Salford Lads Club
Queen’s Square, Hulme, the Morrissey family home, seen in 1964 (above), and Brierley Avenue, Ardwick, the Maher family home, seen in 1969. (Photo Insert i1.2)
Both were torn down for “slum clearance.” Kings Road, Stretford, where Steven Morrissey spent the rest of his childhood and early adulthood.
“Quite bland, quite uneventful,” said Morrissey. “There’s not really a great deal to say about Kings Road.” (Photo Insert i1.3)
Churchstoke Walk, Wythenshawe, where Johnny Marr spent the rest of his childhood until the age of sixteen. “The estate was working class, but the people living in Wythenshawe around our estate were to me incredibly bohemian.”
The Smiths, featuring James Maker as additional front man, at Manhattan Sound, January 25, 1983. “We were all shitting ourselves,” said Andy Rourke, who made his debut at this show. “But with that comes adrenaline and with that comes concentration and with that comes an amazing gig.” (Photo Insert i1.4)
Morrissey and Johnny Marr. Photographs taken in London, December 20, 1983. “I was just there, dying, and he rescued me,” said Morrissey of meeting Marr. “It’s something I’ll never regret, that relationship,” said Marr of himself and Morrissey. (Photo Insert i1.5)
The Smiths at Manchester Central Railway Station, May 1983. Johnny Marr: “You can see the relationship in those photographs, not just because we’re hugging each other, but because we’re so happy to be next to each other.” In 1986, the station was converted into the G-Mex Centre, and the band performed there. (Photo Insert i1.6)
Andy Rourke (“the bass guitar”) and Mike Joyce (“the drums”). In a group that continually pitched itself as a band, a gang, a group of “lads” and “mates,” some members turned out to be more equal than others. (Photo Insert i1.7)
“Without doubt we are incurable Sandie Shaw fans,” wrote Morrissey and Marr to Shaw in 1983. By March 1984, she was recording their songs and joining them onstage at the Hammersmith Palais. (Photo Insert i1.8)
Andy Rourke, Morrissey, Johnny Marr, Mike Joyce: The Smiths in concert, early 1984. (Photo Insert i1.9)
The Smiths in 1984, the year they had two top ten British albums. (Photo Insert i1.10)
Meat Is Murder, a bold album title for a chart act, inspired many listeners to vegetarianism. “As long as human beings are so violent towards animals there will be war,” Morrissey elaborated of the cover art. (Photo Insert i1.11)
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
I live a saintly life. He lives a devilish life. And the combination is wonderful. Perfect.
—Morrissey on Marr, New Musical Express, 1983
You can see that Morrissey means it and lives it. You can see that Johnny means it and lives it. You can’t fake it. People can see that that individual means it.
—Johnny Marr, March 2011
The same month that “Hand in Glove” was released, May 1983, the Clash played their last-ever show with their founding partners of Strummer and Jones at a massive American rock festival that signified their international success. Six months earlier, the only other superstar survivors from the British punk wars, the Jam, had announced their breakup at the peak of their own career, their front man Paul Weller collapsing under the weight of the “spokesman-for-a-generation” mantle and deciding that, at the age of just twenty-three, he needed to break loose and relieve himself of the pressure. (He went on to form the Style Council.) The Jam left behind six studio albums in six years, four number-one singles, and a reputation as Britain’s most fashion-conscious and most socially conscious band. The Jam also left behind a void—not so much among those who had been with them from near enough the beginning but among younger teenagers who had only come on board during the band’s later, chart-topping years and had barely gotten to experience and enjoy them before they called it a day.
The Smiths had started out with their image rooted very much in Clash territory, as hard-times rockabilly rebels with flat-top haircuts, Gretsch guitars, turned-up blue denim jeans, and cut-off shirts. Over the course of 1983, that look (and to a large extent the sound, too) changed considerably, to a very modern(ist) update of 1960s flower-power children, sporting love beads, polo necks, custom-made black denim jeans (courtesy of Crazy Face) and, in Marr’s case, a mop-top haircut and a switch to the Rickenbacker 330, the guitar of choice for Paul Weller and, before him, George Harrison and Pete Townshend. The changes were entirely organic, but they served to make the Smiths that much more English, that much more modern, that much more appealing to an audience and an industry that was looking to fill the space left by the Jam—even if it had no idea it was looking for the Smiths. The fact that the Jam were so evidently influenced by the Who, and that the Smiths—Marr most evidently—were fans of the Rolling Stones, served as a subtle but important distinction: that while these two later bands’ roots were each unquestionably English, they were traveling down d
ifferent branches.
There were, to be fair, several existing candidates for the British rock crown at the time of the Smiths’ arrival on the scene. In February and March of 1983, in the wake of the Jam’s breakup, U2, Echo & the Bunnymen, Wah!, Big Country, and Orange Juice all enjoyed (their first) British top 10 singles; New Order soon followed suit. All these acts were very much children of punk and representatives of post-punk, and their shared moment of mainstream success suggested a sea change of sorts. And yet the first two of these groups were already fully established; they were not something that teenagers looking for a new band could fully claim as their own. In addition, U2 was from Ireland, and the epic, grandiose manner of their musical and social statements sat uncomfortably within the independent sector; it always seemed as if their ambitions lay on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Of the others, Wah! turned out to be a flash in the pan, and Orange Juice, like their former Postcard label-mates Aztec Camera, could not transform their coy charm into a live reputation. New Order, despite representing a victory for bloody-minded independence, had wholeheartedly embraced dance music, and live performances had never been considered their strong point to begin with. As for Big Country, led by a former member of original post-punks the Skids, they were just that bit older, and openly epic, in a Celtic manner that was clearly indebted to U2.
A Light That Never Goes Out: The Enduring Saga of the Smiths Page 25