In Defense of King Leer

"Your boyfriend, he went down on one knee / Well, could it be he's only got one knee?"


At some point, the easiest way to take a cheap jab at the Morrissey solo catalog became quoting "King Leer". I've lost track of the number of times I've seen his entire post-Smiths career dismissed with a dangling of that opening couplet. Even now, when we have 20 years worth of solo recordings to consider, "King Leer" is the rock journalists' handy tool for not really having to pay attention. The baffling part of this, aside from the laziness of some rock journalists, is that I consider the album, the song and, indeed, those very lines to be worthy.

It's important to remember that the song is supposed to be funny. I'm not sure why Morrissey is so often meant to be taken as a figure of intense seriousness and relentless, straight-faced sincerity. That he can be miserable or sad or angry is clear, but from the very beginning his songs have been laced with humor, raciness, hypocrisy and numerous other layers of nuance and character. It's one of the reasons his work tends to resonate differently at different ages -- the layers reveal themselves, the references (and, of course, self-references) become clearer. As I get older, I find his work to be much funnier and much sadder than I did before. It's also what makes humanity the core appeal of his songs. In song, he fails and he loses his temper and he triumphs and he makes naughty, mean jokes.

So what about that obnoxious boyfriend? Most of the criticisms I've read seem to suggest that the line is nonsense -- it rhymed, it fit the structure, it made it to the record. To me, though, it doesn't take much effort to come up with a number of worthy reasons for its existence. This boyfriend is a loser -- he talks too much about nothing (although Morrissey points out that his true gift is "the gift of the grab") and, frustrated and jealous, Morrissey also calls him cruel. But he is, of course, the object upon which Morrissey's jealous bafflement and frustration is focused. How has he earned the loyalty of this love interest? "Your boyfriend, he went down on one knee": the promises, the acts of devotion and slavish attention. Is it possible that this boyfriend has spent so much time professing his love and dedication on one knee that he might as well not have another? It seems to me that the lines function perfectly well as a sarcastic jab. What does he need the other knee for if he's only using the one? Because clearly that's only perceptible reason he's having any success.

If, for the sake of the song's narrative, we accept the argument that those lines have a job to do and do them well, then it's also interesting to think about them in the context of Morrissey's general lyrical output. Nothing in the song suggests that this boyfriend is literally knee-less, but I don't think it entirely impossible that Morrissey would treasure that potential literal meaning. Morrissey's catalog is full of references to the disabled -- either as metaphors for any sort of outsider or as literally disabled individuals ("November Spawned a Monster" is the most obvious, but Kill Uncle also features "Mute Witness".) It's become a kind of coded aspect to his work in expressing the ways in which we might feel broken, unable to reconcile ourselves with perceptions of normality or even to simply test our strength in the face of something uncomfortable. Do you dare love the handicapped -- even kiss them? You won't find too many other songwriters navigating these waters.

Nor will you find too many songwriters as concious of the self-referential lyric as Morrissey. In the catgeory of songs referencing the handicapped, "King Leer" isn't really one of those songs. It's a deliciously mean, horny little song about a shallow love interest who is, nonetheless, an object of increased desire due to the attentions of the even more unworthy boyfriend. But it's also an opportunity to throw the red herring in -- to wink a bit and remind you that this is Morrissey, and the ridiculous suggestion of a one-kneed boyfriend is too enticing to resist. Any chance to tie this funny little song in to the greater arc of the Morrissey catalog seems just about the kind of thing he would get a kick out of.

Is it possible that there is a sexual reference being made, too? Would it be wise, in discussing Morrissey, to dismiss that possibility?

