The Smiths – A Love Affair
Mike BellWhen The Smiths Found Me
Some bands arrive like a thunderclap—unexpected, overwhelming, impossible to ignore. The Smiths Love Affair hit me hard.
It was sometime in the early '80s. A crackling radio broadcast late one night played “Hand in Glove,” and something clicked. The voice was different: bruised but bold, trembling with defiance.
The guitar shimmered in a way I’d never heard before—bright, melodic, but entirely unpolished. That song felt like a lifeline. It sounded like the truth.
Within weeks, I was hooked. I bought the debut album, stumbled through every lyric, and tried to make sense of each track's emotional punch. I didn’t just enjoy The Smiths—I needed them. It was like they were saying all the things no one else dared to speak.
In a world where much of the music on the charts felt hollow, formulaic, or too polished to feel genuine, The Smiths were a revelation. They sounded human. Honest. Fragile, but not weak. Fierce in their own wounded way. The Smiths love affair went deep.
Morrissey Was It
Back then, Morrissey wasn’t just a singer. He was an idea. A figure who made it okay to be awkward, introverted, angry, romantic, lonely—or all of these things at once. He wrote about rejection, boredom, alienation, and despair, and did so with a brutal kind of poetry that never felt forced. His lyrics could make you laugh out loud and then, two lines later, shatter your heart.
He quoted Shelagh Delaney and Oscar Wilde, name-dropped obscure actors and 1960s pop culture references, and created a strange, yet sad world that I felt immediately at home in. I was drawn to his wit, his vulnerability, his refusal to play the part of the macho frontman. He made sincerity feel subversive.
And then there was Johnny Marr—a guitar player who wasn’t just brilliant but imaginative. He wasn’t trying to show off with solos. Instead, he painted moods and wrapped Morrissey’s lyrics in beautiful, melancholic textures that gave the band its pulse.
The Golden Years
From their 1984 debut to the stunning The Queen Is Dead in 1986, The Smiths released four studio albums that—at least to me—have never been matched. Every record felt like a statement. Every single one meant something. Even the B-sides had weight.
Songs like “This Charming Man,” “Still Ill,” “The Headmaster Ritual,” “I Know It’s Over”—they weren’t just tracks. They were pages from a diary I hadn't written but deeply understood.
Their albums weren’t just collections of songs. They were emotional journeys, steeped in longing, wit, sarcasm, and sadness. You felt seen by The Smiths. And that mattered.
Then, It All Fell Apart..
In 1987, they were gone.
The breakup felt sudden, like someone had pulled the plug on something truly vital. I’d always suspected it wouldn’t last—they burned too brightly for too short a time—but the end still hurt. There would be no more albums. No more Smiths.
I followed Morrissey into his solo career, as so many of us did. At first, it worked. Viva Hate was excellent, and tracks like “Everyday Is Like Sunday” showed that he still had it in him. He carried on the Smiths’ torch for a while—less collaborative, more dramatic, but still compelling.
However, as the years passed, something changed.
The Decline – Public Comments and Private Regret
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Morrissey drifted into darker, stranger territory. He had always been outspoken and courted controversy, but his statements started to sound different—less poetic, more provocative, less challenging, and more reactionary.
At first, I brushed it off. Maybe he was being misquoted. Maybe it was part of the act. But it kept happening. The comments about immigration, nationalism, “British identity,” about politicians and other artists… they started piling up. And they weren’t clever provocations anymore. They were cruel. Bitter. At times, offensive.
I didn’t want to believe it. How could the man who once sang “It takes strength to be gentle and kind” now be saying things that sounded the opposite of kind?
Then came the public endorsement of a far-right political party. The claims about multiculturalism “erasing” British culture. The increasingly toxic posts and videos. The dismissive tone about serious topics. Suddenly, the man who once gave me comfort seemed to be doing the opposite for others.
Trying to Reconcile the Two Morrisseys
I’ve spent years trying to reconcile the two versions of Morrissey—the one I loved, and the one I hear now.
It’s hard. He meant so much to me. I still know every word to “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out”. I still get goosebumps when I hear “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me.” These songs are part of who I am. But they’re haunted now—echoes of someone who no longer exists, or who was perhaps always more complicated than I wanted to admit.
The hardest part? He’s not just disappointing. He’s angry, bitter, and doubling down. It feels like he’s burning the bridge he once helped us all cross.
Legacy or Letdown
So where does that leave me?
I still love The Smiths. That will never change. What they created between 1982 and 1987 is, in my view, untouchable. The music is beautiful, the lyrics still resonate, and their influence is undeniable.
But Morrissey? That’s different.
I don’t follow his new work. I don’t buy the records. And while I won’t deny what he once gave me, I can’t support what he stands for now. It hurts to say that—but I think it’s important to be honest. The man who once gave refuge to outsiders now feels like someone who would shut the door on them.
There Was a Light…
My love affair with The Smiths was short but sweet—intense, meaningful, and ultimately heartbreaking. But I wouldn’t change it. Those records, lyrics, and late nights with headphones on and the world shut out shaped me. They gave me a sense of identity and comfort when I needed it most.
Even now, I can still feel the magic when I listen to those old records. It’s not quite the same, but it’s there. Somewhere in the echo of a jangling chord or the quiver of a lyric about loneliness or love, I find a piece of who I was and still am.
Morrissey may have let us down, but The Smiths—The Smiths—will always be something special.
Tribute Through Design – Mapping The Smiths
In tribute to that incredible burst of brilliance, I’ve created a visual art piece:
The Smiths Studio Albums Map – an intricately designed music map that charts every studio album and every member who contributed to them, turning their discography into a “tube map” of creativity, connection, and cultural history.
For fans who still hold a candle for the band, even in the face of disappointment, this is my way of saying: they mattered, they still matter, and their story is worth preserving.
