Alex Dematteis
Musicshockworld
Salford
5th March 2026
Morrissey - Make-Up Is a Lie
"Freedom of expression is necessary... silent citizens are perfect subjects of an authoritarian government."
(Robert Dahl)
There are silences that move, have an effect, combine, amalgamate, keep people active, distinguishing cowardice from the need for effective residence in exploration.
In musical art, which has lost its independence, strength, meaning and value, the dismantling of the original parts that made it unique and perfect is inevitable.
There are exceptions, romantic and intellectually alert champions who strive (like mules enraged against an obedience that humiliates them), artists devoted to martyrdom, obstinacy, and freedom from chains, with creations that turn spilled blood into a magnificent installation...
Morrissey is the undisputed king: his tenacity, defence, attack, need to be a spark, a light, seed, collective consciousness know no retreat, no change, as the author of unique lyrics sees the falseness of reality like no other and is committed to continuing his war by sharpening his claws, imbuing everything with his updated repertoire, more inclined towards simple but not banal language.
Indeed, today, with his latest work, we see him going to the homes of those who do not know him, even those who do not recognise his importance: a challenge that, in order to be credible, must be able to show aesthetic, linguistic and musical changes, which here, in this Make-Up Is a Lie, offers great innovations and some really well-blended continuations.
Moz delivers a sound map representative of his good taste, bringing his personal wounds closer to a style that allows him to sing like a 20th-century storyteller, drawing on Latin, Eastern and Northern European influences, with a range of compositions capable of using modern sound to support a refined, cultured singing style, technically capable of keeping the traditions of the last century alive.
Maestro Gladiolo cares deeply about existence, deals with events and refuses to please the masses: his mental stage is a desert, an unhappy oasis from which to toast, tickling stupidity with an album that arrives, as always, at the wrong time: not through any fault of his own, but due to a series of aberrant situations that the Old Scribe prefers not to talk about.
Sire Records offers a miracle, Morrissey offers his loyalty and his bitterness, turning ageing into an opportunity to continue his journey, amid black fingernails, gasps, vocal flourishes and that tone of voice that alone tells the story of every happiness.
A collection of compositions that outline the figure of an isolated, slow-moving rhinoceros, capable of appearing ferocious, an earthquake in the making that only idiots, murderers and fools can fear.
He allows himself to be approached, demands respect, reels off verses that have distant and new roots, with the pretext of emptying bad behaviour and combing dreams within a small but free perimeter.
The bard of Stretford is free from any citizenship other than that which interferes, optimally disturbing the convictions of those who make their existence a long and banal list of futilities.
He is indignant, he takes up the whip as he has always known how to do, and, with the help of musicians who have written musical notes awaiting his harmonious breath, he records songs that break the (only apparent) silence of six long years since his last album, thus making time a fertile elastic, in which the careful selection of his material is the only guarantee of his satisfaction.
We are faced with a plethora of genres and trends, polished by technology that allows electronic music and old pop to find common ground, to return to that sweetness in sadness that has not been felt for some time.
The musical part here has ample space, almost like suites, and even in this respect, Morrissey's care in giving fairness to the spaces is evident, in the connections that can make everyone proud of their contribution.
The confidence, curiosity and extension of these behaviours lead the listener inside a gramophone, with its ancient capabilities, to begin listening to the centre of this new episode which, it should be said, allows the silver-feathered warrior to focus on his voice, already a novel and an impeccable psychological dictation in itself.
Sensitivity governs the tracks, confirming how his ink is still fertile, voluminous, perfect in tarring ugliness and transforming it into a hypothesis in search of concreteness.
As always, he manages to embellish the verses with irony and contempt, keeping his thoughts above the judgement of others.
They are stories, cameras in action and not photographs, a video that shows remarkable accuracy, then moves into the intellect, generating compensation and copious tears.
The Manchester artist uses the extruded method, wrapping words in a film in which simplicity and immediacy are not lacking, but deceiving us to force us to make the effort to understand, and it is an exercise that proves successful.
