How are you? What are you working on, artistically or otherwise? Who or what has shaped who you are? What inspires you? Send a letter to luke@retroduck.com and let me know.
From artist/writer Tim Lane, here is one on The Smiths, his days as a Catholic school boy, the convolution of memory and revelation, and the separation of art and artist.
Hey Luke,
Morrissey’s been a bit of a disappointment, hasn’t he? I was so psyched to see him in Flint a few years back, but then he canceled. And then a whole slew of cancelations took place, and he was being talked about, and I discovered for the first time some of his political leanings. How in the hell, I wondered, could the guy I listened to back in my formative years with, I’ll be honest, a little bit of unease, but a lot of admiration, turn out like this? I mean I love The Smiths. The music is great. And Morrissey’s vocals were, and maybe still, are, great, but the lyrics were the thing I picked apart. “Oh, the alcoholic afternoons that we spent in your room. They meant more to me than any living thing on Earth. They had more worth,” or, “Why pamper life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat,” or, “There’s a club if you’d like to go. You could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die.” It was like he was always singing directly to me, directly to us, right? I mean this guy knew, right?
So how?
It amazes me to this day that I never wound up seeing The Smiths. It’s kind of like being a fifty-year-old Catholic who’s never received communion.
I’m not Catholic anymore, but while I was in elementary and middle school, I was more Catholic than the pope himself. I was an altar boy from fourth through tenth grade, really. I would serve on the altar in some capacity every day for two weeks straight, and then intermittently for the next two weeks, and then I got a week off before the rotation began all over again. EVEN IN THE SUMMERS!
I have this poignant, lucid memory of the second time The Romantics came to town which is wrapped up with so many other old memories of being Catholic.
I had red hair: so I never had a girlfriend. I mean it’s like Intro to Philosophy: Logic 101. Right? Red hair was death. The girls in my class were into guys with the dark hair, or the blond hair, but not the red hair. Do you know that the red hair gene is totally being weeded out of the gene pool? In so many years, like ten or fifteen or twenty—I’m not exactly sure—there won’t be any natural redheads on the entire planet.
The number of masses I sat up on the altar in my black cassock and flowing white surplus, scanning the church for cute girls is a lengthier catalogue than the Book of Psalms. Catholics are into ritual and routine, if nothing else, so families usually attended the same mass each Sunday. By tenth grade, when I wasn’t scheduled to serve, I’d occasionally volunteer to serve ten o’clock mass on Sundays anyway. My dad and I usually went to eight o’clock mass, but the really cute girl with the slightly stylish dark hair and penetrating dark eyes went to ten. I mean like how could she not have noticed me? For six years, I had almost been a permanent fixture on that altar. I had certainly noticed her. Enough to think about her. I mean like I had thought about her for a while. A good long while. I think I might have dreamt of her once. And then, by God, a miracle (which had nothing to do with her) happened in tenth grade. My buddy started dating a public school girl, and her girlfriend was apparently just as lonely as me? Similar dark hair and eyes as my scope at the ten o’clock mass. Cute. Suddenly I had a girlfriend. I mean like I was just thrown in the back seat with this girl. It was strange, but I was happy (until she dumped me).
Shortly after this, The Romantics came to town, and for some reason that totally escapes me, the girlfriends couldn’t go. Maybe they had Model UN or something. Maybe they’d been grounded for smoking pot, like most public school kids did. Maybe their parents didn’t want them dating Catholic school guys. I don’t remember. But I clearly remember what happened at the concert. The concert was at the Capitol Theater. My buddy and I were sitting left of the stage, about midway up. The cute girl from church, who was older now, and even cuter, was sitting behind us. I recognized her instantly. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t recognize me. When our eyes met, she flashed a big smile, and we froze like that for a moment. In that instant, her eyes and smile said, Oh, it’s you! I’ve been waiting for this to happen. It’s taken longer than I figured it might, but I always knew it would happen. We’ve been on course for a slow-moving, head-on collision for some time, haven’t we?
