"Why-hy-hy-hy-hy-hy-hy-hy-hy-hy-hy don't you like Morrissey's solo work?", music acquaintances have asked me. "Is it because he's Vegan?" "Is it because he's [probably] homosexual?" "Is it the insular brooding nature of his lyrics which can be off-putting considering the cynical and often sarcastic overtones mixed with witty British government and pop culture references?"
"No," is my reply. "It's because Andy Rourke, Mike Joyce and Johnny Marr no longer play in his band."
"Oh, so you like the Smiths then," music acquaintances imply.
For every Joe Strummer there was a Clash. For every Frank Black (Francis) there was a Pixies. For every Paul Weller, there was a Jam. For every Elvis Costello, there was an Attractions. As in gestalt, the whole of these bands is greater than their sum parts. And for me, the Smiths are no different.