Two hours before I sat in his Maserati with some freaked-out Belgian teenagers, Bono and I began our dialogue about rock 'n' roll by discussing a computer company. I had already interviewed ba.s.sist Adam Clayton two days before, and he was fine (he was smart and sarcastic, and he has very large hands). I had interviewed the Edge earlier that afternoon, and he was equally fine (serious and soft-spoken and wearing that stupid skullcap). I'll talk to drummer Larry Mullen next week over the telephone, and he will be likewise affable. They are all quotable people, and-within the context of the band-they are all equally important. Their longtime producer Brian Eno once said U2 was "the only real group" he'd ever met, because their music is so dependent on the interlocking, democratic nature of the songwriting. But from a cultural perspective-from the perspective of someone who is interested in what U2 is supposed to mean mean-Bono is pretty much the whole band. He's probably the least musical member of U2, but he talks more than the other three members combined-I have never met anyone who likes being interviewed more than Bono.1 He can talk about anything. And the first thing he talks about is the kind of thing rock singers rarely talk about; the first thing he talks about is Steve Jobs. He can talk about anything. And the first thing he talks about is the kind of thing rock singers rarely talk about; the first thing he talks about is Steve Jobs.

"The company that best exemplifies the marriage of technology and pop culture is Apple," Bono says as he paces the floor. "They understand music. They like music. They like the art object. The iPod is probably the greatest pop object since the electric guitar. We-as a band-feel strongly about the iPod. We-as a band-talked about the idea for an iPod years ago. We-as a band-are fans of Apple."

We are in a room with a telephone. Bono points to the telephone.

"We have just now-ten minutes ago-made a partnership with Apple, right on that very phone," he continues. "We want to work with them. The Edge wants to work with their scientists. We want to play with their design team. We want to be in their commercial. We will do a commercial with Apple for our alb.u.m, and no money will change hands-which is important, because we have been offered boatloads of money from many other people. But we will make an Apple commercial that's as good as any video. And next year, you will be able to go to a U2 show and download the concert onto your iPod. We're going to make a digital box set, where you can get every U2 alb.u.m and every U2 B-side and every U2 lyric, all at once. We want to do this because we like their company. It's art, commerce, and technology colliding."

It strikes me that Bono is talking about Apple the same way he talks about Rwandan genocide. He is nothing if not charismatic; if he worked in advertising, we would probably say he has a strong "force of personality." But it also feels a little odd to hear the leader of a rock band talking about how awesome it's going to be to make a commercial for a computer company. I ask him if this partnership will require some kind of compromise, or if this move could somehow bring U2's credibility into question.

"I'm very fond of Steve [Jobs] personally," he responds. "I'm a fan of his company. And you know, we already operate within this kind of corporate structure. We've all been whining about how white rock 'n' roll has its head in the sand on a lot of these issues and how hip-hop has a much more honest approach. Russell Simmons laughs at all those middle-cla.s.s college kids who are preoccupied with the fear of selling out. I've never been afraid of commerce. I've never been afraid of people who run music companies. There is this cliche that artists are pure and businesspeople can't be trusted. Well, in my life I've met a lot of artists who were real a.s.sholes, and I've met a lot of businessmen who walk their dogs. So these things aren't true. We need new thinking."

"New thinking" is one of Bono's critical buzzwords: he wants the world to think differently about many, many things. He wants people to realize the war against AIDS is much more significant than the war against Iraq. He wants American taxpayers to believe that forgiving third world nations of their debt is more beneficial to the world than forcing them to pay it back. These are the causes he has embraced, and not without success; Bono is the most tangibly successful rock 'n' roll activist of all time (he's certainly the only rock star who has been taken seriously by United Nations Secretary General Kofi Annan, ultra-right-wing North Carolina senator Jesse Helms, and former U.S. Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill). This is the man who prompted Time Time magazine to rhetorically ask whether or not he could "save the world." So when one considers how much power Bono actually wields, and when one considers the state of the planet, and when one considers that U2 is metaphorically using words like magazine to rhetorically ask whether or not he could "save the world." So when one considers how much power Bono actually wields, and when one considers the state of the planet, and when one considers that U2 is metaphorically using words like dismantle dismantle and and bomb bomb in the context of an alb.u.m t.i.tle, one might a.s.sume that this U2 alb.u.m will be the most overtly political alb.u.m of 2004. in the context of an alb.u.m t.i.tle, one might a.s.sume that this U2 alb.u.m will be the most overtly political alb.u.m of 2004.

Which it is not.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb is not political at all; it's a wholly personal alb.u.m, and many of the songs were inspired by the death of Bono's father, Bob Hewson, who succ.u.mbed to cancer in August 2001. The songwriting process worked as it normally does for the band: the Edge brought in guitar demos, the band collaborated on the sonic skeletons and turned them into U2 songs, and Bono added the lyrics at the end. And though Bono fully intended these songs to be political, it just didn't happen. is not political at all; it's a wholly personal alb.u.m, and many of the songs were inspired by the death of Bono's father, Bob Hewson, who succ.u.mbed to cancer in August 2001. The songwriting process worked as it normally does for the band: the Edge brought in guitar demos, the band collaborated on the sonic skeletons and turned them into U2 songs, and Bono added the lyrics at the end. And though Bono fully intended these songs to be political, it just didn't happen.

"When we make a record, it's not a contrived process," explains the Edge in his signature monotone. "It's not like we sit down and say, 'We're going to write about this.' I don't think any of us thought, Let's make a political record. Let's make a political record. But we certainly thought that was going to be part of it. I am a little bit surprised that it's so personal. I was expecting it to be a But we certainly thought that was going to be part of it. I am a little bit surprised that it's so personal. I was expecting it to be a little little more political, but it hasn't gone that way." more political, but it hasn't gone that way."

What's most interesting about Edge's sentiment is how hard the band openly worked toward that goal. The alb.u.m's first single, "Vertigo" (which oddly resembles the Supremes' "You Keep Me Hanging On") was originally t.i.tled "Native Son," and every single lyric was different; originally, it was completely completely a political track. But it felt forced; this was not a rebel song. What Bono ultimately realized is that you cannot be political just because other people a.s.sume it's your job. No matter how many times he appears on a political track. But it felt forced; this was not a rebel song. What Bono ultimately realized is that you cannot be political just because other people a.s.sume it's your job. No matter how many times he appears on The O'Reilly Factor The O'Reilly Factor, he's still more of an artist than a politician.