One would think that the swishy cocktail jazz music, with its brushed snare drum and snappy flute accents, would have framed this song in such a way that the joke would have been well received from all it's potential angles. There is something in the casual reckoning of Morrissey that does generate an expectation of moral and emotional gravity, and the Kill Uncle album, in general, has always stood to me as the best example of Morrissey's ability to explore his themes with a lighter touch. The production (by Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley) reminds me of a 60's Mickie Most production. The instrumentation is the most varied of any Morrissey record, with a lot of acoustic instruments (prominent piano, upright bass and strings) and the rockabilly touches less directly hard rocking and more decorative. Indeed, the more rocking songs are the least convincing. "King Leer" is light and breezy in a way that could be considered ironic -- exactly the kind of shuffling wink that should make you think there's a snarky comment, sick joke or sexual reference being made.

The arrival of two towering masterpieces, Your Arsenal and Vauxhall & I, on the heels of Kill Uncle have overshadowed it and cemented its reputation as the "disappointing second album", but it also functions well as a fascinating detour. Not until Ringleaders of the Tormentors would Morrissey again stretch his instrumental palette the way he does on Kill Uncle. A catalog as deep and expansive as Morrissey's needs these kinds of detours. There is irony in the musically varied and texturally diverse Kill Uncle being singled out for criticism when the easiest criticism of Morrissey has so often been his lack of imagination in arrangement or choice of bandmates (an argument for another time.) It is a lighter album, a slighter collection of songs than those haunted, angry albums to come, but the catalog as a whole would be weaker without it. There is always room in the songbook for clever, nasty little song about a pathetic boyfriend.

"King Leer"

Grasp & Still Connect

In hindsight I may have overrated 22 Dreams. There were great songs for sure, the spirit of adventure was strong and the sprawling stylistic palette was a refreshing change from Weller's often too-conservative solo presentation. But maybe what I needed to hear was what all that dazzling color and energy would sound like crammed into the tight, sub-three minute frames of Wake Up The Nation.

Nothing about this record tries too hard -- the hooks are immediate, the production is varied and inspired without becoming unfocused, the performances are impassioned. It sounds like a hits collection -- like every trick learned and adventure taken by Weller over the past 30 years is represented. There is a lot more 70's art rock than I expected, perhaps -- Bowie in Berlin, Roxy Music's broken-mirror glam and maybe even Scott Walker's icy inversion of the Phil Spector archetype on Nite Flights. To even suggest that Weller would create something that reminded me a bit of David Sylvian ("Pieces of a Dream") would've been hard to imagine before. 22 Dreams had some weird sounding stuff on it, but this album is truly weird -- utterly convincing in its eccentricity and boundary chasing and genuinely psychedelic in a very contemporary way. That Kevin Shields' guest appearance (on the brilliant "7 & 3 is the Striker's Name") is not the wildest thing on the record, or the fact that Weller never sounds at all intimidated or overwhelmed by the dizzying shifts happening around him are a testament to the supreme feeling of confidence radiated by the album -- It's actually brave, actually gutsy.

The usual Weller suspects are also here in fine form, too -- Northern Soul, some Mod stompers (welcome back Bruce Foxton), Beatlesque touches, Curtis Mayfield-style orchestral funk, Nuggets-style psych pop (welcome aboard Bev Bevan) and that dry, soulful voice. One song, "Trees", is something else entirely, though -- to describe it as a mish-mash of all previously mentioned elements plus a touch of Ian Hunter in a series of barely connected sections is to fail utterly to explain how seamlessly it lurches from one wildly different part to another. On an album that already feels a bit like a sampler of everything Weller can do (regardless of whether we knew he could do it or not), this single song is practically a summary of the album in Who-like medley form.

I think a lot of us have been watching this solo career and wondering if it could produce a true classic --a summation of what a middle-aged Weller has to offer in the present instead of an acceptable echo of his past. Well, this is it. And maybe it's the best album of 2010, too.

"7 & 3 is the Striker's Name"

In Black

It's a pet peeve of mine that a major artist's work is often reduced to a dozen or so key songs that dictate every compilation, soundtrack appearance and cover version for years. Often, the depth and breadth of an artist's work is completely obliterated by the demand that the same twelve songs be rehashed and revisited. I'm reminded of a late 60's Everly Brothers TV appearance where an amazing performance of "Mama Tried" from their masterpiece LP, Roots, is followed the by the TV host's suggestion that they "play one of their old million sellers we all love so much."

