Status
Available
Call number
Collections
Publication
Penguin Classics (2013), Edition: First Edition
Description
Covers Morrissey's life from his birth until the present day.
Media reviews
It is a shame that not more moments occur in "Autobiography". As a lyricist Mr Morrissey was keen to point to his flaws—to portray himself as a “bigmouth” or to sing of unrequited, disappointed love. Such self-deprecation made him endearing. It also prevented anyone from being able to quite
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copy the style that made The Smiths so good. This is not the case with “Autobiography”, which seems crippled by self-consciousness yet lacking self-awareness. Unfortunately Mr Morrissey has made himself easy to parody. Show Less
User reviews
LibraryThing member gaskella
After reading the first paragraphs of Morrissey's autobiography I questioned whether I could stand to read a whole 457 pages of his purple prose. Well, reader - I finished it. Contrary to my expectations, I enjoyed a good amount of it too, but, if ever there was a book to which the term 'curate's
Morrissey is famous for being vegetarian; later walking out of many restaurant meetings when someone at his table orders meat. This was even so in his childhood, and his description of school dinners could turn you off most food for life.
"Putrid smells reduce me to a pitiful pile, and none are more vomitarian than school dinners. All foods of miasmic fragrance disturb me, and the mere hint of garlic induces the shakes, as fish cooked or uncooked causes gut-wrenching panic. This boy of 1971 has an abnormally limited palate - a working-class host of relentless toast, and the inability to expand beyond the spartan."
What was nice was that although he hated school, outside, he developed a love for poetry, starting off with the wit of Hillaire Belloc, and Wilde, then Dorothy Parker before moving on to Stevie Smith, WH Auden, Herrick and Housman.
It is page 141 before he meets Johnny Marr, shortly after discovering he has "a chest voice of light baritone," and an initial flirtation with performing in public as The Nosebleeds (not a band name of his choosing). He and Marr hit it off, and the rest, as they say is history. The years with The Smiths, before it all fell to pieces are fascinating. Like all tyro bands faced with their first record contract, they gaily sign. They have hit records but never reach the number one spot, something that really irks Morrissey. All the way through his memoir, whether with The Smiths or solo, he is obsessed with chart positions, seeing the inability to get a single to the top spot as a failure of the record company. It is hard to see how a song called 'Shoplifters of the world unite' could have got the airplay he thinks it deserves. The albums chart higher though, and live audiences bear out their popularity, but you sense he is really aggrieved at never having had a No 1 single.
On p175, he talks about why he calls himself Morrissey...
"My own name has now become synonymous with the word 'miserable' in the press, so Johhny putters with 'misery' and playfully arrives at 'misery mozzery', which truncates to Moz, and I am classified ever after. I had originally decided to use only my surname because I couldn't think of anyone else in the music that had done so - although, or course, many had been known by just one name, but it hadn't been their surname. Only classical composers were known by just their surnames, and that suited my mudlark temperament quite nicely."
Comparing himself to a classical composer - he's having a laugh, isn't he?
Where I got bogged down with this memoir was the section post-Smiths when Morrissey was sued by the Smiths' bassist and drummer, whom Morrissey insists had been signed on for 10% (himself and Marr as the songwriters getting 40% each), asking for their full 25% - years after the event. Morrissey is full of vitriol at them, and as it goes on and on for about fifty pages, I got more and more bored. Things get a little more interesting again when Morrissey moves to LA, meets various celebs and has strange conversations. He also has relationships which are still kept very private. They get boring again when he goes on tour - and we get night after night of a new city and audience sizes.
So - a mixed bag of too much information, too little information. Occasions of too much purple prose - "even though his expressionist jargon often swamped logic in far too much existentialism" - I can't even begin to assimilate that phrase. I have no idea of the veracity of his writing - Stuart Maconie and Julie Burchill give different accounts of meetings for instance, but it is his own (narcissistic) account. Morrissey shouldn't have been allowed to become the first living author to be published in Penguin Classics - but it was a great marketing coup.
To sum it up, when talking about family, friends, poetry, The Smiths' creative peak, Morrissey was happy - and I was happy reading about it too; when whining about record companies, court cases, the NME, never getting to no 1, endless gigs, being a Misery Moz - I thought 'Heaven knows I'm miserable now'. (7/10) (A fuller review will be on my blog on Nov 3).
