I am a Ghost
New Member
Going for a song
Jeremy Vine on What Difference Does It Make? by the Smiths
The hand that tapped my shoulder had a ticket in it. Our college canteen was heaving, but my new friend, Paul Murray, had managed to seek me out. “They’re on tomorrow in Newcastle. Stupid name, but who cares? Come along.” It was my first term at Durham, and I was grateful for the light relief from medieval poetry. The trek to a small club in Newcastle we could manage. And the name? Well, I had heard mention of the Smiths. There was a buzz about them in the NME, but as yet I did not know what they sounded like. So I had no idea what to expect when I stood there with a mass of other inebriated 18-year-olds. Then the lights went up and there was Johnny Marr, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, playing one of the greatest opening riffs I had ever heard. What Difference Does It Make? was the song. The sound was like a flash of lightning � Marr’s style is multi-layered, more pluck than strum � but better was to come. A gangly twentysomething with a high-stacked hairdo shuffled sideways onto the stage on one foot, sporting NHS glasses and the least surreptitious hearing aid I had ever seen. A bunch of daffodils sprouted from the back of his trousers. Welcome to my world, Morrissey.
I thought I had left literature behind me that night, but this fellow was full of bookish references (“Keats and Yeats are on your side, while Wilde is on mine”) and no mean sense of drama. What Difference? began with the knockout opener: “All men have secrets and here is mine, so let it be known.” The crowd laughed when he started singing. It reminded me of an Arsenal-supporting friend who said: “That lobbed goal by Henry on Saturday; when the ball went in the net, it was so perfect, we didn’t cheer, we burst out laughing.”
Looking back, I see that moment, and that song, as an end of something in music. Punk was dead, the new romantics had run out of hair lacquer, and we would have been back with the classic pop-star-as-tanned-hunk model embodied by Wham! had not the Smiths exploded all the illusions. This was a band who sang about being ill, of all things. And in What Difference? we hear the confusion of the Walter Mitty loser, one minute playing the hero he can never be � “I’d leap in front of a flying bullet for you” � and the next retreating into the reality of failure. “You make me feel so ashamed because I’ve only got two hands” is poetry. Every time I hear it, I am reminded that pop has more capacity to surprise and delight than it gets credit for; and on one night when it did, I was there.
Jeremy Vine presents Panorama and The Jeremy Vine Show on Radio 2
From today's Sunday Times
Jeremy Vine on What Difference Does It Make? by the Smiths
The hand that tapped my shoulder had a ticket in it. Our college canteen was heaving, but my new friend, Paul Murray, had managed to seek me out. “They’re on tomorrow in Newcastle. Stupid name, but who cares? Come along.” It was my first term at Durham, and I was grateful for the light relief from medieval poetry. The trek to a small club in Newcastle we could manage. And the name? Well, I had heard mention of the Smiths. There was a buzz about them in the NME, but as yet I did not know what they sounded like. So I had no idea what to expect when I stood there with a mass of other inebriated 18-year-olds. Then the lights went up and there was Johnny Marr, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, playing one of the greatest opening riffs I had ever heard. What Difference Does It Make? was the song. The sound was like a flash of lightning � Marr’s style is multi-layered, more pluck than strum � but better was to come. A gangly twentysomething with a high-stacked hairdo shuffled sideways onto the stage on one foot, sporting NHS glasses and the least surreptitious hearing aid I had ever seen. A bunch of daffodils sprouted from the back of his trousers. Welcome to my world, Morrissey.
I thought I had left literature behind me that night, but this fellow was full of bookish references (“Keats and Yeats are on your side, while Wilde is on mine”) and no mean sense of drama. What Difference? began with the knockout opener: “All men have secrets and here is mine, so let it be known.” The crowd laughed when he started singing. It reminded me of an Arsenal-supporting friend who said: “That lobbed goal by Henry on Saturday; when the ball went in the net, it was so perfect, we didn’t cheer, we burst out laughing.”
Looking back, I see that moment, and that song, as an end of something in music. Punk was dead, the new romantics had run out of hair lacquer, and we would have been back with the classic pop-star-as-tanned-hunk model embodied by Wham! had not the Smiths exploded all the illusions. This was a band who sang about being ill, of all things. And in What Difference? we hear the confusion of the Walter Mitty loser, one minute playing the hero he can never be � “I’d leap in front of a flying bullet for you” � and the next retreating into the reality of failure. “You make me feel so ashamed because I’ve only got two hands” is poetry. Every time I hear it, I am reminded that pop has more capacity to surprise and delight than it gets credit for; and on one night when it did, I was there.
Jeremy Vine presents Panorama and The Jeremy Vine Show on Radio 2
From today's Sunday Times