"I write feelings, not thoughts," Bono says while lying on a leather couch, the caricature of a therapy patient. "Feelings are much stronger than thoughts. We are all led by instinct, and our intellect catches up later.2 This alb.u.m proves that point. I would have certainly preferred to take on the issues that I deal with politically, but what came out of me were the other things in my life I wasn't tending to: my family, the hypocrisy of my own heart, and my father's death. I mean, why aren't I spending more time with my kids? Why am I trying to save other people's kids instead? How can I sing about love when I'm never at home? There are a lot of things that need to be addressed in the world. But those other things just came pouring out of me." This alb.u.m proves that point. I would have certainly preferred to take on the issues that I deal with politically, but what came out of me were the other things in my life I wasn't tending to: my family, the hypocrisy of my own heart, and my father's death. I mean, why aren't I spending more time with my kids? Why am I trying to save other people's kids instead? How can I sing about love when I'm never at home? There are a lot of things that need to be addressed in the world. But those other things just came pouring out of me."

By the time you read this, the United States either has the same president it had a few weeks ago or it has a new president who is taller. That was not the case when I spoke to U2; during the week of our interviews, it was still September. Not surprisingly, we talked about the impending election (even less surprising, the Irish are far more interested in America than Americans are interested in Ireland). The Edge was open about his support for John Kerry, but Bono-supremely aware that he will have to work with whomever wins-remained staunchly nonpartisan. "I have forsaken my ability to talk about this issue," he said, and I find it hilarious that he actually used the word forsaken. forsaken. For the past twenty-five years, countless people have referred to Bono as "messianic." Now he actually talks like Jesus. For the past twenty-five years, countless people have referred to Bono as "messianic." Now he actually talks like Jesus.

Bono's nonpartisanship has been the catalyst for everything he and his band have accomplished; it's why he can work with legitimate political figures in a meaningful way, and it's why U2 can become business partners with Apple without giving up on rock 'n' roll. But it does raise a paradox: the reason U2 were (arguably) the most important band of the 1980s was because audiences felt they always always took a side. What makes "Sunday b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday" a powerful song is that something seemed to be at stake, even if you had no idea what happened in Northern Ireland during the winter of 1972. If anything, U2 seemed to care about things too much; there was no middle of the road on the drive toward Joshua Tree. And somewhat surprisingly, the band now expresses mild sheepishness about the 1980s, even though that era made them famous. took a side. What makes "Sunday b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday" a powerful song is that something seemed to be at stake, even if you had no idea what happened in Northern Ireland during the winter of 1972. If anything, U2 seemed to care about things too much; there was no middle of the road on the drive toward Joshua Tree. And somewhat surprisingly, the band now expresses mild sheepishness about the 1980s, even though that era made them famous.

"If you had to reduce U2 down to the waving of the white flag, which is a moment from the War War tour, that would be the worst thing," says Clayton when I ask what he hopes U2 will tour, that would be the worst thing," says Clayton when I ask what he hopes U2 will not not be remembered for in fifty years. "At the time, I think it was in the spirit of the performance. But we weren't very ironic people back then. We were pretty serious people, and we didn't see that we could have been a little more subtle about things like that. But, hey, as mistakes go, that's probably not a bad one." be remembered for in fifty years. "At the time, I think it was in the spirit of the performance. But we weren't very ironic people back then. We were pretty serious people, and we didn't see that we could have been a little more subtle about things like that. But, hey, as mistakes go, that's probably not a bad one."

Part of that revisionism might have to do with age; U2 have now moved into the ever-expanding idiom of Rock Bands Who Could Have Plausibly Fathered the People Who Now Buy Most of Their Alb.u.ms (Bono is forty-four; Edge, forty-three; Clayton, forty-four; Mullen, forty-two). Their ironic distance also seems to be a product of the 1997 Pop Pop alb.u.m and its subsequent Pop-Mart tour, two projects that largely failed. "I think what happened with that record was this fusion of electronica and the club world, which was not foreign to us," says Clayton. "But what we should have focused on were tracks that were going to be radio friendly. We presented tracks that sounded-in a European context-absolutely appropriate to what we'd hear on the radio. That whole record did a lot better in Europe. But American programmers wouldn't play it. I think that was where we kind of screwed up." alb.u.m and its subsequent Pop-Mart tour, two projects that largely failed. "I think what happened with that record was this fusion of electronica and the club world, which was not foreign to us," says Clayton. "But what we should have focused on were tracks that were going to be radio friendly. We presented tracks that sounded-in a European context-absolutely appropriate to what we'd hear on the radio. That whole record did a lot better in Europe. But American programmers wouldn't play it. I think that was where we kind of screwed up."

Still, the decision to tour with a giant lemon was important; it was the point where U2's aesthetic changed completely. And this is still happening today: they are actively trying not to be self-aware, which (by definition) is completely impossible. But they're still trying.

"I don't think anyone who's famous didn't want want to be famous," says Bono, which might be true for everybody but is certainly true for him. "The people who hide in the shadows and cover their heads with their coats when they're being photographed by the paparazzi probably think being famous is more important than it actually is, and-in a way-probably need fame more than anyone else. I've gotten to the stage where I almost forget I'm in a rock band, which was never the case in the 1980s. And that was annoying, because that wasn't s.e.xy. Self-consciousness is never s.e.xy. I mean, I've watched myself being interviewed on TV, and I just think to myself, to be famous," says Bono, which might be true for everybody but is certainly true for him. "The people who hide in the shadows and cover their heads with their coats when they're being photographed by the paparazzi probably think being famous is more important than it actually is, and-in a way-probably need fame more than anyone else. I've gotten to the stage where I almost forget I'm in a rock band, which was never the case in the 1980s. And that was annoying, because that wasn't s.e.xy. Self-consciousness is never s.e.xy. I mean, I've watched myself being interviewed on TV, and I just think to myself, What an a.s.shole. What an a.s.shole."