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egg' could apply - this is it! Famously unedited, it is at least one hundred pages too long. This is primarily because, (as I at once surmised), he uses double the amount of words that he needs to. Then on p5, comes this one-liner "Naturally my birth almost kills my mother, for my head is too big, ... " I couldn't help but guffaw, however it's not all like that.Morrissey is famous for being vegetarian; later walking out of many restaurant meetings when someone at his table orders meat. This was even so in his childhood, and his description of school dinners could turn you off most food for life.
"Putrid smells reduce me to a pitiful pile, and none are more vomitarian than school dinners. All foods of miasmic fragrance disturb me, and the mere hint of garlic induces the shakes, as fish cooked or uncooked causes gut-wrenching panic. This boy of 1971 has an abnormally limited palate - a working-class host of relentless toast, and the inability to expand beyond the spartan."
What was nice was that although he hated school, outside, he developed a love for poetry, starting off with the wit of Hillaire Belloc, and Wilde, then Dorothy Parker before moving on to Stevie Smith, WH Auden, Herrick and Housman.
It is page 141 before he meets Johnny Marr, shortly after discovering he has "a chest voice of light baritone," and an initial flirtation with performing in public as The Nosebleeds (not a band name of his choosing). He and Marr hit it off, and the rest, as they say is history. The years with The Smiths, before it all fell to pieces are fascinating. Like all tyro bands faced with their first record contract, they gaily sign. They have hit records but never reach the number one spot, something that really irks Morrissey. All the way through his memoir, whether with The Smiths or solo, he is obsessed with chart positions, seeing the inability to get a single to the top spot as a failure of the record company. It is hard to see how a song called 'Shoplifters of the world unite' could have got the airplay he thinks it deserves. The albums chart higher though, and live audiences bear out their popularity, but you sense he is really aggrieved at never having had a No 1 single.
On p175, he talks about why he calls himself Morrissey...
"My own name has now become synonymous with the word 'miserable' in the press, so Johhny putters with 'misery' and playfully arrives at 'misery mozzery', which truncates to Moz, and I am classified ever after. I had originally decided to use only my surname because I couldn't think of anyone else in the music that had done so - although, or course, many had been known by just one name, but it hadn't been their surname. Only classical composers were known by just their surnames, and that suited my mudlark temperament quite nicely."
Comparing himself to a classical composer - he's having a laugh, isn't he?
Where I got bogged down with this memoir was the section post-Smiths when Morrissey was sued by the Smiths' bassist and drummer, whom Morrissey insists had been signed on for 10% (himself and Marr as the songwriters getting 40% each), asking for their full 25% - years after the event. Morrissey is full of vitriol at them, and as it goes on and on for about fifty pages, I got more and more bored. Things get a little more interesting again when Morrissey moves to LA, meets various celebs and has strange conversations. He also has relationships which are still kept very private. They get boring again when he goes on tour - and we get night after night of a new city and audience sizes.
So - a mixed bag of too much information, too little information. Occasions of too much purple prose - "even though his expressionist jargon often swamped logic in far too much existentialism" - I can't even begin to assimilate that phrase. I have no idea of the veracity of his writing - Stuart Maconie and Julie Burchill give different accounts of meetings for instance, but it is his own (narcissistic) account. Morrissey shouldn't have been allowed to become the first living author to be published in Penguin Classics - but it was a great marketing coup.
To sum it up, when talking about family, friends, poetry, The Smiths' creative peak, Morrissey was happy - and I was happy reading about it too; when whining about record companies, court cases, the NME, never getting to no 1, endless gigs, being a Misery Moz - I thought 'Heaven knows I'm miserable now'. (7/10) (A fuller review will be on my blog on Nov 3).
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LibraryThing member edwinbcn
Early on in his Autobiography Steven Patrick Morrissey explains why the book is published under the single name Morrissey, and why as a musician, he prefers to be known as Morrissey. It is because Beethoven is simply known as Beethoven. Thus, as we may recognize Beethoven Fifth Symphony by its
Penguin Books is as much implicated, for how can a book be included in the Penguin Classics Series upon first publication? Absolutely nothing merits the book's inclusion in this series, but as one may suppose the decision is not based on merit but on money.