For a moment, I was religiously numb. The Romantics took the stage and it was pandemonium. But it was like I wasn’t there. I was in between the concert and the altar. I was in between the Capitol Theater and St. Mary’s Church. I was in some gray limbo, waiting for the band to break through to me, waiting for the girl to take my hand, waiting for my life to start. Eventually, the moment passed, like so many other moments. My buddy and I probably exchanged looks, or I was jostled, who knows? The Romantics were great. I found myself caught up in the show, or was I ever really completely caught up in the show? I don’t know, man. I can’t remember. Was the cute girl with a guy? Was the cute girl thinking about me? Did she actually remember me, or had I read too much into her smile? And the dread, Oh, my God, the dread. I mean I was sinning right then and there, throughout the whole concert, just as I had been throughout my whole life: sins of the MIND. I had a girlfriend. We had only been dating for about three months, but it was official. We had kissed. She was wearing my varsity jacket. I was cheating.
I think that I actually felt relieved when the concert came to an end. The needle would rise, the record player’s arm would return to its perch, the record would get re-sleeved and life would continue. But that’s not what happened. When the lights went up, the girl tapped my shoulder. The girl tapped my shoulder. THE GIRL TAPPED MY GODDAMN SHOULDER, Luke.
“There’s a party out in Burton,” she said. “No way,” I said. She shrugged. She told me the address. She smiled. She turned and joined the people in the aisle pouring out of the theater. Of course, I thought. Of course there’s a party in Burton. Of course I have a girlfriend. The first girlfriend I’ve had for more than sixty seconds since eighth grade, and there’s a party out in Burton, on a school night, after the concert. Oh, there’s probably a party out in Burton every night. There’s probably so much going on out there, outside of this theater, all the damn time, and I have no idea. I have no clue. But the cute girl from church knows. Damn straight, she knows. She’s probably known for a long time. She probably knew all of that time we sat in church separated by rows of pews, stealing glances at each other. Oh, yeah, I’d caught her looking once or twice. I couldn’t help staring. And now, she had made a pass. All of those years of longing had paid off. But I went home, and several months later my girlfriend returned my varsity jacket and started seeing some senior who had his own car, and I never saw the cute girl from church ever again.
The Smiths have a song for that anecdote, don’t they? “Well, I Wonder,” maybe? Yeaaaaah, dude. Forty years later, I never listen to The Romantics anymore, if I’m being honest. I saw them twice while I was in high school. They came to Flint twice. But I’ve never seen The Smiths. I mean I liked The Romantics, but I loved The Smiths. It’s bizarre. I still listen to The Smiths all the time. Seriously! And as I said, I’m not Catholic anymore. Hell, I don’t even have red hair anymore.
Over the past ten years, I’ve had the opportunity to catch a handful of bands that I missed during their heyday—my heyday. Kraftwerk, Psych Furs, OMD, Modern English, to name a few. At each concert, I always find myself scanning the crowd for a familiar face from the past.
How is it that I didn’t know more about Morrissey? I’ve had more than several conversations with Sheila and my friends over the years on whether we should separate a person’s art from their politics. How do we separate what a person makes for the world from who they are? Obviously, it can be done. The question becomes this: Should it be done? Should I forego studying Bobby Fischer’s amazing chess matches (I mean it’s not like I can understand his moves anyway) because of his antisemitism? Should I have never voted for Bill Clinton? Should I boycott Woody Allen’s Manhattan? I’ve probably seen that film six times. Should I burn all of my Smiths records because Morrissey has come out and said some stupid racist bullshit? It’s hard. Or is it? Maybe I’m just lame. I guess what I’ve decided is that I will never try to catch a Morrissey concert if the opportunity arises, but I’m going to continue to cherish The Smiths. They were—and still are—such a part of me.
My favorite Smiths tune? “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want.” Hands down, dude.
TTYL,
Tim