Date: February 2, 1999 (release)
Release: Polygram #556074
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A heap of wrinkled laundry led me to discover Wes Anderson’s 1998 film, Rushmore, as well as its soundtrack. I had graduated high school a year earlier and was back at home after my first year in college, ironing in front of the television (what else to do in the ‘burbs on a viciously humid July afternoon? It seemed obvious at the time…), when I stumbled across a movie on cable that was visually and musically unlike anything I’d seen in all my young life. So there I stood for an hour and a half, transfixed and ironing as Rushmore transported me back to the weird time that was high school in songs and images.

Max Fisher, the film’s adolescent hero, is an ambitious kid: he is the president of some half-dozen school clubs and an accomplished playwright who earned a scholarship to Rushmore Academy in the second grade after writing “a little one-act about Watergate.” However, this youthful drive is paradoxically the source of both his greatest achievements and greatest setbacks. Max’s fantastic plays as well as his disastrous attempted romancing of an older woman come from the same bold determination. Furthermore, his unique character often causes him more harm than good as he comes into contact with folks who simply don’t understand him.

As Max rebels against school bullies, back-stabbing middle-aged men and lost love, who then could better furnish the soundtrack of his life than British invasion rockers, punctuated at quieter turns by lovely, twinkling compositions of Mark Mothersbaugh (formerly of Devo), with a dash of Yves Montand and some pre-Islamic Cat Stevens thrown in for good measure? Although this eclectic assortment of artists may seem odd, it is in fact the perfect musical summation of Max, a strange and wonderful kid whose two best friends are a fifth-grader and a middle-age business tycoon. Like the movie itself, the soundtrack is something you want to experience repeatedly and in its entirety. The topsy-turvy mix of mood and tempos it offers up is the essence of its charm. Put it on, and if you’re not put in a better frame of mind, then something just might be seriously wrong with your heart.

Though Anderson originally wanted to use only Kinks material for the soundtrack because

they played loud, angry, teenage rock songs, and they wore blazers and ties and our movie is about a teenager who is loud and angry, and he is almost never seen without his blazer and tie,

he instead opted to round out the soundtrack—it is more faithful to the highs and lows of being a teenager as well as the film’s arc—Max can’t be loud and angry all the time.

The disc kicks off with the Creation’s 1966 hit “Making Time,” full of piss and vinegar, ranting about

making time/shooting lines/for people to believe in/things you say/why do we have to carry on/always singing the same old song?

(In the film, the song plays over a slow-motion montage of Max working, often alone, as the leader of his school clubs.) Nobody cares as much as he does about anything; the lyric foreshadows his anger when he realizes that the love of his life prefers a middle-aged, apathetic loser over him. The halfway point is the Who’s epic “A Quick One While He’s Away”—it coincides with Max’s peaking revenge and hints at the resolution just around the corner with the end repeat “you are forgiven.” By the end of the soundtrack, the listener, like Rushmore’s main man, has realized that there is an inevitable emotional ebb and flow to life that is always beyond control, no matter how talented, committed or deserving you are. The Faces’ bittersweet “Ooh La La” provides the bittersweet closure. “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger,” sums up Max’s final realization that he “didn’t get hurt too bad” during his first foray into love. In fact, he, like us, kind of enjoyed it.

P.S. You don’t have to see the film to appreciate the Rushmore soundtrack, though it is most highly recommended.

Date: 1969
Release: BLUE THUMB
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Tyrannosaurus Rex was an acid-dropping British duo fronted by the immortal Marc Bolan during his pre-glam folkie/hippie stage. When it came to making catchy little psychedelic-pop tunes, Tyrannosaurus Rex was a monster. In late 1960s, Bolan and percussionist Steve Peregrine Took enjoyed a small but fanatic following amongst London’s flower children and its underground press. The acoustic Bolan of Tyrannosaurus Rex was a handsome hippie poster child, not the glittering androgynous teenage dream that rocked T.Rex to the top in the early ’70s. Glam-rock fans of T.Rex beware, Tyrannosaurus Rex is an entirely different animal. No more ferocious than a butterfly, Unicorn is a finely crafted album of incredibly unique songs made under the influence of LSD.

