Back in the '80s, Morrissey pronounced, "The ashes of pop music are all around us if we will but see them." He forgot to mention that he was the one holding the box of matches. Now that the '90s are history and along with them the phenomenon of "Brit pop," we can see that Morrissey was the ultimate incarnation of English pop -- which is the same thing as the end of English pop.
Morrissey's unrivaled knowledge of the pop canon, his unequaled imagination of what it might mean to be a pop star, and his single-minded, desperate, mad commitment to the pursuit of these things exhausted the form forever. Morrissey's mastery of Englishness was so self-conscious, so ironic, so devout, so evil, and finally so played out that English pop and even Englishness could never hope to recover from it. The unnatural, analyzing, stripping heat of Morrissey's love of Englishness, the grainy black-and-white '60s iconography of the Smiths' sleeves, the lyrical world of iron bridges, hum-drum towns, repression, frustration, and amorphous desire could only end up separating Englishness from anything solid and turning it into a free-floating signifier -- bought by Americans.
When the Smiths finally expired in 1987 after guitarist and collaborator Johnny Marr walked out of the group, Morrissey may well have risen again on the third day and succeeded in pursuing a successful -- if uneven -- solo career. But in hindsight, it looks as if the body of English pop remained lifeless in the tomb, hopelessly extinct, wrapped in back issues of the New Musical Express -- with a large rock blocking the entrance, rolled there by Morrissey himself.
The so-called "Brit pop" phenomenon of the '90s, which so excited some newspapers and a couple of hairdressers at the time, ultimately did not -- despite some interesting moments -- represent a resurrection of English pop, but was merely a galvanic motion induced by the application of large amounts of cash. Brit pop ended up being little more than commercial footnotes to the Smiths, a belated and somewhat hysterical attempt by the record industry to cash in on the legacy of the original "indie" four-boys-and-guitars band whose money-making potential was never fully realized in their lifetime.
It may be impossible for a generation raised on a diet of hype to comprehend, but the Smiths were never played on daytime radio. They never made it into the popular press, except to be denounced. And until their final record, they refused to make videos. In other words, by today's slaggy standards, they were a bunch of losers.
Yet the Smiths had a large and fanatical following, and are still revered today by many as the greatest pop group ever. Their 1996 album, The Queen is Dead, has been officially ensconced as the '80s album by the American and British rock press. By contrast, the media-P.R.-record-biz conglomerate known as Brit pop had the keys to the world handed to it on a platinum plate -- and yet it failed to inspire a single Kleenex's worth of the devotion the Smiths did.
The '90s Brit pop bands themselves seemed strangely deathly -- much more slavishly retro than the Smiths (denounced at the time for their nostalgia) had ever been. Blur were the Kinks for students and confused teenage girls who mistook Damon Albarn for someone sexy. Suede were David Bowie before he went all Let's Dance, with some Marc Bolan licks thrown in for good measure. Oasis were a Beatles tribute band for car thieves and New Labour Members of Parliament, and by only their third album they managed to become their own tribute band. This band of Anglo-Irish Manchester lads were seen as the Smiths minus the troublesome, effeminate, evil genius -- which is to say, Marr without Morrissey (according to the legend, Noel Gallagher decided to become a pop star after seeing Johnny Marr with the Smiths on Top of the Pops).
In effect, Morrissey had to become an unperson in order for the '90s to happen. Hence, in 1992 he was accused of thought crimes by the New Musical Express after appearing on stage with a Union Jack. Banner headlines accused him of "racism," and Morrissey left in a sulk for America. (Ironically, just a few years later, the Union Jack would become an official part of New Musical Express-sponsored Brit pop merchandise.)
Put any of the Brit pop "stars" alongside Morrissey, and you immediately see why he had to be exiled to Los Angeles: English pop stars have turned into mere celebrities. Even their fans don't pay any attention to what the leaders of Blur or Suede have to say, which is probably just as well. Pulp's Jarvis Cocker promised a great deal, but threw it away with an insatiable hunger for publicity and a general post-Different Class shabbiness. As the outpouring of grief after her death showed (in the British remake of Madonna's Evita), Princess Diana was the nearest thing to an English pop star the '90s produced. Which is, of course, the greatest indictment of that decade.
The last laugh really was Morrissey's. Not only did Brit pop fail to achieve the only thing which would have justified it -- to halt or even just tread on the toes of the advance of dance -- but it also failed miserably in its main, material ambition: America. Brit pop faltered in the U.S. and then promptly imploded in Britain, because America already had the genuine article in the form of Morrissey, thank you very much.
It is probably too much to expect that what's left of England will rehabilitate Morrissey. So long as he's still alive. After all, to invoke another Anglo-Irish dandy who had to be destroyed, society often forgives the criminal, but never the dreamer. And like Oscar Wilde (the first pop star), Morrissey (the last pop star), is both. So long as it doesn't plan to honor its extradition treaty with the U.K., America is likely to become the permanent home and resting place of the man who murdered pop. With his genius.
Mark Simpson is the author of It's a Queer World (Haworth). His psycho-bio Saint Morrissey will be published by Little, Brown (U.K.) in June. Website: www.marksimpson.com.
