As a self-identified music snob, I’ve gone through more than my fair share of pretentious and slightly worrying musical favorites. From the Footloose soundtrack and a weird hero fixation on Michael Jackson to David Bowie and now Harry Styles, the list fluctuates slightly (but varies little as I usually make up my mind quite adamantly about who I feel deserves to be there). Standing firm next to my past musical loves, The Smiths remains one of my favorite artists of all time.
I’m a strong advocate for the healing power of music, and although I’ll admit The Smiths have their flaws, a major one being Morrissey’s right-wing political leanings and problematic behavior, I’ve rarely come across a combination as beautifully paired as Johnny Marr’s guitar riffs and Morrissey’s alternation between deep, mournful lyrics and clever, witty quips. The Smiths have maintained their status on my favorites list after almost four years, and I still remember where I was when I heard them for the first time. It was the moment when I heard the opening guitar of “This Charming Man” and felt that spark of love, the spark that says “this band, this band is special.” I knew instantly that they would be a favorite— a rare and previously unheard-of gift for a music lover as particular as me. To this day, whenever I’m wary of trying new music I recall this moment of pure connection from listener to artist. It helps me remember the importance of branching out and enjoying new things, something so hard for someone who’s attached to the idea of comfort and the safety of predictability.
Morrissey’s voice takes some getting used to, and could even be described -not inaccurately- as whiny, but his lyrics, when given time to properly listen, discuss personal and universal subjects such as loss and isolation, heartbreak, discontent with the state of the world, and many more. In these songs, he manages to touch each listener’s heart (accompanied by a killer baseline). Many of their songs pair Morrissey’s poetic lyrical sadness with the occasionally manic upbeat music and create not only relatable messages, but absolute bangers, such as “This Charming Man,” “Bigmouth Strikes Again,” “These Things Take Time,” and “You’ve Got Everything Now,” as well as their most famous song, “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.”
Morrissey has a deep melancholy to him that evokes one of the strongest representations of loneliness and depression I’ve ever heard. Songs like “I Know It’s Over” and “Asleep” capture the almost paralyzing nature of sadness and the utter numbness that comes with its crushing weight. Both of these songs are notably devastating in the way that only total relatability is, and it’s a sensation that The Smiths convey well. In songs like “Never Had No One Ever,” you can practically feel Morrissey’s deep despair in your chest like a weight, and some lyrics sound like he is bursting at the seams with emotion. I believe that music is made to evoke emotion, and, if done right, mastery of the task can summon a feeling of oneness with the artist, like your emotions become theirs.
If music feels like a friend, then artists feel like confidantes, people you share your soul with. Though they have long disbanded–with their last album, Rank, released in 1988– I feel that The Smiths’ music provides a message for today’s generation. In an age of ever-increasing mental health problems, it’s so easy to feel isolated with your feelings. There is something beautiful and comforting about the idea that your burden is not only yours to hold, and that although you feel alone, you are not alone in feeling. As Morrissey says in “I Know It’s Over”: “It’s so easy to laugh, it’s so easy to hate; it takes strength to be gentle and kind.” The Smiths believe that despite the darkness in the world and in yourself, there’s a light that never goes out. It’s called hope.