On every track, Bolan delivers colorfully surreal lyrics against a multi-layered backdrop of tribal beats, choppy-clean acoustic guitar rhythms, and swirling accordion and woodwind riffs. His strange, sensual voice is mesmerizing, particularly on such dreamy tracks as “She Was Born To Be My Unicorn,” “Nijinsky Hind,” and “Seal of Seasons”. Living up to the promise of its title, Unicorn is a hallucinatory musical tour through a mythical realm populated with wizards, sages, alchemists, and other fantastic creatures lifted straight out of J.R.R. Tolken’s “Lord Of The Rings.” Such was the source of inspiration for many a British hippie band in 1969 (check out Zeppelin II’s eternal Tolken-rant, “Ramble On,” or Donovan’s epic, “Atlantis,” for more vintage Tolkenesque tunes).

One of the most startling things about the 16 songs on Unicorn is that nearly all clock in under three minutes in length. This is extraordinary when one remembers the recording habits of many late-60s British psychedelic bands, who notoriously filled up entire album sides with self-indulgent “epic trip” tracks of dubious musical value. While it’s clear that Bolan was listening to his share of Hendrix and the Beatles, Unicorn still boasts some pretty trippy music unlike anything else you’ve ever heard. Solid all the way through, Bolan and Took deliver song after song of silly innocence and spiritual intensity, making Unicorn a wonderfully obscure creature worth hunting down.

Date: 1968 (recording)
Release: Repertoire #4940
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If you weren’t fortunate enough to hear this music when it first appeared in the mid-Sixties, you will never know the extremes of its magic.

Tom Petty

Since the rise of Oasis and Brit-Rock in the mid 90s, critics have been handing out Beatles comparisons with the mindless frequency of meter-maids writing parking tickets. This runaway praise-inflation has reached the point where just about any new British band to cross the Atlantic is automatically heralded as either Beatles-esque or Nick Drake-ish. Fortunately there are a few free thinkers in rock journalism, a small uncompromising minority who still define themselves by the music they recommend, steadfastly refusing to serve as stooges for the record industry.

With the old breed of critics we find legends like Dave DiMartino, a man more likely to jump in shit barefoot than to loosely compare bands to the likes of Beatles or Nick Drake. When it comes to rock ‘n roll, this former editor of Creem Magazine and current editor of Launch Media (Yahoo! Music) has pretty much seen and heard it all. Immune to hype, he distinguishes himself by never gushing frivolously. So I was a little startled when Dave D. told me that some album I never heard of by the Zombies entitled Odessey And Oracle was not only comparable to anything recorded by the Beatles, but was also on his All-Time Top Ten list.

Now when Dave D. talks, people listen, particularly when the subject is vintage British psychedelic pop. Prior to hearing Odessey And Oracle, I had known the Zombies only as an oldies radio-friendly two-hit wonder group (“She’s Not There” and “Time Of The Season”) that ingloriously came and went. With a healthy dose of scepticism, I decided to check out this supposed masterpiece for myself. I went to the record store, bought the cheapest (no bonus tracks) copy, and put the CD into the car player for the ride home, innocently waiting for the music to start like some unsuspecting driver moments before being plucked up by the spaceship. I really had no idea that this fabled relic of an album from such a poorly named band would actually provide one of the most exhilarating first listens of my life. The CD repeated and my head spun as I drove in circles around the block. This was too good to stop.