While I am in Dublin, Larry Mullen is in New York; when I return to New York, Larry Mullen returns to Dublin. For the past nine years, Mullen has been racked with back pain he credits to having never been taught how to play drums; because he sits behind the kit incorrectly, and because he holds his sticks incorrectly, and because he basically just "enjoys. .h.i.tting things," his spine has paid the price. He missed our scheduled initial conversation because he had to get medical treatment in the States. One of the things Bono casually mentioned in our interview was that Mullen is "incapable of lying," an interesting quality to employ when describing a coworker. When Mullen telephones a week later, I describe the situation with Bono and his Maserati and the teenagers, and I ask if this was a constructed event or a guileless occurrence.

"Well, it would be very easy for me to just say, 'Yes, it was guileless,' because how would you ever know if I was lying?" Mullen says. "But the truth is that Bono really does does do stuff like that all the time. He really has this insatiable urge to be all things to all people, even when we try to stop him. Now, does he act differently today than he did twenty-five years ago? Of course. But he has always had this desire to be everything. Bono thinks rock 'n' roll is so shallow, in a way. He has always enjoyed the trappings of fame, but he feels this urge to balance it with something more substantial. He really is a walking contradiction. It's always all or nothing with him. There is almost nothing in the middle." do stuff like that all the time. He really has this insatiable urge to be all things to all people, even when we try to stop him. Now, does he act differently today than he did twenty-five years ago? Of course. But he has always had this desire to be everything. Bono thinks rock 'n' roll is so shallow, in a way. He has always enjoyed the trappings of fame, but he feels this urge to balance it with something more substantial. He really is a walking contradiction. It's always all or nothing with him. There is almost nothing in the middle."

Like the other members of U2, Mullen-who technically founded the band by pinning a "musicians wanted" note on a school bulletin board as a fifteen-year-old-has slowly come to recognize just how bizarre his life has been. Like most bands, the 1979 incarnation of U2 had impossible dreams: they wanted to become famous, and they wanted to be on the radio constantly. They wanted to change the cultural climate. They wanted to be the Beatles and the Stones of their generation. But unlike 99.9 percent of fledgling rock bands, all of that pretty much happened.

"I think Bono probably did have a clear goal," says Mullen. "But I was fifteen when we started playing. I was just enjoying the experience. And we had to work harder than most bands, because we couldn't play and we didn't understand songwriting at all. The truth is that we all had dreams, and we all wanted to be transcendent, but I don't think anyone really believed any of that would happen."

But here's the thing: I think Bono did did believe all that would happen. And even if he didn't believe it, he's certainly spent a lot of time thinking about it, because it seems like he's thought about everything. At one point, we talked about the Pixies, one of roughly eighteen thousand artists Bono claims to adore. One of the things Bono loves about the Pixies was that they "invented something." I ask Bono if he thinks U2 invented anything. His answer is like Bill Clinton's speech after the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing believe all that would happen. And even if he didn't believe it, he's certainly spent a lot of time thinking about it, because it seems like he's thought about everything. At one point, we talked about the Pixies, one of roughly eighteen thousand artists Bono claims to adore. One of the things Bono loves about the Pixies was that they "invented something." I ask Bono if he thinks U2 invented anything. His answer is like Bill Clinton's speech after the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing3-it's somehow completely natural and completely rehea.r.s.ed (at the exact same time).

"Oh yeah," Bono says, and-as he talks-I can vaguely hear the Edge playing the intro to "I Will Follow" through the walls of the studio. "I wouldn't be holding my head up this high if I didn't think that. If I can use the a.n.a.logy of the spectrum, I think there are certain colors we absolutely own-certain sounds, certain emotions. We can write songs about G.o.d and have them right next to songs about girls. I think we weave G.o.d, s.e.x, and politics together in a way that's very unusual in white music. And I'm not saying this is a reason that someone should like our music, or that it proves we're great-but I do think that can be said with some objectivity. I hope that doesn't sound arrogant."

Well, it sort of does. But arrogance doesn't matter if you're right.

1. This, however, is a little deceptive: I just received a copy of Bono: In Conversation with Michka a.s.sayas. Bono: In Conversation with Michka a.s.sayas. The book is essentially a one-person oral history; it's a transcript of several dialogues between Bono and a.s.sayas, a French journalist and longtime U2 fanatic. Many of the seemingly off-the-cuff remarks Bono made to me in October of 2004 were identical to things he said to a.s.sayas during an interview they'd conducted two years earlier, all the way down to the specific words Bono stressed for emphasis. Like I said, nothing about U2 is accidental. But-then again-a.s.sayas and I asked a lot of the same questions; I suppose it would actually be more troubling if he had said things that were completely different. The book is essentially a one-person oral history; it's a transcript of several dialogues between Bono and a.s.sayas, a French journalist and longtime U2 fanatic. Many of the seemingly off-the-cuff remarks Bono made to me in October of 2004 were identical to things he said to a.s.sayas during an interview they'd conducted two years earlier, all the way down to the specific words Bono stressed for emphasis. Like I said, nothing about U2 is accidental. But-then again-a.s.sayas and I asked a lot of the same questions; I suppose it would actually be more troubling if he had said things that were completely different.

2. This sentence is probably the best description of U2's career I've ever heard.

3. You may have noticed that this is the second time I've compared a musician's oratory style to that of Bill Clinton. I once made a similar a.n.a.logy between Clinton and Britney Spears (although for very different reasons).

1,400 MEXICAN MOZ FANS CAN'T BE (TOTALLY) WRONG One of the inherent problems with feature writing is that the slant for most stories is decided long before the journalist goes anywhere or talks to anyone. This is n.o.body's fault; it's just how things work. In order to get a story a.s.signed, either the editor or the writer has to create a reason reason for why said story needs to be written. As a result, the proposed thesis of an article often becomes its ultimate conclusion. And this is (usually) a bad idea, since these presuppositions are (usually) totally wrong. for why said story needs to be written. As a result, the proposed thesis of an article often becomes its ultimate conclusion. And this is (usually) a bad idea, since these presuppositions are (usually) totally wrong.