It is often considered regrettable, but this is what he needs: he uses the obstacles in his path to generate virgin cells, phosphorescent thoughts, other nebulous ones, in order to preserve a secrecy and a logical and deserved freedom of expression, thanks to a status that, while for many has become blurred, for him and for myself is certainly not.
He places a telescope, a fan, a stick and a sphere in his hands, and everything becomes a ball against the pins, literary executions, dispensing brutal pills of wisdom that will create wounds to be licked with joy.
Recorded in St-Rémy, in France, with the rediscovered production of Joe Chiccarelli and the collaboration on three tracks by the wonderful Alain Whyte, it also features Ambroise Sage on string arrangements, for circles that open and close, giving the work a voluminous soul in need of a flight that is directed towards absence and presence, in a combination that is unsustainable for many but not for him.
In this work, he takes on multiple roles: from the ancient one of an indomitable Cyrano de Bergerac, to that of an overflowing Joker in the guise of a Jack Nicholson perfectly trained by Tim Burton, to that of an Edward Morgan Forster in search of a horizon free from all cruel affliction.
His singing is like a pair of forceps: it hurts, but the aim is to give birth to the nature that has always lived (and not just for nine months...) in his needs, which have expanded, allowing his tone (which, thankfully, has never changed) to be a mouthwash that allows us to see his writing as an updated dictionary of arguments, while retaining his ancient style.
Closer to the 1950s than the 1960s, the expressive style seems like a huge umbrella over the waves that characterised that decade, a temporal reversal that, when combined with the music, creates an enchanting daze.
This is not an album of guitars or keyboards, but rather a meticulous search for elements that remove the exhibitionist sceptre and focus on meaning, giving the sound not the primary aspect but a necessary accompaniment.
In doing so, the songs seem to change, breathe life into their lungs, offering the song form a series of innovative arrangements.
Sometimes changes are lacking, but rather than a limitation, this ultimately proves to be a strength: he feels free within limits, within prisons, within small spaces, as do his musicians, allowing him to achieve exponential growth while retaining the pleasure of formulas that guarantee, especially on stage, the discovery of a different harmony.
Because, really, this album sounds as if it were waiting for a public performance, to diversify, to find the audacity to challenge the audience.
Make-Up Is a Lie does not mark Morrissey's return: it merely shows the clarity of his self-defence, his criticism of the music industry, a comb inside the now unconscious nerves of millions of souls, who make music a bin among bins.
He doesn't; he also manages to poeticise existence, to make it demanding, lashing out at those who misuse this opportunity to make an impact on life.
This artist knows no silence or absence, because those who love and are loved are never souls in decline...
He plays with pop, ambient, progressive, funky, glam, indie, and trip-hop, wandering through genres and using them, in prolific extension, to reach different areas and decades (including a surprising cover of Roxy Music, which takes time but which, in the end, proves to be enthralling), because to be complete you have to know how to range, to be a slingshot and a time machine.
While there is a lack of stylistic continuity on the one hand and generous openness on the other, the strength of all twelve tracks is their precise desire to reach the brain rather than the heart, even if there are episodes where this does happen.
The good Moz seems rejuvenated, reinvigorated, excited, and that is wonderful news, to be supported and understood.
For those who stubbornly want the young Smiths singer back, I recommend leaving immediately: those who know him well know that the present is the only measure he uses, not because of inability, limitation or anything else.
Since his debut, he has followed the method and motive of immediate writing, which captures the present and not the past.
Nostalgics can go elsewhere, commit suicide, but his propensity defends intelligence and truth, not nostalgia for past glories...
There are episodes in which Morrissey's classic style is not lacking, and these will certainly be the most welcome, but what makes this album precious is its spontaneity towards new rights, for a mode that pairs with the snake, to disguise itself and attack without being predictable and consequently devoured.
He still knows how to make beautiful singing a classmate of a mind that continues to study, to decipher and deliver new suspicions to the doorstep of our convictions, like an eternal artery in search of new veins with which to mate.