From the moment the album introduced itself to my ears with the opening grandeur of “Care of Cell Block 44,” it was clear that Dave D. was not overstating the facts. The song’s intricate harmonies, unconventional lyrics, catchy riffs, complex chord progressions, and dense orchestrations indeed make it comparable to anything off of the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds or the Beatles’ Revolver. The rest of the album, for all its psychedelic experimentation and dark pop lyricism, sustains this incredible level of greatness from beginning to end. Unprecedented for the band but no lucky accident, this magnificently tuneful psychedelic pop/rock long-player turned out the way it did for a reason.

Sensing that the album would probably be their last, the Zombies had decided to make Odessey And Oracle their artistically uncompromising farewell, ambitiously exploring new ideas and dramatically expanding their sound without the expectation (or pressures) of superstardom. So, in 1967, when their first few singles sunk in the UK without a whisper, the guys shrugged their shoulders and split up. The story could have ended there, were it not for the efforts of Al Kooper, who persuaded CBS (his then employer) to domestically release the album in July of 1968. Expectations were six-feet under by the time the fourth single, “Time Of The Season” was released, but in early 1969 the Zombies reputation had arisen from the dead as the song topped the charts. A blue-eyed soul classic, the song was such a massive commercial success that CBS extended fat cash offers to lure the band into a reunion. But by this time Zombies keyboardist and songwriter Rod Argent was busy launching own band, Argent, so sadly, there would be no follow up.

Oddly enough, dying young and achieving posthumous fame did not guarantee that band would be immortalized. As the Sixties passed, the Zombies were returned to the dusty crypt of undeserved obscurity, and Odessey And Oracle dropped out of print. Their failure to achieve more widespread success is mystifying, particularly when you hear (which you must) Colin Blunstone’s breathy and soulful vocals, the band’s gorgeous backup harmonies, Rod Argent’s melodic piano and Mellotron wizardry, and Chris White’s utterly unique style of song writing.

Lacking the equivalent of a cute Beatle and looking a bit square, they were probably too adventurous for the radio and not sexy enough to sell posters. Whatever the case, their influence has extended further than their legend, with their music enjoying a legion of followers, from Teenage Fanclub to Elliot Smith. But even with the recent upsurge of interest in the band (culminating in 1997 with the release of the 4-disc boxed set entitled Zombie Heaven), Odessey And Oracle still remains one of the most underrated albums in rock history.

Date: 1968 (recording) / April 19, 1999 (release)
Release: Immediate #414
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The story of Billy Nicholls is a sadly familiar one. It parallels the tragedy of Shuggie Otis, a young child prodigy who delivered an incredibly great album to his record label (1974’s Inspiration Information), and got dropped in return. It’s a life story lived by legions of gifted artists, who, through lack of commercial success, burn through their prime creative years in muted obscurity, waiting for a public embrace that always seems to comes too late, if at all. At 16, Billy Nicholls was a total unknown, a kid with more guts than talent. As the story goes, the teenaged British songwriter had the chutzpah to approach George Harrison and enlist the quiet Beatle’s help in landing him a record deal (clinched with then Rolling Stones manager Andrew Oldham’s new and edgy Immediate label).

Starting off as a staff songwriter (he penned some tunes in 1967 for label-mate Del Shannon), Nicholls ended up recording an album worth of his own songs, releasing his first single in January of 1968, “Would You Believe/Daytime Girl.” Although the single didn’t chart, it was hit material through and through. Give it a listen and you’ll realize that the problem wasn’t with the song. The problem rested solely with the label that put it out.

Immediate was a failing enterprise from the start, and Nicholls had the misfortune of being creatively tied to a fast sinking ship. While it had signed and recorded a slew of great artists, the label lacked the marketing muscle to properly push its talent into the limelight. Immediate’s problems were only compounded by the fact that many of its bands were recording adventurous full-length albums, not spiffy little chart-busting radio ditties that might have brought in the cash.