This is one example where that problem was avoided by accident: no one had any idea what the original thesis was supposed to be. I was living in Akron, and an editor from SPIN SPIN e-mailed me and said, "Hey, do you want to go to a Smiths convention in Los Angeles and write something about it?" I asked what I should write about. He said, "I have no f.u.c.king idea. I'm not sure why we're even doing this story, to be totally honest. Just go there and find some freaks." What neither of us knew, of course, was that the overwhelming majority of hard-core Smiths fans in the L.A. area are Latino teenagers, which still seems bizarre to me. But it made for a nice story that was almost completely unreliant on freaks. e-mailed me and said, "Hey, do you want to go to a Smiths convention in Los Angeles and write something about it?" I asked what I should write about. He said, "I have no f.u.c.king idea. I'm not sure why we're even doing this story, to be totally honest. Just go there and find some freaks." What neither of us knew, of course, was that the overwhelming majority of hard-core Smiths fans in the L.A. area are Latino teenagers, which still seems bizarre to me. But it made for a nice story that was almost completely unreliant on freaks.

One person at this Smiths convention (who was ultimately cut from the story) was a white dude in his midtwenties. I can't remember his name, but his claim to fame was winning Morrissey look-alike contests. He didn't sing and wasn't a musician, but he claimed he could dance exactly like Morrissey (and he did resemble Mr. Moz, although he was trying pretty hard to make that happen). He had won something like seven or eight of these contests over the past three years. But what was so intriguing about this guy was that he intended to turn his pastime into a full-time job; he hoped to make a living by looking like Morrissey's clone. However, he didn't have much of a strategy for making this a reality. I remember asking him, "How will you earn money by looking like Morrissey, considering that you don't do anything else?" He said, "Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I could do in-store appearances around Los Angeles and San Francisco whenever a new Morrissey alb.u.m is released." this seemed like a dangerous career move, particularly since morrissey once went eight years without releasing an alb.u.m. "That's a good point," he said when I mentioned that fact. "Maybe I'll have to do in-store appearances for Johnny Marr solo alb.u.ms, too."

VIVA MORRISSEY!

(AUGUST 2002) People feel nervous around Cruz Rubio. That's unfair, but it's true. He looks like a bada.s.s: Dude is twenty years old, he's from East Los Angeles, the sleeves are ripped off his flannel shirt, and he looks like an extra from the movie Colors. Colors. I have no doubt whatsoever that he could kick the s.h.i.t out of me on principle. But I am not nervous around Cruz Rubio. I am not nervous, because he is telling me how Morrissey makes him weep. I have no doubt whatsoever that he could kick the s.h.i.t out of me on principle. But I am not nervous around Cruz Rubio. I am not nervous, because he is telling me how Morrissey makes him weep.

"Some nights I lay in my bedroom and I listen to 'There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,' and I cry," he tells me. "I cry and cry and cry. I cry like a little b.i.t.c.h, man."

Perhaps you are wondering what a cut-like-marble Latino could possibly see in a quintessentially British, marvelously effeminate white guy best known for reading Oscar Wilde and sporting his espoused as.e.xuality on his sweater sleeve. Frankly, there's no concrete answer to that question. But Cruz Rubio is definitely seeing something, something, because he is not the exception; within the walls of the sixth annual Smiths/Morrissey convention in Hollywood's Palace Theater, he is the rule. because he is not the exception; within the walls of the sixth annual Smiths/Morrissey convention in Hollywood's Palace Theater, he is the rule.

For two days in April, fans of a disbanded Mancunian pop group and its forgotten frontman smoked clove cigarettes, picked over U.K. bootlegs, and danced to "Hairdresser on Fire" like dehydrated Helen Kellers, which is how people at Smiths conventions are supposed to behave. Yet these fans are not the glowering white semi-goths you'd expect to encounter; this scene looks like a 1958 sock hop in Mexico City. To argue that Morrissey's contemporary audience skews Hispanic would be inaccurate; Morrissey's contemporary audience is is Hispanic, at least in L.A. Of the 1,400 people at this year's convention, at least 75 percent of the ticket buyers-virtually all under twenty-were Latino. For reasons that may never be completely understood, teenage Hispanics tend to be the only people who still care about Manchester's saddest sack. But they care a lot. Hispanic, at least in L.A. Of the 1,400 people at this year's convention, at least 75 percent of the ticket buyers-virtually all under twenty-were Latino. For reasons that may never be completely understood, teenage Hispanics tend to be the only people who still care about Manchester's saddest sack. But they care a lot.

"He speaks to us, man. As Latinos. He addresses us personally," Rubio explains. "His music fits our lifestyle. I mean, where was the one place Morrissey always said he was dying to tour? It was Mexico, man. That's where his heart is."

Moments later, twenty-three-year-old construction worker Albert Velazquez expresses a nearly identical sentiment. "The last time I saw him live, he looked into the audience and said, 'I wish I had been born Mexican, but it's too late now.' Those were his exact words. And the crowd just exploded. He loves the Mexican culture, and he understands what we go through."

Velazquez is 235 pounds and six foot five (six foot eight if you include his pompadour). He plans to celebrate Morrissey's birthday on May 22; everybody at this convention seems to know that date. Velazquez also tells me he's going to drink a few Coronas that afternoon, because that's Morrissey's favorite beer. Everyone seems to know that, too.

Morrissey once sang that we must look to Los Angeles for the language we use, because London is dead. And so it is: The question is no longer "How soon is now?"; the question is "Es realmente tan extrano?" "Es realmente tan extrano?"

The fact that the Smiths have sustained a cult following fifteen years after their demise is understandable. They were a band built for the darkly obsessive. In a decade categorized by excess, the Smiths-and especially their s.e.xually baffling frontman-were introspective, iconoclastic, and alienated. There weren't "casual" Smiths fans in the America of 1986; it was an all-or-nothing equation. Though superstars in the U.K., the Smiths were fringe interlopers in the U.S.-the well-read pop-rock G.o.ds for the fey underground. That being the case, it isn't surprising to discover there's been a Smiths/"Moz" convention in Los Angeles every year since 1997. It's easy to imagine thirty-year-old ex-wallflowers digging out their black turtlenecks and reminiscing about how The Queen Is Dead The Queen Is Dead convinced them not to hang themselves while everyone else was at the prom. Generally, that's who rock conventions appeal to-aging superfans embracing nostalgia. convinced them not to hang themselves while everyone else was at the prom. Generally, that's who rock conventions appeal to-aging superfans embracing nostalgia.

