Morrissey, it was really nothing
His rejection got to me before, but heaven knows I'm less miserable now
By Nikki Bazar 02/01/2007
When I got the news that Morrissey would not agree to be interviewed by me in conjunction with his sold-out appearance at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium this weekend, it brought back a very old memory.
I was 12 years old and a budding goth with dyed black hair, heavy eyeliner and a notebook covered with scrawled tributes to the Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Smiths. I spent most of my time moping in my bedroom and writing dark poetry by candlelight.
Enthusiasm is so not goth — but when I heard that local DJ Richard Blade would be interviewing The Smiths frontman Morrissey on KROQ, I nonetheless got very excited. I spent a week working on an intelligent question to ask Morrissey in case I got through on the phone lines. I came up with a question about Oscar Wilde’s grave in Paris and the song “Cemetery Gates.” I imagined I would wow Morrissey with my literary knowledge; that he would recognize in me a kindred spirit of erudite gloom.
When the day of the interview came, I set up my tape recorder and began speed-dialing, and actually got through. The screener asked for my question and then put me on hold to await my turn. I was going to talk to Morrissey!
When they finally connected me, I felt like I was in a tunnel. When Morrissey answered, I could barely understand what he was saying; it was as if I’d lost the ability to speak English.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t.
Only seconds later, I uttered the most devastatingly stupid thing I could have ever imagined. “Morrissey,” I asked, “can I get a phone number for you off the air, so maybe we can talk privately sometime?”
Some part of me must have thought this was actually a possibility, that Morrissey — intrigued by my insightful question — would want to speak with me at greater length, and in private. That part of me faced a cold reality only moments later when both Morrissey and Blade erupted in laughter and proceeded to make what I can only describe as vicious fun of me.
Mortified, I quickly hung up, but the mockery continued off the air even as I was flinging myself on my bed and sobbing uncontrollably. Minutes later, the phone calls came: friends who had heard, including my much older boyfriend, who was unsuccessfully stifling his laughter as he attempted to console me.
I thought I would never get over it, but I guess time lessens all pain. I managed to go on with my life, even continuing to be a fan of The Smiths. I learned to appreciate Morrissey not as the grandfather of glum, but rather as one of the great literary wits of our time. I also learned to recognize guitarist Johnny Marr as the other, irreplaceable creative part of the band.
When The Smiths finally broke up, I was too old to consider idolatrous suicide, but still devoted enough to lament the end of one of the best bands in history. I followed Morrissey partway through his solo career but alas, the music just felt too, well, Marr-less.
And so, I suppose I was not as devastated last week when Morrissey declined an interview with me as I was when I was just a blossoming goth, and he and Richard Blade made sport of my sincerity. (Of course, if by any chance you end up reading this, Morrissey, I still wouldn’t mind having that little chat.)
DIGG | del.icio.us | REDDIT