Little Man, What Now?

Artistic permanence is very important to Morrissey. Fame is fickle, right now we have too few pans to cater for all the flashes but back in a pre-Internet, disconnected world the idea of fading from view was a real possibility. In every aspect of his art Morrissey celebrates the enduring possibilities of Stardom and of cultural relevance.

In the Smiths, he found an outlet for this with the sleeves he designed. Often Monochrome snapshots, they were a treat for the initiated, a gateway to nostalgic backstreets where Pat Phoenix frolicked with a youthful Truman Capote, where Warholian art flirted with Terence Stamps collector it was Morrissey letting us peer inside to see his love of detail, his romance for the past and his desire to make every artifact of his band count. You could pore over the picture and let your mind wander, a visual delight snuck in with the aural.

He touched upon the theme of remaining relevant in The Smiths "Rubber Ring" but in that song he was questioning his own place in an ageing fans affections. Here Moz himself is the fan, dwelling on the fate of a TV star who has fallen from view and is reduced to appearing on a Nostalgia Television show earning only indifference. The singer is obsessed with details like the knowing of correct years, and remembering the night the particular TV show was on. It's a trait I imagine Morrissey himself has for his myriad passions which are just like mine. I enjoy the "list" aspect of the song. It has a precise yet at the same time utterly thrown together quality, like reminiscing over a glass of wine. It's the feeling evoked rather than the dry data. The story as is, is a common one, but no less disquieting for that. It may be told in broad strokes but its desired effect is achieved. To be forgotten, to leave no impression from when you were once so high must be a very sobering experience.

The musical backing is muted, but insistent, a throbbing messy percussion, which seems to mirror the place all this knowledge is coming from, the deep recesses of a fans subconscious, the minutiae slipping out slowly and in a cluttered state. At a brisk 1:49 minutes it would seem to hint at this small human tragedy more than analyse it. But then what more is there to say?

For Moz himself, the man has soldiered on long enough that this will never be his own fate. When all the controversies have been faded, the quotes a footnote, the Quiff perhaps withered, his work will still linger on, long into the lottery of time.