That's why this Smiths convention is so startling. Those predictably pasty people don't show up (at least not in significant numbers). For the kids who live between the 5 and 10 highways in East L.A., this is a contemporary event, even though Morrissey hasn't released a solo alb.u.m in five years. These new Morrissey fans-these Latino "neo-Mozzers"-see him as a completely relevant artist. Moreover, their interest goes against the grain of traditional Caucasian Moz fans; these kids like Morrissey's solo material as much as his work with the Smiths, and almost n.o.body here gives a d.a.m.n about Johnny Marr (the guitarist originally perceived as the Smiths' true genius). n.o.body even seems to care about Britpop in general. The focus is almost singularly on the forty-three-year-old Steven P. Morrissey and his infinite sadness.

"Morrissey's family emigrated to England from Ireland, and they were kind of socially segregated from the rest of the country," says Gloria Antunez, a twenty-three-year-old junior-high teacher who uses Morrissey lyrics as a teaching tool in her English cla.s.s, most notably "Reader Meet Author" from 1995's Southpaw Grammar. Southpaw Grammar. "That's very similar to the Latino experience here in Los Angeles. We see things within his songs that we can particularly relate to. He sings about loneliness. He sings about solitude. Those are things any minority group can relate to." "That's very similar to the Latino experience here in Los Angeles. We see things within his songs that we can particularly relate to. He sings about loneliness. He sings about solitude. Those are things any minority group can relate to."

The impact of Morrissey's immigration experience is the most widespread hypothesis for why he's been embraced by Mexican Americans, but the theory has flaws. He's never mentioned or implied it in any of his songs, and it seems the majority of Latino neo-Mozzers have never even considered the significance of that connection. "I don't think it has anything to do with immigration," says Kristin Kaiser, a twenty-two-year-old who looks like a bookish Penelope Cruz. "The greasers are into him because they completely a.s.sociate Morrissey with rockabilly, which p.i.s.ses off some of the original Smiths fans," explains Kaiser's friend Mich.e.l.le Perez. "But what p.i.s.ses me off more is when people try to say the 'pomp' evolved from Morrissey. I don't think so, man."

Perez is referring to the second-most common explanation for the Hispanic Moz revival-that Morrissey's flirtation with rockabilly invokes Latino "greaser" culture, a la the 1950s of James Dean and Ritchie Valens. Morrissey hired rockabilly musicians for 1992's Your a.r.s.enal Your a.r.s.enal; though it's impossible to quantify, one suspects this movement started in earnest sometime after the release of that alb.u.m. It's also possible that Morrissey's L.A. address amplifies his local profile, although he's infamously reclusive and never attends these conventions. (Despite repeated attempts, Morrissey couldn't be reached for this piece.) But maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe it's just that Latino kids still hear what conflicted bookworms heard during the Reagan administration: the soul of a man who's tirelessly romantic, yet perpetually unloved. a.s.sembly-line stars such as Ricky Martin and Enrique Iglesias simply can't touch the authenticity of Morrissey's quiet desperation.

"We're pa.s.sionate people. He's pa.s.sionate like us," says Martha Barreras, standing outside the Palace doors with her well-coiffed, tattooed boyfriend. "The music our parents played when we were growing up was always about love and emotion, and it's the same thing with Morrissey."

It's possible this whole "Why do Latinos love Morrissey?" question will haunt us forever. Fortunately, Canadian academics are on the case.

Colin Snowsell is a thirty-one-year-old PhD candidate at Montreal's prestigious McGill University. He couldn't make it to the Smiths convention because he was busy working on his dissertation, an extension of his master's thesis, Monty, Morrissey, and Mediatized Utopia. Monty, Morrissey, and Mediatized Utopia. Frankly, Snowsell doesn't know how all this happened, either-but he's certainly thought about this paradox more than most. Frankly, Snowsell doesn't know how all this happened, either-but he's certainly thought about this paradox more than most.

"It really seems like Morrissey wouldn't have any career whatsoever if it wasn't for these Latino fans," Snowsell says. "The rest of the world sees him as a has-been, by and large, and it's rare to see Morrissey covered by the media in any way that isn't negative. But maybe Latino kids don't read the Anglo media."

There's no question that Morrissey's persona has been universally hammered over the past decade,1 especially in the U.K. Though the British weekly especially in the U.K. Though the British weekly New Musical Express New Musical Express recently cla.s.sified the Smiths as the most influential act of the last fifty years, that publication often paints Morrissey as a self-absorbed caricature, fascinated by skinhead culture and bent on alienating his adoring minions. recently cla.s.sified the Smiths as the most influential act of the last fifty years, that publication often paints Morrissey as a self-absorbed caricature, fascinated by skinhead culture and bent on alienating his adoring minions.

Meanwhile, there are signs that he's aware of-and enthused by-his new fan base. He dubbed a recent tour Oye Esteban! Oye Esteban! and has performed while wearing a Mexico belt buckle. Perhaps more significant, rumors persist that Morrissey wants to serve as the opening act for a Mexican rock group called Jaguares at the Hollywood Bowl, a venue he sold out as a headliner ten years ago. and has performed while wearing a Mexico belt buckle. Perhaps more significant, rumors persist that Morrissey wants to serve as the opening act for a Mexican rock group called Jaguares at the Hollywood Bowl, a venue he sold out as a headliner ten years ago.

"If he's trying to get back his old Smiths fans, I don't think opening for a Mexican rock band would be the way to do it," Snowsell says. "I think he relishes being seen as a messianic figure among these young Latino fans, and I think he feels it validates his relevance. Morrissey has really done everything in his power to reject his old fans. I suspect he'd love it if the only people who cared about him were these Hispanic kids. I think he hates the fact that he tried to change the world, but most of those original Smiths fans now see him as no different than Echo and the Bunnymen."

