It has been a while.
I just haven’t had the time or inclination for blogging, twittering or anything else apart from the odd bit of Facebookery and not very much of that. Though I have been managing to keep the posts ticking over (well, at least sort of ticking over) on my Writing Views blog.
So a musical confession seems a good place to try and get the ball rolling again. You know, that situation where the grizzled old progster is forced into a bit of shame-faced back-pedalling nearly 30 years after the fact and the muted sound of bones a-rattle can be heard from the closet at the back of the room.
I detested The Smiths during their heyday. Really, really hated them. Too whingey, whiney and to my mind altogether far too damned miserable.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, that when stocking up on cheap CDs during an all too rare visit to Fopp in Glasgow that I should find myself with a copy of the sound of THE SMITHS in my grubbies. Of course it was subtly camouflaged by releases from Miles Davis, Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam, Iron Butterfly, Bruce Springsteen and Asia amongst others.
Then picture my sense of amazement when I found myself not only enjoying listening to that The Smiths collection but tapping a foot along to some of Mr. Johnny Marr’s really quite impressive string twanging riffery. Damned if these ‘80s indie rocksters ain’t a damned sight better than I always swore (literally) that they were.
Consider my expectations and recollections well and truly confounded.
Or perhaps not, the real reveal being that I’ve had a few of Morrissey’s solo albums in my possession for the last few years. And rather enjoy listening to those too.
As for the sound of THE SMITHS itself? Go get yourself a copy as it contains a thoroughly appendage-twitching 23 track retrospective and introduction to a much maligned (at least by yours truly) indie outfit who really were as influential and as good as everybody else said.