I can hardly believe that I’m returning to the subject of that strange racist guy across the Atlantic with the architecturally complicated hair and the reactionary opinions who’s poured into oddly ill-fitting clothes. But I suppose that it’s an endlessly interesting topic to me.
[Who’s Stroke Bloke talking about? Prolong the anticipation and visit the Apoplexy Newsletter.]
Yeah, the guy I’m talking about has a strangely symbiotic relationship with the Mexican community. But in a more traditional sense than the 45th President of the United States. Are you getting warmer…?
Steven Patrick Morrissey is back on my radar because… it seems he has a new album out and the promotional machine is grinding into first gear before he succumbs to a severe dose of [insert non-specific ailment here – SPM] and Kitty Empire has dutifully reviewed Mozzer’s gig at the Birmingham Genting Arena for The Observer.
Honestly, I’ve stopped paying much attention to the man’s movements. (Coulda fooled me – Ed.) A lacklustre gig or two in NYC, combined with his serial absenteeism, has consigned the experience of a sweaty, bouncy Your Arsenal-era gig at Glasgow’s fabulous Barrowland Ballroom to legendary-and-never-to-be-repeated status.
Heaven knows I’m miserable now the passing of time leaves empty lives – Goddamnit, stop it Moz! – twenty-six years has left us all twenty-six years and one massive hemorrhagic stroke older. Well, some of us, at least.
So I’m not going to throw shade at Moz for being ravaged by time. When Mrs Stroke Bloke implores Alexa to play some British 80s indie to get some relief from my masochistic Radio 4 tendencies and The Smiths come on, the pages fly off the calendar, and suddenly It takes guts to be gentle and kind doesn’t sound like the setting of an impossible task for our Mancunian hero.
Kitty Empire’s review seems to come from a similar place – she quotes affectionately from what, by now, will likely always be my favourite pop album, Vauxhall and I. She writes:
For a lapsed believer such as myself, Morrissey utterances like [those about Kevin Spacey] tend to induce full-body cringes, the kind that have punctuated the veteran fan’s experience over the years.
We’re not angry, just… disappointed.
A sense of chagrin percolates anew, she continues. I am a grownup. I realise many of my idols probably have feet of clay. And I suppose, finally, that’s where I am.
It seems like, every day now, some artist or creative type turns out to have indulged in jerky behaviour (at best). And their respective oeuvres are quickly repositioned on likelihood of future consumption scale. While I can’t imagine turning How Soon Is Now off the radio – if for no other reason than it reminds me of playing pool with Mrs Stroke Bloke in the Brooklyn Inn – I can’t imagine turning on a Louis CK comedy special on again.
Well, of course you don’t, Marc Maron. Maybe there’s a lead to follow there…
Hot off the press, Bradley Wiggins – seriously, I’m not using Sir for anyone ever, because I wouldn’t want to taint them with the assumption of fraud/child abuse/ethical line-crossing/other* – is doubling down on his time with Sir Dave Brailsford at cycling’s allegedly corrupt and unethical Team Sky, and Phil Space and his colleagues are wringing their hands trying to come up with hot takes on how they feel about it.
No, it’s not Hahaha. It’s all very wishy-washy. No doubt for reasons. Maybe they all hit the 600-word limit for a bearable bit of self-indulgence, and went off to see a fabulous spoken word performer at a brilliant spoken word night in a great bookshop.
Come back next week when I’ve figured it all out…?
