There is a rather sickening moment during a recent interview with Robert Forster on Soho Radio about his new album Inferno (on which a great deal more later). The interviewer, probably a very nice guy, manages to develop a genuine sense of bonhomie with his guest, not least due to the sudden appearance of the legendary producer Dennis Bovell (The Slits' Cut remains a classic LP) in the studio. The interviewer brings up the idea of Robert producing other artists.
Quite hilariously, Forster mentions Van Morrison. Getting him out of his comfort zone and such. Then he brings up Elton John. Making him rediscover his edge, etc. Finally, there is Paul McCartney who, in the eyes of Robert and many others, needs a foil. Who? Paul Weller. Or, and this suggestion is both genius and flabbergasting, Morrissey. The idea being that Morrissey should be writing McCartney's lyrics.
How good is that, you might wonder. The idea, however, creates a palpable sense of tension in the studio as the poor interviewer simply cannot let this one pass with an emphatic 'hell, yeah', an agreeing giggle or a moment of dignified silence. No, he just has to say it, to set things straight and avoid this dangerous ambivalence. Morrissey? he says, sheepishly. But surely you mean that Morrissey? Morrissey of old?
A bizarre remark, totally uncalled for. That Morrissey? Morrissey of old? What does this have to do with anything? Sadly, Robert humours the sorry bugger and agrees: that would indeed have to be Morrissey as he was in the 80s. Because, and the interviewer has to be absolutely clear on this, Morrissey has become something else, saying these awful and ridiculous things... In other words, exactly what you would expect from a cowardly British broadcaster in this day and age.
It is truly pathetic, and not just because Morrissey's latest album is his best in years (although one has to wonder how many of these journalists have given Low In High School a fair shot), but mostly due to the fact that art has now become an afterthought. I am okay with people disliking Morrissey's lyrics (although despite some harsh lines - which every artist has the right to sing - the man is in fine form, or else go and listen to "Home Is A Question Mark"), but this was not it. This was, first and foremost, a moment of tasteless dread. Genuine and utterly senseless. Art did not come into it.