Autobiography by Steven Patrick Morrissey is pompous in every way. It is a volume bloated to a fist-thick volume, quite clearly by the large print. While the opening chapters display a laboured and somewhat elaborate prose style, including samples of poetry and references to literature and art, the largest part of the book consists of hum-drum everyday businesses that are down to earth and boring. The book is about the author's music career, but by the end of 600 pages, the reader knows nothing about the personal life of the author. Neither his single or unmarried status are explained, nor personal or sexual relations are described. There is a peculiar description in the mid-section of the book in which, however unlikely, the author sees a half-naked man from the windows of their car, and they assume that this person is the victim of rape. The story seems contrived, and its purpose is not clear.
Insincere, narcissistic and boring. Probably too thick for fans to read, a mockery to lovers of literature.
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opening bars, this statement heralds the arrogance and nacissim that readers may expect in this Autobiography.Penguin Books is as much implicated, for how can a book be included in the Penguin Classics Series upon first publication? Absolutely nothing merits the book's inclusion in this series, but as one may suppose the decision is not based on merit but on money.
Autobiography by Steven Patrick Morrissey is pompous in every way. It is a volume bloated to a fist-thick volume, quite clearly by the large print. While the opening chapters display a laboured and somewhat elaborate prose style, including samples of poetry and references to literature and art, the largest part of the book consists of hum-drum everyday businesses that are down to earth and boring. The book is about the author's music career, but by the end of 600 pages, the reader knows nothing about the personal life of the author. Neither his single or unmarried status are explained, nor personal or sexual relations are described. There is a peculiar description in the mid-section of the book in which, however unlikely, the author sees a half-naked man from the windows of their car, and they assume that this person is the victim of rape. The story seems contrived, and its purpose is not clear.
Insincere, narcissistic and boring. Probably too thick for fans to read, a mockery to lovers of literature.
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LibraryThing member amydross
I wouldn't on the whole say that it's a literary classic, but even at his very worst, there's something oddly touching about the man, or at least his persona. It's like he's somehow managed to stay 16 years old forever, and he's exactly as awful and insufferable as your average 16 year old:
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endlessly self-pitying, oversensitive, sanctimonious, petty, self-righteous, blames everyone but himself for every ill thing that's ever befallen him, holds nasty grudges... but at the same time, he is SO GOOD at cutting right to the bleeding heart of the 16 year old in all of us... the raw emotions, the sexual and romantic ambivalence, the frustration at the world being less perfect than it ought to be, the endlessly putting your foot in your mouth, the sense of wonder on your first encounter with great art, the general pain and awkwardness of being human... None of this should be news to those who have listened attentively to his music, and I don't think true fans will come away disappointed. Show Less
LibraryThing member chriszodrow
Read this in three evenings. Could not put it down. Never liked the Smiths, never knew about Morrissey, but I am a fan now.
LibraryThing member nikkihall
So, I finished the Autobiography. As a Smiths/Moz fan, it was like sitting, chatting with an absent friend. Morrissey, the older, wiser compadre with the same Weltanschauung. The one who had been there through the ups and downs, through high school, through university, mental illness, and
On the contrary, I didn't finish the in one sitting. Ironically, if it were an actually physical chat, I would have probably cut it short and told him, "it is getting late." [Stephen Patrick] Morrissey, the voice, saved my life on numerous occasions. His vocal sincerity and richness comforted me on countless, lonely walks at 4am in the dark. Me, anxious, overdosed and released from A&E. The mournful troubadour bled all over the 457 pages. It was almost a self sacrifice not only to his loyal fans but to suffers of depression. His memoir was raw and morbid. The death count rose as his life went on.
The autobiography was not a revelation. Nor were there any Rousseauan confessions. What we did get, was his version of events. The events we read in the press, the events we hear in his lyrics. The witty inclusions of said song lyrics (I dare a Smiths fan to count them all), furthers the notion that he was and still is definitely singing his life. (Sing Your Life). The Autobiography is a call to arms to the outsiders. The bookish, the anxious, the passionate, the over and undersexed. While he remains blue about most things in his life, he sympathizes with the outsider, even as far as race. Morrissey sung in 1985’s Unlovable (I wear black on the outside | because black is how I feel on the inside) - 1985, he shows compassion for US expatriate and novelist, James Baldwin. It puts the accusations of racism and inhumanly nature to rest in one go.