With the exception of the Small Faces, Immediate chalked up too few successes to survive. Their shaky financial condition and the failure of the “Would You Believe” single to crack the charts might explain why the label abruptly decided to halt the release of Nicholls’ incredibly great album in April of 1968. The few dozen promotional copies that had already been sent out would go on to become some of the most collectible rarities of the British psychedelic era, fetching upwards of a thousand dollars a copy. But while the legend of his abortive album would grow to epic proportions, Nicholls’ recording career was never to fully recover from the blow.

Nowhere near the “Brian Wilson-sized talent” that the more hyperbolically enthusiastic members of the music press would have you believe (I’m one to talk!), Billy Nicholls did show vast promise, and the torpedoing of his music career is a true rock and roll tragedy. Who knows what greatness Nicholls could have attained had his music been half decently promoted? The “Would You Believe” single, like the unreleased album of the same name, could have been huge. The music glows with instant appeal, hitting its mark with Nicholls’ distinctly British take on Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds-era.

Each song brims with richly melodic and high-ranging airy vocal harmonies, coupled with majestically over-produced (à la Phil Spector) wall of sound orchestration. Obviously having a blast in the producer’s seat, Immediate founder Andrew Oldham lovingly embellished Nicholls’ vocals tracks with layer upon layer of lushly ornate strings, soft-touches of brass, loud guitar leads (courtesy of Small Faces and future Humble Pie legend Steve Marriott), rolling piano rhythms (Rolling Stones session veteran Nicky Hopkins), nimbly floating bass lines (future Led Zeppelin maestro John Paul Jones) and perfect-for-the-song percussion (future Humble Pie drummer Jerry Shirley). The result was a sonic collision of West Coast and British psychedelic pop—a mostly sunny, spruced-up hybrid sound that is original and yet familiar. This elaborate music adds even greater weight to Nicholls’ lyrics and vocals, which resonate with a weighty depth of feeling and experience that extend far beyond the greenness of his teenage years.

While certainly no Pet Sounds (nothing can compare), Would You Believe has its own sort of opulently produced shimmer and heart-on-sleeve romanticism, particularly in the lyrics. Only on the acoustic “Come Again” does Nicholls approach the songsmanship of Brian Wilson. With its scaled back production and return to basics simplicity, “Come Again” is ironically the standout song on this extravagantly crafted album.

Better late than never, Would You Believe was officially released for the first time in 1999, more than 30 years after it was recorded. A lost relic from days gone by, the album should now be recognized as an essential piece of vintage psychedelic Britpop.

Date: 1974
Release: POLYDOR
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Veedon Fleece is a deeply personal album that marked Morrison’s return to the stream of consciousness and raw soul power of 1968′s Astral Weeks. It was recorded around the time of his divorce from Janet Planet, the same woman to whom he had dedicated the passionate love songs of 1971′s “Tupelo Honey.” This album is emotionally wrenching, a powerful statement on love gone bad. The melancholy mood of Veedon Fleece compels the listener to enter the singer’s world of heartbreak. Though occasionally verging on the depressing, there is such immediacy and honesty in the music that you can’t help but feel alive after a listen. Spare and subtle moments abound, such as “Fair Play,” “Streets of Arklow,” and “Country Fair.”

He pulls no punches in his tortured and confessional “Cul de Sac.” Irish spiritualism melds with the flow of jazz and the compelling power of soul music, forming one perfectly realized recording. This was the final installment of Van’s unparalleled 1968-1974 period, and would be followed by his mysterious three year absence from the music world, save for his stirring performance in The Band’s epic concert-film, “The Last Waltz.”

Date: 1969
Release: Columbia #65150
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Fans of the Byrds’ psychedelic brand of folk-rock were left baffled by the band’s sudden about face in the direction of country music on Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Many wondered how the same band that recorded the ’60s drug anthem “Eight Miles High” could suddenly end up singing “I Love The Christian Life” without any hint of sarcasm. Even the 1968 radio ad promoting the record features a disbelieving fan insisting, “Naw, that ain’t the Byrds,” after hearing only a few song snippets. Ahead of its time, Sweetheart of the Rodeo was a groundbreaking act of rebellion away from the classic rock sound of its day, entirely different from anything the Byrds (or anyone else) had recorded before.