Snowsell's use of the word messianic messianic is telling, particularly when applied to someone like nineteen-year-old Carlos Torres, who tells me "Morrissey is like G.o.d" and is "immortal." However, when Torres talks about the time he met Morrissey at an in-store record signing, he ill.u.s.trates the most confusing aspect of neo-Moz culture: just about everybody who's ever seen or heard Morrissey a.s.sumes he is gay-except for these Latino kids. is telling, particularly when applied to someone like nineteen-year-old Carlos Torres, who tells me "Morrissey is like G.o.d" and is "immortal." However, when Torres talks about the time he met Morrissey at an in-store record signing, he ill.u.s.trates the most confusing aspect of neo-Moz culture: just about everybody who's ever seen or heard Morrissey a.s.sumes he is gay-except for these Latino kids.

"I kissed Morrissey once," Torres says. "I kissed his hand. I wish I would have kissed him, but his hand was good enough. But I'm not gay or anything. It's just that he's Morrissey, you know? There is sort of a h.o.m.ophobic vibe among some Latinos, and they seem to think, Well, we like him, so he can't be gay. Well, we like him, so he can't be gay. But that's stupid." But that's stupid."

Torres's take is pretty liberal; a few Latinos at the convention concede that Morrissey might be bis.e.xual, but none would cla.s.sify him as gay. "People are always asking me if I'm gay because I have a photo of Morrissey hugging Johnny Marr," says Alex Diaz, a sixteen-year-old Smiths fanatic who plans on joining the Marines when he's old enough. "My friends always ask me, 'Why do you like these queers?' But, you know, he's probably just bis.e.xual. His songs aren't all about guys. Look at 'Girlfriend in a Coma'-that's about a girl.2 I think there probably would be some people who'd hate it if Morrissey ever came out and said he was gay, but, personally, I don't really care. And like I said, he's probably bis.e.xual." I think there probably would be some people who'd hate it if Morrissey ever came out and said he was gay, but, personally, I don't really care. And like I said, he's probably bis.e.xual."

Though it's understandable how a culture that invented the term machismo machismo might be uncomfortable lionizing a gay icon, it's ironic that Morrissey has now been adopted by two diametrically opposed subcultures. Fifteen years ago, closeted gay teens loved Morrissey because they thought he shared their secret; today, future Marines try to ignore the fact that their hero might find them foxy. might be uncomfortable lionizing a gay icon, it's ironic that Morrissey has now been adopted by two diametrically opposed subcultures. Fifteen years ago, closeted gay teens loved Morrissey because they thought he shared their secret; today, future Marines try to ignore the fact that their hero might find them foxy.

Young Latinos worship an aging Brit who aspires to live at the YWCA and get hit by a double-decker bus, and that's pretty crazy. But imagine how crazy it seems to the guys in These Charming Men, the tribute band that performed both nights of the convention (Sat.u.r.day night was mostly Smiths songs; Sunday was mainly solo Moz). These Charming Men are from Dublin, and this is the second year they've made the trip to Hollywood. When they arrived in 2001, they expected to see the same faces that populate the pubs they play in the U.K. What they didn't antic.i.p.ate was an audience of East L.A. homeboys who mosh when they hear the opening chords of the gingerly raucous "You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side."

"It was quite shocking when we first came here," recalls vocalist Richard Cullen, his accent thicker than his hair. "My theory is that they picked up on the fashion sense and the visual elements of rockabilly music. And you know, Morrissey is something of an exile, just like a lot of them. I think perhaps they feel like they're living in the present tense with this mysterious character who's just down the road in his mansion."

The performances by These Charming Men were clearly the linchpin of the 2002 convention, and Cullen's attention to detail is remarkable; he's a good singer and a great actor. The band played for two hours each night, expending more energy than Morrissey himself has offered in years. Fans were expected to rush onstage and hug Cullen while he pretended to ignore them, a simulation of every Morrissey concert since the dawn of time. It's very postmodern: the audience becomes a "tribute audience," earnestly simulating hyperkinetic adoration while the band earnestly simulates Meat Is Murder. Meat Is Murder.

But not everyone gets what they want.

Mark Hensley Jr. and Flore Barbu refuse to watch These Charming Men, a seemingly odd decision when you consider they each paid thirty dollars to attend a convention where that band was performing twice. These are the prototypical "weird white kids": Hensley appears to be auditioning for Bud Cort's role in a remake of Harold and Maude, Harold and Maude, and Barbu seems like the kind of woman who thinks Sylvia Plath was an underrated humorist. Both are wearing neckties for no apparent reason. These are the people you remember as being Smiths fans. And heaven knows they're miserable now. and Barbu seems like the kind of woman who thinks Sylvia Plath was an underrated humorist. Both are wearing neckties for no apparent reason. These are the people you remember as being Smiths fans. And heaven knows they're miserable now.

"I don't think a true Morrissey fan would want to see a Morrissey cover band," Barbu says without a hint of inflection. "Morrissey would be depressed if he showed up here. He'd cry for a week. Have you seen those people around here wearing T-shirts that say 'Got Morrissey?' instead of 'Got Milk?' It's ridiculous. Morrissey would hate this."

It's obvious that Barbu and Hensley are smart, and they're endlessly, hopelessly sarcastic. There was a time when they would have embodied everything Morrissey seemed to represent. But Moz didn't hang on to his friends. He found new ones who liked him more. It's not that Barbu and Hensley feel their subculture has wound up in the wrong hands; it's just that these neo-Mozzers are too enthusiastic to be properly dour.

"People have actually said to me, 'You like Morrissey? That's weird for a white guy.' And I find that completely bizarre," Hensley tells me, momentarily dropping his veil of irony for a grain of semi-sincere annoyance. "Most of the other people here wouldn't even know who Jarvis c.o.c.ker is. They only like Morrissey. We just came here to make fun of people."

But perhaps that joke isn't funny anymore.

1. Morrissey finally released a new alb.u.m in 2004 (You Are the Quarry), and it was generally well received by critics. He also started doing press again, but it had almost no impact on the commercial success of the record. It seems that the people who remain interested in Morrissey don't really care if he talks about himself or not.

2. Diaz's point about "Girlfriend in a Coma" is-in a technical sense-true. Of course, it should be noted that this is a song where the protagonist looks at his comatose acquaintance and reminisces about all the times he considered murdering her. It may also be less than coincidental that Girlfriend in a Coma Girlfriend in a Coma is also the name of a novel by author Douglas Coupland, who publicly announced he was gay in 2005. is also the name of a novel by author Douglas Coupland, who publicly announced he was gay in 2005.

