Still Tired
as it were...
I had the chance to wander around Stretford yesterday which was a vaguely surreal experience somehow. It was just so strange to be in a place so loaded with meaning- so special in some weird way and yet the streets are pretty much like anywhere else in Lancashire and the locals seemed horribly oblivious to the importance of the place! Getting off the tram it was almost like stepping into some mock town that contained all the relevant landmarks; it all seemed vaguely unreal. Then walking down Kings Road and standing looking over at 384, a totally unremarkable house- so familiar, with life going on all around, yet I felt horribly sentimental! I could almost imagine the ghost of twenty years ago walking the street, or Johnny Marr nervously approaching the gate. And seeing the local shops he would’ve used, the post box he most likely sent his many letters off from, then the dismal and slightly decrepit iron bridge he walked over so often, it really set the scene of his life back then.
It was nice seeing the Moz inspired graffiti on the bridge; it reassured me I hadn’t made the whole thing up! Looking out from the view at the top of those stairs and across the concrete back yards of the houses, and the tram line- would that have been there in the 70’s/ 80’s? I know it wasn’t running then but I’m not sure how old the line is… even so, not the most picturesque view from a bedroom window- I wonder what he thought looking out on it all. Then I sat in the near-by park amongst all the daffodils and wondered how often he’d been there. It all seemed so wonderfully melancholic and romantic!
Anyway, I guess the vague point of my ramble is that it got me to thinking just how ordinary an existence it all would’ve been and how easy it would’ve been for that knock at the door never to have never come and rescued him. It just makes me wonder what on earth would’ve happened to him, I can imagine him sticking out a mile in those surroundings, and yet so many people are like that in every town and never get the chance to escape. And somehow these drab surroundings seem to cultivate the most original of the species, like the soil that feeds the roots becomes and absolute intrinsic part of that person’s make-up, even if it can be so damaging- like it holds the duel power of nourishment and potential destruction. It just made me think that if Morrissey hadn’t have come from that he wouldn’t have had so much fire pent up inside him that gave The Smiths such an absolute and intense power and relevance- songs like Still Ill/ Hand In Glove would never have appeared.
I find it quite fascinating how you can never really escape your roots, whatever mark they’ve left on you. And I guess it just made me feel like I understood a little more of the story… twenty years too late?! What have been other people’s experiences of the Moz landmarks?
It was nice seeing the Moz inspired graffiti on the bridge; it reassured me I hadn’t made the whole thing up! Looking out from the view at the top of those stairs and across the concrete back yards of the houses, and the tram line- would that have been there in the 70’s/ 80’s? I know it wasn’t running then but I’m not sure how old the line is… even so, not the most picturesque view from a bedroom window- I wonder what he thought looking out on it all. Then I sat in the near-by park amongst all the daffodils and wondered how often he’d been there. It all seemed so wonderfully melancholic and romantic!
Anyway, I guess the vague point of my ramble is that it got me to thinking just how ordinary an existence it all would’ve been and how easy it would’ve been for that knock at the door never to have never come and rescued him. It just makes me wonder what on earth would’ve happened to him, I can imagine him sticking out a mile in those surroundings, and yet so many people are like that in every town and never get the chance to escape. And somehow these drab surroundings seem to cultivate the most original of the species, like the soil that feeds the roots becomes and absolute intrinsic part of that person’s make-up, even if it can be so damaging- like it holds the duel power of nourishment and potential destruction. It just made me think that if Morrissey hadn’t have come from that he wouldn’t have had so much fire pent up inside him that gave The Smiths such an absolute and intense power and relevance- songs like Still Ill/ Hand In Glove would never have appeared.
I find it quite fascinating how you can never really escape your roots, whatever mark they’ve left on you. And I guess it just made me feel like I understood a little more of the story… twenty years too late?! What have been other people’s experiences of the Moz landmarks?
- so many references!
