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Autobiography covers Morrissey's life from his birth until the present day.
Steven Patrick Morrissey was born in Manchester on May 22nd 1959. Singer-songwriter and co-founder of the Smiths (1982–1987), Morrissey has been a solo artist for twenty-six years, during which time he has had three number 1 albums in England in three different decades.
Achieving eleven Top 10 albums (plus nine with the Smiths), his songs have been recorded by David Bowie, Nancy Sinatra, Marianne Faithfull, Chrissie Hynde, Thelma Houston, My Chemical Romance and Christy Moore, amongst others.
An animal protectionist, in 2006 Morrissey was voted the second greatest living British icon by viewers of the BBC, losing out to Sir David Attenborough. In 2007 Morrissey was voted the greatest northern male, past or present, in a nationwide newspaper poll. In 2012, Morrissey was awarded the Keys to the City of Tel-Aviv.
It has been said “Most pop stars have to be dead before they reach the iconic status that Morrissey has reached in his lifetime.”
beloved Shirley Bassey, Timi Yuro’s voice rattles the bannisters with little effort. I scramble from cheap record player to cheap record player. It is considered odd that a boy so young should care so much. At Norwood Road, Dorothy and Liam own a fancy stereo-cum-cocktail cabinet, misused, I thought, by the rack of James Last LPs. Here and there my eyes and ears are caught only by the solo singers; town-crying to all people at all times, television troubadours minus jingle-jangled nodding
works well – charting at number 7, and holding on for forty-six weeks, tipping the platinum sales point that The Smiths had missed. Our touring unit is constant and strong, blotted only by clangers from Mike who, in a busy dressing room after a Manchester show blurts out (loudly) how his family do not like me. ‘They think you’re just trying to be Jim Morrison ...’ he rasps, and as everyone in the room turns away in embarrassment I sit in resolute stillness. Generally though, the Smiths as a
from behind the iron curtain. ‘No. Everyone just looks confused.’ At the Shoreline Amphitheater in San Francisco so many people clamber onto the stage that I am immediately swallowed up in the rotating mass. I crawl offstage on my knees as if out of a rugby scrum, the night lost to sheer lunacy of stage-divers coming from every conceivable angle. The audience is suddenly a giant mass of piled-up flesh with death at their elbows. The house lights come on, go off, come on, go off, pitch
out of the proofs (this is, after all, 1066), and so Gary remains on the sleeve and I feel slightly silly. Art must wait. In the Sun newspaper in England a headline rings out, $5,700 FOR GIRL FAN SCARRED BY MORRISSEY, and I am utterly perplexed. The writer is Piers Morgan, who details how a tambourine ‘thrown into the crowd by Morrissey’ at a show in Texas ripped into the face of 21-year-old Shirley, who then ‘failed to receive a personal apology from the singer’. The singer in question, I
enough to be a nonentity. What he is best at is confusion. You can spin as many theories as you like, but the ardent zest to finally topple and silence an outspoken pop artist took its place firmly and unashamedly as this trial began. Like a well-fed Roman emperor, Andy Rourke took to the witness stand complaining of financial starvation. Too funny to be taken seriously, his evidence blew about in a thousand directions, his throat sounding tighter and tighter, each sentence abandoned halfway