For the longest time, I saw no need to replace the caricature that popped up in my head whenever I thought (infrequently) of Morrissey with actual, first-hand observation. I’d come late to the Smiths party; like,15 years after the group broke up, and I’d never continued my investigations on into Morrissey’s by-all-accounts worthy solo output. The admittedly cartoonish impression I had of the man — a fey, Wilde-quoting, self-declared celibate animal rights activist whose misanthropic take on humanity makes Elvis Costello seem like Bobby McFerrin — was enough. Years of Refusal, indeed.
