Morrissey has seen his fair share of highs and lows since the dissolution of the Smiths, but mostly, his solo material grazed in forgotten but not unattractive pastures. It's not that he wasn't any good; he just wasn't doing much truly noteworthy, particularly since the early 90s. In typical rock star fashion, he kissed-off his critics with snide dismissals and frosty shrugs, but atypically, he did it cleverly, where no matter how much of an ass he might seem to fatuous know-it-alls, he always remained a smartass. Years of Refusal as a whole is among his most scathing and pugnacious efforts, a full-swing f-you to anyone he has dealt with—the ignoble, vacuous or deceitful. As always, he remains that glittering demon of self-seriousness and unabashed ambiguity. It was usually in the musical arrangements that he was flagging: his tongue rarely significantly faltered. And if nothing else, no one can say that Refusal doesn't rock.
It's strange that he had to sever ties with Johnny Marr before he began engaging a more muscular side to rock music. He always served as counterpoint to Marr's stagy guitar prowess; the soulful poet interchangeably tossing out slippery importance and snarky punchlines (as well as the occasional trite aphorism). But he hasn't straddled a rocket like this one in some time. Fear that he may be reserving his own cache of Accelerate-style, late-career explosive shrugs is quickly diminished. The defiant “Something Is Squeezing My Skull” hits the ground running on coals, charges through a rollicking guitar riff and finds Morrissey adding extra grit to, “I'm doing very well/I can block out the present and the past now/I know by now you think I should have straightened myself out/Thank you, drop dead.” Less successful is his perfunctory listing of drugs like he was presenting an alternate, less hedonistic take on “Feel Good Hit of the Summer,” but what surrounds this bridge grinds with enough vivacious fury that it's tough to resist.
But this is no forced series of hard rockers to prove that Morrissey's still young and feral at heart. A few songs cook quietly, forming blisters hidden under the calluses. “You Were Good in Your Own Time” seems reflective and autobiographical, but masks its bitter venom in words that ring of hollow tenderness and sorrow—how you handle that tricky maneuver is dependable on how much you like the tune. “When Last I Spoke to Carol,” meanwhile, blossoms with mariachi flames, vivid dreams of Spaghetti Western horns and six-strings. Melodically, it's the album's highlight.
Even the lesser tracks are diminished by wishes of what could have been, not flat results. “Black Cloud” wastes guest Jeff Beck on a predictable chord progression, especially disappointing since Morrissey hones his verbal blade well: “I can choke myself to please you/And I can sink much lower than usual/But there's nothing I can do to make you mind.” “One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell” ends with a sudden snuff of a candle; an incomplete wasted opportunity that retains a share of authentic musical excitement. And first single, “I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris,” is proof that Morrissey can still botch a stuffy acclamation—there's no specific reason at all why he should love Paris instead of any other big, beautiful city. And without an emphatic hook, it's quite the curiosity why he chose this one to help “market” the album.
“It's Not Your Birthday Anymore” is easily the most dangerous effort on the album. Dabbling in synths, quiet/loud dynamics, choruses so towering they threaten to crush every UK arena rocker alive and the very use of “syrupy” and “sentimental” in its lyrics, by all rights it should implode upon itself. But the words are used as an insult, violently sneering, “Did you really think we meant all those syrupy, sentimental things that we said?” Its grasp of drama is shaky—I even wonder if the entire song was written sarcastically—but big doesn't always mean bad, and it coasts on sheer spectacle.
The album closes dependably with “I'm OK by Myself,” a proud and defiant rocker that finds Morrissey shaking free of all of his critics and supporters, suggesting that they can often be one and the same. It's not necessarily a great song, but it is a great finish, displaying how triumphant Morrissey is among all of the discussion surrounding his person and his contributions to the art form. “I don't need you and I never have.” Kinda makes me feel worthless as both a fan and music critic.
Suggesting at this point that the Smiths engaged us with music more carefully nuanced and breathtakingly inventive is worthless. As Morrissey might suggest himself, fuck them. It's in the past. So are the years of uneven recordings from Morrissey free from his bandmates. What about this album? As for the potential that this LP is destined to see constant rotation twenty years from now (like, say, The Queen Is Dead), I doubt it'll hold up. But this is a viable statement from man-as-artist, and as such, is a submission for independence from labels of all kind and distant memories. Should this be one of his final acts of defiance (or an actual swan song), his legacy matters nothing on whether this album desires absorption. It gets my approval even if he doesn't give a rat's ass.
"Years of Refusal" is on sale February 17, 2009 from Lost Highway.