The catalyst in the birth of the new Byrds sound was the addition of Southern-born singer-songwriter Gram Parsons, who replaced David Crosby on vocals and guitar. Responding to the influence of Parsons, Bryds front man Roger McGuinn packed up his trademark 12-string guitar, picked up the banjo, and took the band into the recording studio in Nashville. What resulted was an album filled with solid country graces–syrupy slide and twangy rhythm guitars, honky-tonk piano, hoe-down-style violin, shuffling drums, and strumming banjo. Gorgeous harmonies were the main ingredient still remaining from the Byrds earlier musical incarnations.

In a slight nod towards tradition, the album opens up strongly with a Dylan cover, a spectacular Nashville-infused reworking of “You Ain’t Going Nowhere.” The Bob Dylan songbook is pillaged once more on the album’s climactic closing cut, a country-rocking version of “Nothing Was Delivered,” replete with crashing drum cymbals and steel guitars. While the two Dylan cuts clearly take top honors, the pair of Parsons-penned originals don’t lag far behind. Parsons’ classic rendition of “Hickory Wind” is as arresting as a good swig of Southern Comfort. The long-lost original version of Parsons’ “One Hundred Years From Now,” (included as one of the eight bonus track on the 1997 CD reissue) features his own voice, which far and away surpasses the vocals later overdubbed by McGuinn for the official release of the album. Due to ridiculous contractual troubles, Columbia Records had Parsons’ lead vocals removed from several of the record’s cuts, bringing McGuinn back into the studio to overdub new voice tracks. Comparing the Parsons and McGuinn versions of “I Like the Christian Life,” it’s obvious that McGuinn was affecting a Southern drawl in order to overdub his best Parsons impersonation.

It’s funny, but hearing the Byrds sing such straight-faced versions of “I Like The Christian Life” is akin to watching the honky-tonk bar scene from “The Blues Brothers,” where Belushi and Akroyd take a pretty damn good stab at country music with their inspired cover of Rawhide. You’re laughing with pleasure at just how well they pull off their preposterous little foray into country. The only difference was that the Blues Brothers won over the crowd. Despite its winning brilliance, sales of Sweetheart of the Rodeo were lackluster compared to earlier Byrds records. Few could understand what in the hell the Byrds were doing experimenting with country-rock, because every self-respecting follower of the late-’60s counter-culture knew that country music belonged to Squares and had no business being mixed up in rock. Over 30 years later, we can step back and realize that Sweetheart of the Rodeo was a deliberate act of musical defiance exemplifying the true spirit of Rock and Roll.

Date: October 7, 1997
Release: MCA #11684
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Following the release of First Rays Of The New Rising Sun, the Hendrix estate knew that they had to do something different on the follow up. First Rays was the completion of Jimi’s music up until the time of his death, the final songs that would have been on his next album. Janie, Eddie, John McDermott knew that now was the time to bring forward a new offering for long time Hendrix fans–unreleased music. Thus was born South Saturn Delta. Made up of tracks originally found on the long deleted War Heroes, Loose Ends, Rainbow Bridge, as well as some that had appeared on Crash Landing and Midnight Lightning (original tracks were used though, not the Alan Douglas tampered ones). Plus some unreleased songs, studio ideas, etc. Some really good music, “Pali Gap” from Rainbow Bridge is a great late night tune; “Drifter’s Escape,” the Bob Dylan song is a great rocker.

South Saturn Delta hints at a jazz direction for Jimi. “Little Wing,” is actually an early version of “Angel.” As far as “Look Over Yonder” goes, I still prefer the version on the Live & Unreleased CD. “Midnight Lightning,” the closing track, is just Jimi and his guitar, playing the blues, just the way you know it should be. A fitting conclusion to this CD.

