January 24, 2009

To my best friends and, sometimes, inappropriately at drunken dinner parties, I will declare that as a high-school boy I masturbated while looking at a poster of Morrissey above my bed. TMI, Mom? Lo siento.

I was too young to have experienced The Smiths. I became aware of him around Viva Hate. And the affair lasted years and albums and then he lost me a bit. I met live boys. They occupied my thoughts.

He returned about 5 years ago. I saw him sing his life at the Greek Theater, with Eric Lee by my side, and he looked older. Fatter. In a cardigan. No longer shirtless, exposed, draped in the Union Jack. But still a poetic genius. The lyricist who knew my inner turmoil. And even if my life was never as bad as his and my love life never as sad as his I still listened. He made my sorrows seem junior varsity. I could never hurt like him.

And now he's made a 3rd consecutive solid record, Years of Refusal. And I am again transported back, some 18 years, fantasizing, enraptured, mesmerized, inspired, His stage show last year in NYC was the stuff legends are made. He rocked hard. Waxed lyrically. And his new album continues that brilliance. His voice has never been clearer and his outlook has never been drearier. "In the absence of human touch. I have decided I am throwing my arms around Paris because only stone and steal accept my love," he declares. And I know the feeling. San Francisco, 2000.

Morrissey is on tour again. And I feel like a teenager once more.