Six years on from I Am Not a Dog on a Chain, and it appears Morrissey has, if anything, leaned further into playing the victim. He envisions himself as an underdog, and to his credit, he has a right to do so. His label pulled the rug from under him and refused to release his latest album. Fire Records has since picked up the slack and pushed on through, with The Smiths’ frontman confirming two albums’ worth of material is on the way. Make-Up is a Lie, he says, is the stronger of the two. Even the most dedicated fans should be worried, should this turn out to be true. It feels as though Morrissey’s goodwill stock has expired. He has not helped himself. But Make-Up is a Lie is a chance for the veteran songwriter to reconnect with his listeners and rekindle the faith people once had in his music and views, the latter less so as time went on. Separating Morrissey’s opinions from his work is tricky when they’re both of a similar out-of-step style. A sinking quality prevails.
But Morrissey is, all the same, trying to return to the fold of public goodwill. You’re Right, It’s Time acts as the opener but also as a rewriting of the last six years. It sounds as though it’s Morrissey’s choice to release new material. Rebel Without Applause eked out years ago and had a Smiths-like charm to it which had it linger on the mind for a week longer than any of this material will last. Opening track You’re Right, It’s Time serves as a warbling piece of fodder for what sounds like Morrissey trying to capture the floaty, charismatic tone he worked with during his time in The Smiths. That much left him years ago, but credit where it’s due, Morrissey has adapted constantly with the times and, up until Make-Up is a Lie, had evolved well. Not here. He sounds like a caricature of himself, and where he may still manage to suspend the nastiness of his political views, the irony not quite seeping into the stage performances, it’s inescapable in the vacuum of his latest album.
Where on stage you can get lost in your pint, listening to the latest Morrissey songs at home is like being stuck next to the haunted oddities of the pub. All three singles, the title track, Notre-Dame, and a cover of Roxy Music’s Amazona, range from obtuse (Make-Up is a Lie) to embarrassingly laden with conspiracy nonsense (Notre-Dame). Whatever you think of Morrissey, his days as a rebellious, outspoken statesman of the indie scene, the alternative current, are long gone. Here he peddles the same shallow notions of those who are scrambling for power, and it’s impossible to remove that uncomfortable, desperate feeling from this Fire Records release. Stripped-back notions, a relaxed tone, with Headache, is a moment for Morrissey to try to reinvent himself. He gets nowhere. A breezy instrumental with nothing to quell the storm or even suggest Morrissey has anything left to say that’ll connect with those wanting to give him another chance.
Follow that up with the same repetitions and shortcomings of Boulevard, and it’s easy to hear Morrissey has nothing left to give. He sings of walking with broken legs, that bruised shell staggering on irrespective of the blows, but The Smiths frontman has done little to build the goodwill necessary for such a message to land well. Romantic epics with a hollow core, chances taken on anthemic pieces which fall well short of what they could be, Make-Up is a Lie is a mess of moments which Morrissey never feels all that honestly connected with. Part of the problem is that his rhetoric and writing are at odds with one another; the dreamy romancer only works when ignorant of his dense, nationalistic pride. Zoom Zoom the Little Boy is laughable writing, but at least the instrumental work hides much of those Morrissey-shaped shortcomings.
Salvage what you can from songs like The Night Pop Dropped and album closer The Monsters of Pig Alley, but Make-Up is a Lie is as disingenuous as Morrissey gets. Kerching Kerching is the best example of this borderline laziness, this sense that the once formidable songwriter with his fingers on the pulse of society lost his grip years ago and is now stuck flailing with regrettable notions on the world around him. That much he cannot overcome here. Much of Make-Up is a Lie feels droll, repetitive instrumentally and as though the Suedehead songwriter is traipsing through his memories, polishing up his Little England logic with romanticised views of his own relationships to the community which he continues to care for, genuinely or not. Vocally, Morrissey is still impressive, but this is a far cry from the quality expected of a man with forty years in the game.