Folks, the Hendrix family is listening to us, the fans. It’s been a long time since anybody has. God bless them.

Date: 2001
Release: FatCat #A1-2
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Life is a journey. Sigur Ros’ second album, Agaetis Byrjun (“Good Start”), provides the mystical soundtrack for that journey. Having heard about the album but at the time unreleased in the United States, I found Agaetis Byrjun in Edinburgh at the Scottish independent music store, Fopp. The search for the album was well worth the effort. The experience the album provides is complete, whether observed in an ancient cathedral, coaxed as a lullaby, or played on a train ride across the Scottish plains. The sound defies simple classification. Neither rock nor pop, Agaetis Byrjun creates sensation and longing without the usual tools of universal lyrics and chords. The music flows over and around the body, as if simultaneously lifting and pressing its vibrations against the skin. With its Icelandic lyrics (and no current translations) and invented words, Agaetis Byrjun directs the mind into the mind’s own interpretation and emotions, not dictating, but gently guiding with powerful vocals and sounds. The music envelopes. The eerie, unintelligible words may lack in concrete definitions, yet they surge with meaning.

The Icelandic quintet, comprised of vocalist and guitarist Jon Thor Birgisson, bassist Georg Holm, keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson, and drummer Orris Pall Dyrason, add flutes, stringed instruments, horns and the accordion into their music. The sound is eclectic and unique. The varied instruments become delicately layered, supporting one another as if musical sections in a symphony. At times, the instruments drastically increase or decrease in tempo, speeding or slowing the songs. The change in tempo influences the feeling and emotions produced by the track.

And like a symphony, the songs often undergo multiple highs and lows within the individual track, with “sections” of the instruments emerging and disappearing to create these changes. To effectively incorporate these highs and lows, the tracks are often twice as long as typical pop songs. “Ny Batteri,” at a length of over seven minutes, serves as an example. Opening slowly with guitar, vocals, and distant horns, the track has three major crescendos, where the drums enter and the horns and guitars increase in loudness. The first crescendo only begins at approximately four minutes into the song. Sigur Ros often toy with the instruments’ sounds, adding an even more unique element to their music. The guitars play like violins and the drums like cymbals. Birgisson forgoes plucking his strings by using a bow, distorting and elongating the notes.

Birgisson’s voice eludes gender. His vocals morph from mermaid to whale to bird to child. In “Viorar Vel Til Loftarasa,” Birgission sounds as if he is singing through the rain, muffled by his own predicament. His voice emerges as an instrument, moving the songs in new directions. Sigur Ros also use background choir-like vocals to support the song’s climaxes.

Sigur Ros create, through the music on Agaetis Byrjun, an innovative and distinct sound by combining once distant elements. While the album may not be mass marketable or radio friendly, the album’s power will likely influence the direction of rock music. Just as a symphony permits the audience members to emerge from the experience with their own personal experience, Agaetis Byrjun encourages the listener to make the music his/her own personal soundtrack.

Date: March 6, 2001 (release)
Release: Astralwerks #29072
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Consistent with my post break-up habit of musical masochism, I’ve recently been over-playing Quiet Is The New Loud, encouraging its melancholy melodies to lodge themselves in my heart like salt on an open wound. Instead of letting my old punk records work their healing magic, I keep wallowing in the sadness of morbidly introspective artists like Nick Drake, Neil Halstead, and the Norwegian duo, Kings of Convenience.

Quiet Is The New Loud—it’s almost pathetic how perfectly this album title describes the dominant trend in my listening habits. As I get older, I’ve noticed the volume knob on my stereo progressively turning in the wrong direction (to the delight of my neighbors), even as the music itself has become gentler and more polite. Ten years ago I’d have trashed this record as unpardonably toothless and sissy-sweet, but now it strikes a chord. I’m not afraid to admit it—I’ve grown soft in my not-so-old age.

