06/03/07
Text: Aaron Autrand
Photographers: Dustin A. Beatty
It takes time to get the hair just right. On a good day, when things cooperate, three minutes might do it, squeaking in just before the final strains of “Hand in Glove.” The tight pull back, the expert flick of the wrist that provides the loft to get it up there. Other days, when the pomade isn’t warm enough or the comb catches every snag, you might spend all 11:15 of “The Teachers are Afraid of the Pupils” sculpting to achieve the right height. Every hair in place, you step outside to greet the day, whether it’s the grey skies of Manchester or the brownish ones of East L.A.
Jonny’s been doing it since middle school. “I have the technique down,” he says in a quiet voice, barely more than a breath. The pompadour is flawless, rising close to three inches above his forehead, an imposing wall of hair. Match it with a cardigan, conspicuous t-shirt, slim jeans and some black-and-white wingtips, and he’s easy to describe and pick out in a crowd.
He’s a Smiths fan.
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Dictators have a habit of making themselves larger than life. Monuments are erected, cities are renamed, official portraits hung on every wall in the land. Glowing, airbrushed biographies trumpet their humble beginnings and valiant struggles. They use the media, the arts, the schools, anything they can exert power over to craft themselves as gods in their own image. They—or the governments that follow them—create a cult of personality. From Stalin to Chairman Mao, from the tag team of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il to the (deceased) “President for Life” of Turkmenistan, Saparmurat Niyazov, they become self-styled “heroes of the people.”
Heroes are a funny thing. The word has come to mean larger-than-life, supernatural, unassailable—the idea still calls to mind tights, capes or Monday night television. But the definition is far simpler—“a person who is admired for their courage or outstanding achievements.” A hero is someone to look up to, to pattern yourself after, a touchstone in life that others, sometimes many others, can relate to.
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“It’s a lifestyle,” Jonny says. “Morrissey is more than just an artist; he’s a way of life—for me and for a lot of people here.” He scans the room at the tenth annual Smiths/Morrissey convention at the Henry Fonda Theater in Los Angeles, surrounded by kindred spirits.
“There’s something about him that just grafts to people,” he says of his hero. “He’s so personal, he tells life the way it is: inside and out, good, bad, harsh and loving as well. He’s just truthful, and that’s basically what everyone wants—truth and compassion.”
“I’m here to celebrate the bliss of Morrissey,” he says, “his genius, his work, his life.”
Jonny’s not alone. The venue is overflowing with kids just like him, American kids who weren’t old enough to operate the radio dial when The Smiths released their first single in 1983—kids whose older brothers, sisters, even parents start the day with Stephen Patrick Morrissey’s voice on vinyl. Jonny spent $500 here last year—some of it on shirts, buttons and memorabilia, but mostly on records that weren’t in his collection yet. Each year the Morrissey disciples gather to swap stories and seven-inches, to shout out answers to trivia questions asked by the host, DJ Richard Blade.
Blade has his fair share of Morrissey anecdotes, and has recounted them over and over during the past ten years he has served as MC of the convention. His favorite is about a look-alike contest he hosted at a club, a contest that Morrissey himself asked to personally judge.
“He came down and got into the DJ booth with me,” Blade recalls. “People would come up and ask me for a song, and then they’d see Morrissey standing behind me and say ‘Hey, you’re really good,’ thinking he was a look-alike. Slowly this buzz went around the club that maybe it wasn’t a look-alike. So I came on the microphone and said ‘Look, I want to tell you something, but everyone has to promise that they are gonna be cool. Are you gonna be cool?’ and they all yelled ‘Yeah, we’re gonna be cool!’ I said ‘Great. In the booth with me: Stephen Patrick Morrissey.’ Absolute silence in the club for like three seconds, and then it was like everyone was on a rubber band and I was at the apex of the band. They all just rushed the booth, the Plexiglas smashed in, the turntables and CD players went everywhere, security came in, and Morrissey ended up locked in the office for the rest of the night. We did the look-alike contest, and we had to take the three finalists into the office because poor Morrissey couldn’t get out. That’s the kind of love and devotion fans have for Morrissey.”
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