Johnny Cash is certainly a victim of this kind of career reduction. There was a good stretch of time when all you were likely to hear was a greatest hit or something live from Folsom Prison (all admittedly fantastic, but overplayed.) The only other choice was Johnny singing some ridiculous cover of U2 or Beck (give me a break.) Now that the rush of attention following his death and biopic has passed, I've started checking out the hundreds of records Cash released -- perhaps thousands of songs that haven't turned up on hits compilations, weren't performed live at a prison and weren't written by alternative rock stars.

It should come as no surprise that there are extraordinary performances on these records. Most are strictly in the familiar Cash style -- tick tock rhythms, a bit of boom-y reverb on the deep lead vocal, some shimmering background choirs. He spent a good amount of time making concept records, too -- visits to the Holy Land, tributes to various aspects of American history and culture, more gospel.

Quite often these albums feature little monologues -- The Holy Land features Johnny and June narrating their trip to Israel on location (the narration might be better than the songs -- strikingly informal and the sense of being profoundly moved is clear.) From Sea To Shining Sea has Johnny rambling like a country preacher about the beauty of the good ol' U.S.A., but it's laced with a subtle suggestion that the intent is to heal the psychic wounds of the late 1960's -- to reclaim some sense of worth and beauty in a twisted and hurt country. Tributes to railroads, Native Americans and even a collection of comedy songs are somewhat more well known, but all worthy of investigation. "I will tell you, Buster, I ain't a fan of Custer's" is a line from a song worth revisiting ("Custer" from Bitter Tears), with Cash's snide, boastful recitation and its "The general he don't ride well anymore" refrain typical of his ability to inhabit an archetypal character in a mode simultaneously ancient and modern.

Johnny's gifts were no joke -- his ability to turn corny ballads and hillbilly shtick into substance is a marvel. I really don't understand how the melodramatic "She Came From The Mountains", with its recitations and soaring choirs, has been transformed into something so moving -- so laced with homesickness and guilt. It's such a personal song -- a man from the plains takes his wife home from the Rocky Mountains, where she longs for the mountains and eventually disappears -- but it's resonance lies in making real the sense of identity wrapped up in a place, and for the suggestion that we lose something fundamental of ourselves in our transient culture.

The strangest record I've come across so far, and my current favorite, is the soundtrack for a 1970 movie called I Walk The Line. Along with a completely different version of the title track, the album features dry-as-dust songs so elemental as to be more like snapshots than realized songs. "Flesh & Blood", a relatively well known track, is a song of pure desire -- a list of rough and tumble manly accomplishments countered with "Mother Nature's quite a lady, but you're the one I need". Clocking in at just under two minutes (like most of the songs on the album) "'Cause I Love You" is a stern declaration of devotion accompanied only by solo acoustic guitar, while "Hungry" is all taught desperation. Get out of town. Change your face. Every song is wound tight -- almost angry. In "Face Of Despair" the pains of growing old and the land in Autumn ("look out on your September country") are without any comfort or joy. Most striking, perhaps, is "The World's Gonna Fall On You" -- a nearly spoken word recitation of small town paranoia warning "Billy", "Henry" and the "Sheriff" that somebody's always watching and "the world's gonna fall on you" delivered with increasingly manic intensity.

There are a couple of string arrangement instrumentals from the film soundtrack, and the album ends with a country choir singing "Standing On The Promises/Amazing Grace" (in a moment that feels more like a kitten in the wilderness than an experience of redemption), but it's the just-over 15 minutes of original material that makes for a remarkable encapsulation of the power in Johnny Cash's writing and performing -- a handful of songs almost completely absent from the standard repertoire, but more-than-equal to that extraordinary company.

"Flesh & Blood" as featured in the film