Premature mid-life crisis aside, Quiet Is The New Loud is a deceptively simple and genuinely moving album you shouldn’t be ashamed to own. Produced by Ken Nelson, whose credits include Badly Drawn Boy’s Bewilderbeast and Coldplay’s Parachutes, the album is so free of contemporary tinkering it’s almost primitive, relying purely on acoustic instrumentation, evocative lyrics and lustrous harmonies to sustain a mood of stark beauty.

“Winning A Battle, Losing The War” opens the album and establishes its tone, as Erlend Oye and Eirik Glambek Boe sing with anguished immediacy: “Even though I’ll never need her/ Even though she’s only giving me pain/ I’ll be on my knees to feed her/ Spend a day to make her smile again.” After this, the album seems to unfold in slow motion, each song another sad installment in the story of love. On “Singing Softly To Me,” the duo’s acoustic guitars roll gently behind their Simon & Garfunkel-flavored harmonies, as minimal touches of trumpet, piano, and cello slowly surface and vanish, subtly deepening the sonic texture. Still, something rare is achieved when the pair performs without accompaniment, as we are reminded of the ageless power of two voices and two guitars.

It’s summer now, and while the Kings of Convenience still beckon, I’m beginning to feel the sunshine. So while Quiet Is The New Loud may not sit at the top of my play-list for long (“loneliness gets tired of itself and breaks like a tomb that can no longer hold its dead”), its songs of love and sadness will still tug at the heart strings so long as I continue to roll the relationship dice.

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Date: 1985
Release: Warner / Sire #25426-2
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“Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Morrissey.
Morrissey who?
See, I told you I didn’t have any friends!”

–The Fantastic Morrissey Knock-Knock Joke, from the comic strip Great Pop Things

The long-standing, long-suffering caricature of Morrissey The Melancholy (or “Morosely,” as he is sometimes dubbed in Great Pop Things) looms large in rock ‘n’ roll mythology. And with joyless underdog laments like “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now,” “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want,” and “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me”–bleated with his typical heart-sleeved, slit-wristed bravado–it’s no wonder The Smiths icon has attracted such a fervent following of hypersensitive bedroom hermits and other assorted asexual/pansexual pariahs. (As an aside, I must warn you single folks out there, Smiths conventions are not the places to go looking for love: If you ever meet a prospective suitor who’s a card-/Prozac-carrying Morrissey obsessive…RUN! Chances are, this charming man/woman will cause you nothing but grief.)

But anyway, contrary to his popular public persona as the celibate/vegetarian/insufferably Oscar Wilde-fixated patron saint of downtrodden indie bedwetters (Coldplay‘s got nothing on The Smiths) whose only moods are glum and glummer, the misunderstood Moz has always been a master of comic relief–the guy used to be the president of the New York Dolls‘ fanclub, for crying out loud, and surely no man can qualify for such a position unless he possesses a subversive sense of humor.

Lacing his literary lyrics with playfully self-deprecating (if at times a tad self-consciously precious) Brit wit and the kind of knowing irony with which Alanis Morissette is sadly all too unfamiliar, Morosely’s offbeat wordplay has at times strayed a little too far off the beat–by the time the plain old silly “Girlfriend In A Coma” was released in 1987, that joke wasn’t funny anymore–but on The Smiths‘ landmark third album, The Queen Is Dead, his songs strike the perfect balance between heartache and hilarity. And with the spry, nimble-fingered, and hugely influential string-plucking of indie-pop guitar god Johnny Marr–the Keef to Morrissey‘s Mick, the Page to his Plant–underlying even Moz’s most pathetically self-pitying sentiments with a bit of much-needed levity, the result is such fleeting, indefinable magic that Alternative Press magazine even declared The Queen Is Dead the best album of the ’80s. (Huh? But what about Rio, or Appetite For Destruction? Oh well, we’ll have to discuss those albums some other time…)