My sentiments for this Autobiography does not mean I cannot see its literary faults. The Americanisms expose an expat, living a LA life which is a far cry from his humble Stretford beginnings. The licentious, stream of consciousness narrative was reminiscent of Jack Kerouac, who Morrissey actually name-checks on page 285 (I chirp, thinking I’m Jack Kerouac to Alan’s [Bennett] William Burroughs. As much as I enjoy a stream of consciousness or as I call it 'written inebriation', Morrissey’s use reflects his wandering, bitter mind, that of a recovering depressive and of a grumpy old man.
I sympathize with critics who also noticed when the Autobiography dipped into a predictable Morrissean diatribe. There were also no Rousseauesque confessions. It was quite subdued and prosaic. It was though, without the backing band, Morrissey is actually quite a bore. I failed to shed a tear when ‘the cast of casualties in Morrisseyland’ (p.284) piled up or feel sorry for him when his sister died. This egotistic morbidity is synonymous with depression, the -It’s all happening to me, it is all about how I feel mentality. But it is this candid quality of Morrissey, plus his mini breakdowns, that made me fall in love with him, first when I was a depressed teenager and still now as an adult, pushing 30.
The Autobiography enriches Morrissey's wit and charm while exposing him as a respectable observer of culture and politics. It is half memoir, half cultural chronicle, yet, the narrative voice remains the most intriguing part of the book. We finally hear Morrissey speak in prose. Well, occasionally dipping into verse. I sighed when I closed the book. It’s overwrought yet, cathartic quality meant I didn’t cry.
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relationships.On the contrary, I didn't finish the in one sitting. Ironically, if it were an actually physical chat, I would have probably cut it short and told him, "it is getting late." [Stephen Patrick] Morrissey, the voice, saved my life on numerous occasions. His vocal sincerity and richness comforted me on countless, lonely walks at 4am in the dark. Me, anxious, overdosed and released from A&E. The mournful troubadour bled all over the 457 pages. It was almost a self sacrifice not only to his loyal fans but to suffers of depression. His memoir was raw and morbid. The death count rose as his life went on.
The autobiography was not a revelation. Nor were there any Rousseauan confessions. What we did get, was his version of events. The events we read in the press, the events we hear in his lyrics. The witty inclusions of said song lyrics (I dare a Smiths fan to count them all), furthers the notion that he was and still is definitely singing his life. (Sing Your Life). The Autobiography is a call to arms to the outsiders. The bookish, the anxious, the passionate, the over and undersexed. While he remains blue about most things in his life, he sympathizes with the outsider, even as far as race. Morrissey sung in 1985’s Unlovable (I wear black on the outside | because black is how I feel on the inside) - 1985, he shows compassion for US expatriate and novelist, James Baldwin. It puts the accusations of racism and inhumanly nature to rest in one go.
My sentiments for this Autobiography does not mean I cannot see its literary faults. The Americanisms expose an expat, living a LA life which is a far cry from his humble Stretford beginnings. The licentious, stream of consciousness narrative was reminiscent of Jack Kerouac, who Morrissey actually name-checks on page 285 (I chirp, thinking I’m Jack Kerouac to Alan’s [Bennett] William Burroughs. As much as I enjoy a stream of consciousness or as I call it 'written inebriation', Morrissey’s use reflects his wandering, bitter mind, that of a recovering depressive and of a grumpy old man.
I sympathize with critics who also noticed when the Autobiography dipped into a predictable Morrissean diatribe. There were also no Rousseauesque confessions. It was quite subdued and prosaic. It was though, without the backing band, Morrissey is actually quite a bore. I failed to shed a tear when ‘the cast of casualties in Morrisseyland’ (p.284) piled up or feel sorry for him when his sister died. This egotistic morbidity is synonymous with depression, the -It’s all happening to me, it is all about how I feel mentality. But it is this candid quality of Morrissey, plus his mini breakdowns, that made me fall in love with him, first when I was a depressed teenager and still now as an adult, pushing 30.