FITTER, HAPPIER Radiohead was the smartest collection of musicians I've ever interviewed, and I have no idea what band would rank second. I do know it wouldn't be that close. All they wanted to talk about were books. The dumbest guy in Radiohead is still smarter (by himself) than all three members of the Beastie Boys and two-fifths of the Strokes.

When I was flying to Oxford, England, for this story, I read Naomi Klein's five-hundred-page manifesto No Logo. No Logo. I was a little afraid that Thom Yorke might want to talk about Canadian anticorporate ideology for the totality of our interview. As it turns out, he never mentioned it once. However, I must have discussed this subject with Colin Greenwood, even though I don't remember doing so. The reason I a.s.sume we must have talked about Naomi Klein is because I opened up I was a little afraid that Thom Yorke might want to talk about Canadian anticorporate ideology for the totality of our interview. As it turns out, he never mentioned it once. However, I must have discussed this subject with Colin Greenwood, even though I don't remember doing so. The reason I a.s.sume we must have talked about Naomi Klein is because I opened up No Logo No Logo when I was putting this anthology together, and there was a rudimentary map inside: during dinner, Colin had sketched me a map of downtown Oxford so that I could find a farmers' market that sold lychee tea. when I was putting this anthology together, and there was a rudimentary map inside: during dinner, Colin had sketched me a map of downtown Oxford so that I could find a farmers' market that sold lychee tea.

Finding this map makes me optimistic. I have interviewed so many rock stars who turned out to be p.r.i.c.ks and/or morons; it was refreshing to meet a band who actually turned out to be cooler than I antic.i.p.ated. There have been countless occasions when I've listened to a song and imagined what its words and sounds were supposed to represent, and I inevitably perceive each element to be complex and subtle and conscious. However, when the songwriter eventually explains his thought process during the music's creation, I often realize that (a) the musician barely cares what the song is supposed to mean, and that (b) I've actually invested more intellectual energy into the song than the G.o.dd.a.m.n artist. Which is fine, I suppose; I mean, my favorite band is KISS, so there are certainly some self-created holes within my argument. But it was still satisfying to discover that Radiohead's music seems smart on purpose. on purpose.

NO MORE KNIVES (JULY 2003) Meeting Thom is easy.

Everyone will tell you it's not, and they're all wrong. There are people who will insist Thom Yorke is a misanthropic sociopath, and that he ends interviews for no good reason. They will suggest that the likelihood of him speaking candidly is roughly the same as the chance of him uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g two bolts from his neck and removing his cybernetic faceplate, suddenly revealing a t.i.tanium endoskeleton that was built by futuristic s.p.a.ce druids.

But this is not true.

Thom Yorke is weird, sort of. But you've met weirder. He's mostly just an intense, five-foot-five-inch thirty-four-year-old who wears hooded sweatshirts with sleeves too long for his limbs, and this makes him look like a nervous kindergartener. He doesn't appear to have combed his hair since The Bends The Bends came out in 1995, and his beard looks "undecided," if that's possible. But here's the bottom line: he's pleasant. Not exactly gregarious, but polite. He is neither mechanical nor messianic. And this is what everyone seems to miss about him, and about Radiohead as a whole: they may make transcendent, fragile, pre-apocalyptic math rock for a generation of forward-thinking fans, but they're still just a bunch of dudes. came out in 1995, and his beard looks "undecided," if that's possible. But here's the bottom line: he's pleasant. Not exactly gregarious, but polite. He is neither mechanical nor messianic. And this is what everyone seems to miss about him, and about Radiohead as a whole: they may make transcendent, fragile, pre-apocalyptic math rock for a generation of forward-thinking fans, but they're still just a bunch of dudes.

I'm sitting with Yorke in the restaurant of an Oxford, England, hotel called the Old Parsonage. He was twenty minutes late for our interview, explaining that he had to run home and do some yoga because he was "feeling a bit weird." He's studying the restaurant menu and complaining that he's running out of things he can eat-not only is he a vegetarian, but he's stopped eating anything made with wheat (for the past six months, he's had a skin rash, and he thinks wheat is the culprit). Eventually he settles on roasted tomatoes and b.u.t.ter beans, a meal he calls "expensive" (it costs about seventeen dollars). We're talking about politics (kind of) and his two-year-old son Noah (sort of), and I ask him how those two subjects dovetail-in other words, how becoming a father has changed his political beliefs and how that has affected the songwriting on Hail to the Thief, Hail to the Thief, the sixth studio alb.u.m from earth's most relevant rock band. the sixth studio alb.u.m from earth's most relevant rock band.

His answer starts predictably. But it ends quickly.

"Having a son has made me very concerned about the future and about how things in the world are being steered, supposedly in my name," he says between sips of mineral water. "I wonder if our children will even have a future. But the trouble with your question-and we both know this-is that if I discuss the details of what I'm referring to in SPIN SPIN magazine, I will get death threats. And I'm frankly not willing to get death threats, because I value my life and my family's safety. And that sort of sucks, I realize, but I know what is going on out there." magazine, I will get death threats. And I'm frankly not willing to get death threats, because I value my life and my family's safety. And that sort of sucks, I realize, but I know what is going on out there."

Yorke's reluctance is not a surprise. Since April, Radiohead have stressed that Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief is not a political record and that the alb.u.m's t.i.tle is not a reference to George W. Bush's controversial victory over Al Gore in the 2000 presidential election (in fact, Yorke claims he heard the phrase during a radio program a.n.a.lyzing the election of 1888). This is a bit paradoxical, because that argument seems both valid and impossible: there are no overtly political lyrics on the record, but it is not a political record and that the alb.u.m's t.i.tle is not a reference to George W. Bush's controversial victory over Al Gore in the 2000 presidential election (in fact, Yorke claims he heard the phrase during a radio program a.n.a.lyzing the election of 1888). This is a bit paradoxical, because that argument seems both valid and impossible: there are no overtly political lyrics on the record, but it feels feels political. And Yorke is not exactly nonpartisan: at a recent antiwar rally in Gloucestershire, England, he publicly declared that "the U.S. is being run by religious maniac bigots that stole the election." political. And Yorke is not exactly nonpartisan: at a recent antiwar rally in Gloucestershire, England, he publicly declared that "the U.S. is being run by religious maniac bigots that stole the election."