The Queen Is Dead is certainly one of that newly nostalgia-filled decade’s top contenders, representing not only the short-lived Smiths at their creative and commercial peak (it was their first showing in the U.S. top 100, yet they disbanded only a year later), but also representing a significant shift towards the kind of guitar-oriented-yet-still-pleasantly-wussy rock ‘n’ roll that has dominated Britpop ever since (only a very, very geometrically challenged person would be unable to draw a straight line from The Smiths to such obvious disciples as Gene, James, Pulp, Marion, and Suede, not to mention America’s own Strokes and about 10 gazillion bleeding-heart emo bands). Opening with the thundering, six-minute title track–a wickedly funny and incisive attack on the Royal Family and Britain’s crusty class system (“Pass the pub that wrecks your body/And the Church, all they want is your money/The Queen Is Dead, boys”)–the album immediately deflates the Morosely Myth. Smugly howling about his fantasies of seeing Her Majesty’s head in a sling and Prince Charles in drag, the Moz-man hardly sounds spineless or sappy, and besides, the song is Marred with far too many layers of roaring guitar to ever warrant such adjectives as “wimpy” or “fey.”

Of course, Morrissey‘s mincing, foppish charm/smarm is more evident on jaunty ditties like “Frankly, Mr. Shankly” and “Cemetry Gates,” but once again, there’s scarcely a trace of his notorious woe-is-me attitude: The former is a kiss-off to an employer (a sort of “Take This Job And Shove It” for the Britpop set), and when, on the latter, he quips, “Keats and Yeats are on your side/But you lose, because Wilde is on mine,” he seems to take subtle delight in poking fun at himself. He clearly realizes that all misery and no fun makes Morrissey a dull boy, and makes sure not to take himself too seriously. And speaking of fun, “Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others” is a major hoot–the title says it all. (It sure would be a gas to hear a female artist cover this one, altering the lyrics ever so slightly to refer to the male anatomy…just a suggestion.)

Of course, there are weaker moments of unrelenting despair–no Smiths album would be complete without them–as evidenced by painfully bleak lines like “If you’re so very good-looking, why do you sleep alone tonight?” (from “I Know It’s Over”), “I had a really bad dream/It lasted 20 years, seven months, and 27 days” (“Never Had No One Ever”), and “Life is very long when you’re lonely” (“The Queen Is Dead“). But one track is the ultimate distillation of the band’s greatest elements (Sahara-dry humor, incredibly naked tenderness, impeccable melodicism, brilliant guitar work), and it is perhaps The Smiths‘ finest four minutes and three seconds: the epic “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.” Sweetly, hopelessly romantic but never sickly or soppy, lightly humorous (a peculiar line like “If a double-decker bus crashes into us/To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die” is guaranteed to induce a wry grin) but still heaving with the dull ache of unrequited longing, it best utilizes the infamous friction between Morrissey and Marr that made for some fabulous music but eventually, in the tradition of every band ever featured on Behind The Music, drove The Smiths to splinter apart after only five years. (When is VH1 gonna make a Smiths Behind The Music, by the way?) In short, this song is The Smiths. It’s the song that Class Of ’86 goths danced to, unsmilingly, at their prom. Somewhere, some teenhood couple is rekindling their John Hughes-esque doomed romance at a 15-year high school reunion, or maybe even waltzing at their wedding, while this ballad plays in the background. And if Morrissey and Marr (oh yeah–and the other two Smiths, Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke) ever stage a reunion, when they play this one there won’t be a dry eye or extinguished Bic lighter in the house.

So sometimes, there really is a light that never goes out–as the timelessness of the music of those great pop things, The Smiths, undoubtedly proves. The Queen may be dead, but The Smiths never will be.

“How many Morrisseys does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
None–because there is a light that never goes out!”

–The Fantastic Morrissey Light Bulb Joke, from Great Pop Things