The Autobiography enriches Morrissey's wit and charm while exposing him as a respectable observer of culture and politics. It is half memoir, half cultural chronicle, yet, the narrative voice remains the most intriguing part of the book. We finally hear Morrissey speak in prose. Well, occasionally dipping into verse. I sighed when I closed the book. It’s overwrought yet, cathartic quality meant I didn’t cry.
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LibraryThing member byebyelibrary
A must read for any Mozophile. Morrissey writes with verve and wit. His writing are further proof that his success was no fluke and he is anything but the caricatures that have been tossed about him as a posing depressive. The best celebrity autobiography you will ever read.
LibraryThing member jerhogan
Covers Morrissey's time as lead singer of the Smiths and solo. A mixed bag. Some laugh out loud funny bits, some really interesting insights into the music and some score-settling. I think you'd want to be a fan to enjoy his insights fully. I wished he'd cover the solo albums Viva Hate, Vauxhall &
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I and Kill Uncle a bit more and some of the later albums a bit less but everyone would probably prefer their favourite albums covered more. He was really interesting on the Queen is Dead album and Strangeways Here we Come. Seems to have genuinely respected Marr, Rourke and Joyce before the court case. He is strident on the morality of vegetarianism. All in all a good read but only for the fans. Show Less
LibraryThing member scottcholstad
As a longtime Smiths/Morrissey fan, I was darn excited to get this book. I had been looking forward to it for sometime. However, my excitement turned to annoyance with the very first pages when I opened the book and was greeted with a five page first paragraph. As a longtime writer/editor with
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numerous articles, stories, and books to my credit, I feel established enough to submit that this is HORRIBLE writing, a terrible way to begin a book. And to my astonishment, he continues with more five page paragraphs. Indeed the book reads like one overly dramatic/poetic stream of consciousness of someone who desperately wants to slit their wrists. I mean, I knew he was gloomy, but damn -- his childhood was brutal, his teachers cruel, his family losers, people died, people got screwed, people tried to kill themselves in school. Okay, I get it -- your life sucked. I guess thus your lyrics, eh? But as I skimmed along, annoyed as hell with writing that seemed written by some overripe drama queen, I discovered he didn't cover much about The Smiths at all, except for his bitterness at his drummer's lawsuit. And the final fourth or fifth of the book is merely a tour diary. Needless to say, I feel extremely let down and frustrated that I spent good money on this crap. The writing is absolutely wretched and I could detect none of the humor that other reviewers refer to. It's just a really bad book by an overly narcissistic asshole. Not recommended. If you want a good rock autobiography, read Keith Richards'. Show Less
LibraryThing member jkdavies
In a way, this book seems to be an inverted version of Morrissey's life.
The language where he describes his materially deprived childhood is beautiful, full of wide-eyed wonder and boldness; and when he has become successful the words are often petty and belittling, dismissive, as anger at the
As an autobiography, it is a curious thing, you don't feel the story along with the teller; it is all snippets and not so much of a story arc. And of course why would you tell a story if you are still living and don't know where the arc will end? The snippets do give a glimpse into what Morrissey thinks important at the time of writing, and it's not all that comfortable.
I want to say, do it once more with feeling, but this is a man who put so much feeling into the songs, so maybe all the emotions are there.
Overall interesting, but I think no-one who reads this book will come without the weight of expectations from the music (for why would you read the autobiography of an artist you didn't like?); and the man is not the same as the music.
The language where he describes his materially deprived childhood is beautiful, full of wide-eyed wonder and boldness; and when he has become successful the words are often petty and belittling, dismissive, as anger at the
Show More
world gives way to depression and resignation.As an autobiography, it is a curious thing, you don't feel the story along with the teller; it is all snippets and not so much of a story arc. And of course why would you tell a story if you are still living and don't know where the arc will end? The snippets do give a glimpse into what Morrissey thinks important at the time of writing, and it's not all that comfortable.
I want to say, do it once more with feeling, but this is a man who put so much feeling into the songs, so maybe all the emotions are there.
Overall interesting, but I think no-one who reads this book will come without the weight of expectations from the music (for why would you read the autobiography of an artist you didn't like?); and the man is not the same as the music.
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Language
Original language
English
Original publication date
2013-10-17
Physical description
5.08 inches
ISBN
0141394811 / 9780141394817
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