So what are we to make of this?

"If the motivation for naming our alb.u.m had been based solely on the U.S. election, I'd find that to be pretty shallow," he says. "To me, it's about forces that aren't necessarily human, forces that are creating this climate of fear. While making this record, I became obsessed with how certain people are able to inflict incredible pain on others while believing they're doing the right thing. They're taking people's souls from them before they're even dead. My girlfriend-she's a Dante expert-told me that was Dante's theory about authority. I was just overcome with all this fear and darkness. And that fear is the 'thief.'"

Well, okay, maybe labeling Yorke a "normal dude" might be something of an exaggeration. Perhaps he is a tad paranoid. But he's no paranoid android; he's just a paranoid humanoid, and he certainly has a sense of humor about it. After he casually mentions his girlfriend, I ask him if he'll ever get married.

"That's a totally personal question-next," he says gruffly, and for a moment it feels like I'm watching an outtake from Radiohead's 1999 doc.u.mentary, the mediaphobic Meeting People Is Easy. Meeting People Is Easy. But then I laugh. And he laughs. And suddenly he's just a bearded humanoid who's eating tomatoes, completely aware of how ridiculous our conversation is. "What is this?" he asks. "Do you work for But then I laugh. And he laughs. And suddenly he's just a bearded humanoid who's eating tomatoes, completely aware of how ridiculous our conversation is. "What is this?" he asks. "Do you work for Us Weekly Us Weekly now?" now?"

Most of what you believe about Radiohead is wrong.

"The first time I ever saw Thom, he was jumping over a car." This is not something I expected Radiohead guitarist Ed O'Brien to say, but he appears quite serious. "Thom was an amazing gymnast in high school," he continues. "n.o.body knows that about him, but you can get a sense of it just by watching him move around. He's really strong. He did this handspring right over a car. It's like how Morrissey was a great long-distance runner in high school-n.o.body knows that, either."

O'Brien is the fifth member of the band I have spoken with over the past eight hours, each in a different room of the Old Parsonage. I've been rushing from room to room for answers, not unlike the final ten minutes in a game of Clue. O'Brien is the last person I'm speaking with today, and he's different from the other four guys in the band: he's significantly taller (six feet five), he's the only one who doesn't reside in Radiohead's native city of Oxford (he lives an hour away in London), and he talks like an intelligent hippie (if such a creature exists). He's also rumored to be the most "rock-oriented" member of Radiohead, preferring the conventional structures of older songs, like "Ripcord" and "Just."

Here, again, my a.s.sumption is wrong.

"Do people really think I like straight-ahead rock?" he asks when I bring this up. "There is an irony in that, because I've always been more interested in making sounds, which is why I tend to gravitate toward Kid A Kid A material. If I ever made a solo record-and I have no plans to do that, but if I did-it would be all ethereal music. I like to smoke. I like a toke or two. So I like music in that vein." material. If I ever made a solo record-and I have no plans to do that, but if I did-it would be all ethereal music. I like to smoke. I like a toke or two. So I like music in that vein."

Part of the reason O'Brien is perceived as Radiohead's designated rocker is that he's the most interested in cla.s.sic rock; he especially enjoys discussing U2, who appear to be Radiohead's third-biggest musical influence (the first two being the Smiths, whom all five members love unequivocally, and the Pixies, from whose records Jonny Greenwood learned how to play guitar). For the most part, the other four members don't talk about mainstream rock.

"I'm interested in bands as beasts," O'Brien says. "I'm interested in U2 and the Rolling Stones and Neil Young and Crazy Horse. I love the dynamic of musicians working together and all the voodoo s.h.i.t that comes with it. It's a complicated thing to do over the expanse of time, which is why I respect U2 so much. Don't get me wrong-I adore the Stones, but they haven't made a good record since 1972. Exile on Main Street Exile on Main Street was the last great Stones alb.u.m. was the last great Stones alb.u.m.1 But U2 have been at it for twenty years, and that song 'Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of' was amazing. And that's after twenty years. That's when the Stones were making But U2 have been at it for twenty years, and that song 'Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of' was amazing. And that's after twenty years. That's when the Stones were making Still Life. Still Life."

It's intriguing to hear O'Brien discuss band dynamics, because Radiohead rarely discuss the internal mechanics of their organization; their dynamic is relatively unknown. The band members tend to describe the creative process as their "methodology," and here's how it works: Yorke writes the material alone (usually on piano) and gives demo CDs to the other four. They all listen for a few weeks and deduce what they can contribute; they then meet, rehea.r.s.e, and arrange the songs as a unit (according to Jonny, arrangement is their favorite step). They perform the songs live (in order to see what works and what doesn't), and then they go into the studio to record them.

With Hail to the Thief, Hail to the Thief, the recording process was intentionally short. Most of the record was cut in two and a half weeks in Los Angeles with longtime producer Nigel G.o.drich, often one song per day (supposedly, the very first sound you hear on the alb.u.m is Jonny plugging in his guitar on the initial morning they arrived at the studio). What's surprising is how conciliatory the other four band members are to Yorke. They're all accomplished musicians, but he directs the vision of the band. And this seems to cause no problem whatsoever. the recording process was intentionally short. Most of the record was cut in two and a half weeks in Los Angeles with longtime producer Nigel G.o.drich, often one song per day (supposedly, the very first sound you hear on the alb.u.m is Jonny plugging in his guitar on the initial morning they arrived at the studio). What's surprising is how conciliatory the other four band members are to Yorke. They're all accomplished musicians, but he directs the vision of the band. And this seems to cause no problem whatsoever.

"In a band like the Smashing Pumpkins, that kind of song-writing situation caused problems, because one gets the impression certain members of that band felt replaceable," O'Brien says. "But if you feel good about yourself, you will be honest and generous toward other people. I hope Thom makes a solo alb.u.m in the future; there's no doubt he will.2 And it will be f.u.c.king amazing. But as a band, we are all individually essential. In Radiohead, no one is replaceable." And it will be f.u.c.king amazing. But as a band, we are all individually essential. In Radiohead, no one is replaceable."