How Soon Is Now
Some Anthems Never Die
Experiencing The Smiths in the 1980s was akin to discovering a secret world that spoke directly to my moody soul. In an era dominated by glossy pop and synth-heavy tracks (yes, I loved them all.) The Smiths offered something profoundly different—a raw, poetic honesty that resonated with those who felt out of step with mainstream culture. It is no secret to anyone who knew me in the early 1980s that I was most definitely out of step with the planet.
Morrissey's lyrics delved into themes of alienation, longing, and the complexities of human emotion, providing a voice to the voiceless and a mirror to the misunderstood. Johnny Marr's intricate guitar work complemented this introspection, weaving melodies that were both melancholic and uplifting. Yes, our dear Morrissey has since turned into a misogynist asshole, but I am able to create the personal boundary when it comes to this music. I must because, you know, life's too short, and it's The Smiths.
Being a fan of The Smiths meant more than just enjoying their music; it was about finding a community of like-minded individuals who saw beauty in vulnerability and strength in sensitivity. The Smiths didn't just create songs—they crafted anthems for the introspective, the dreamers, and those yearning for connection in a disconnected world. You could say we were a movement, complete with an intuitive and immediate bond whenever someone played them nearby. They were the coolest of cool for people who didn't give a shit about being cool. Even the contrarians of the time were fans.
The anthems have stood the test of time.
Their influence extended beyond music, shaping fashion, attitudes, and a sense of identity for many. Even decades later, The Smiths' impact remains, a testament to their unique ability to touch hearts and articulate the inarticulable.
In 1984, my memories include the last roommates, a distinguishing relationship, and a dysfunctional living situation off Venice Boulevard near Culver City. There were four of us in that residing place: my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Troy, a waiter from TGI Fridays and my first real relationship with a man; Larry, another waiter; and Jules, with whom I tended to spend the most time because of our love of smoking cocaine while watching ABC soap operas. Poor Troy, I was still deep in my internal homophobia, and as much as I cared for him, I still had no real concept or capability to be in a gay relationship. God bless Jules; she dealt with all of my insanity in that relationship and kept me high.
In 1984, after the end of that relationship, I finally found a place for myself and moved to West Hollywood. I had been living in more of the coastal areas since I drove into California on an LSD high on June 28, 1980. I had been traveling into West Hollywood for the bars (including the Revolver job) for almost two years and felt it was time to recognize where I really wanted to be. 1984 also happened to be the year that West Hollywood became an incorporated city, so I came at the right time.
I remember feeling part of this newly incorporated city and its party atmosphere amongst the inaugural citizens. The bars were always full and blasting the sounds of the day, the boys were flocking in from all over the country, and the darkness of the AIDS epidemic had not fully permeated the freedoms in that there were still questions and sexually, a lot of denial. Revolver, the club where I worked as a VJ, was in its heyday. The crowds were always there. Video was prevalent and growing in form, with clubs starting to put up big screens, artists becoming creatives in the new medium, and MTV taking over the airwaves.
It could have been 1983 when I first heard of the Smiths, but to the best of my recollection, it wasn't until KROQ in Los Angeles played "How Soon is Now" in 1984 that I really zeroed in on the brooding, moody, and sensational Manchester, England-produced band. It wasn't long before the names of Morrissey (later a successful solo artist) and Johnny Marr became a part of my musical vocabulary. He offered me hours upon hours of escape and my own beautiful melancholy.
The Smiths soon became a fixture in the clubs, outside dance floor-only experiences, although I could swear I have swayed to and fro in some form of stupor to their sounds (particularly "How Soon Is Now") more than once. There were earlier releases such as "What Difference Does it Make," "This Charming Man," "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now," "The Boy With the Thorn In His Side," "Bigmouth Strikes Again," "Panic," "Ask," "Shoplifters of the World Unite," "Sheila Take a Bow," "Girlfriend In a Coma," "I Started Something I Couldn't Finish," and "Stop Me if You Think That You've Heard This One Before."
Hearing The Smiths takes me to a time when I wasn't scared yet. I hadn't taken hold of the realistic nature of the world around me. I was still very much in my Peter Pan phase, and I didn't know well enough to think or worry about the future. That time would come and go and then come again in the years ahead. All of it was memorable, some terrifying and filled with grieving. The lessons are a part of the process. It does seem to me, however, that in the myriad of bands and music epitomizing the grandeur of the 1980s, The Smiths are a pivotal sound representing the era, and "How Soon Is Now" is my theme song for 1984.
You, shut your mouth, how can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does.