Something has to be done about Morrissey, yes that former puff pastry leader of the band The Smiths.
The world cannot stand idly by and let continue after nearly 30 years, any more sour sonic silliness from the man.
He is the purveyor of the perfect swindle, fooling bedroom Bedouins into a charlatan’s belief that you can write one song and rerecord it for an entire career.
How does one get away with the same tired melody, the same jangly guitar and vocal delivery that scorched every track since the early 80’s?
These crimes perpetrated against the pasty, spotty adolescents have done irreparable damage to the social order.
It’s tantamount to musical pedophilia.
Conventional wisdom states that Morrissey was a precursor to the Beiber, Cyrus and Nicki Minaj travesty, soliciting permission to bore on a grand scale.
Not content to torture us through the art of the song, now he invites us to another piss poor performance of spoken word pretense, backed by third division jazz.
Listening to the protestation of a Brazilian goalkeeper would be more desirable than listening to Mozzer.
The man from Madchester has relocated to LA, that cultural void so in keeping with everything he apparently railed against as a guru for the depressed.
It would not surprise me in the least, if he has a suite at the Mirage Las Vegas, and is in talks with Siegfried for a comeback.
Misery loves company and both have a penchant for shirts open to the waist.
No comments:
Post a Comment