The first album of the 2020s is a subsidiary of consistency, an imprint that has weight, meaning, a correct disclosure of behavioural theatres which, through the demolition of hysteria, leads to a truly necessary truth in the mirror.
It may seem funny and strange that the same artist, in his artistic communication, is able to clearly divide listeners: there has never been fear, calculation or hesitation in his DNA, and the fact that those who expose themselves are met with fierce and easy judgement should be something to be banned.
The quality, I am very sorry for them, remains high, and this artist is still a warrior with a sharp, voluminous pen, gifted with the ability to make people think.
His obsession, his ghosts, his obstinacy become a series of opportunities in which each song can be a springboard, a shower for the soul, an echo of one's own torments, as they seek residence rather than escape.
And it is certainly not his job to save music, just as it is not his job to destroy it: Make-Up Is a Lie is an anklet to control our movements, our bitter existences, in a jumble of scattered thoughts, where peaks are not allowed, only constant quality, while those who think they must rely on memory, on false objectivity, will lose yet another chance to live in a different society, full of ailments but faithful, because ultimately that was the world of Mr Morrissey, built to feel his heart full...
Song by Song
1 - You're Right, It's Time
The dance begins with the Moz style of the early 2000s: an atmosphere somewhere between melancholy and light to be rediscovered, a fast ballad, an effective melody that perfectly suits the vocals, lyrics that reveal how a sad awareness (the knowledge of having to die) can be transformed into a hymn to resistance, to the depth that must be found anyway. A comforting start, confirming the effectiveness of guitars that hint without exploding, with the blessing of a light synth. Already a classic in his repertoire.
2 - Make-up is a Lie
One of the choruses closest to his DNA is paired with a completely unusual structure in the verse: the drumming, the electronics, the sly atmosphere that addresses areas not too often explored by the artist lead him to the synthesis of the lyrics, which do not need to be extended. Captivating.
3 - Notre-Dame
We are in the period of Years of Refusal (It's Not Your Birthday Anymore), with the ability to transfer words into music that needs space, to clarify a subject that, in its simplicity, knows how to be effective. There is no real chorus, which makes it a track that stands apart from the rest of his discography. Epic elements bow down to a song that aims to transfer a physical event into a mental space, succeeding brilliantly. Piercing and sensual.
4 - Amazona
The only moment on the album where it is difficult to understand the choice and style of a cover that adds nothing to the original. But this strange feeling lasts only a few listens, as the protective mantle of the performance leads us into a segregated sea of sound, revealing itself to be ingenious and capable of giving the music the unexpected role of preceding the vocals. The guitar solo is a sexy adrenaline rush, with the change of rhythm encouraging an electric dance. Morrissey's voice is like a cheetah waiting to prepare its lair, bringing the 1970s back to exactly where they deserve to be: in the heart of our brain. Slow to learn, but then a remarkable gem.
5 - Headache
In slow songs, the band manages to support Moz admirably, and Headache is the synthesis of his exploratory voice, a beacon in the night, while the pain advances, finding no surrender. We return to the early nineties, with the feeling that time is an eternal difficulty to face and that the body is a trembling butterfly. Between soft psychedelia and the most sensual trip hop, the harmonic interplay is truly remarkable. Sweet, with a killer beauty.
6 - Boulevard
A tender initial feedback precedes the notes of a keyboard that caresses us, then Morrissey shows off his sensitivity, with a decisive construction despite the grey walls of his voice. Drama envelops us, we dance intertwined with an intense, murderous melody, with the simplicity of chords constantly marking the vocal cords, simple drumming coming in, the acoustic guitar blessing it all, and the strings making the timid intrusion into the French boulevards epochal, as if night and day were scattered in a fragile embrace.
7 - Zoom Zoom the Little Boy
The electric sitar opens, then a detour towards a catchy attitude transforms the song into a ray of light in the chest of this man who finds a way to give his voice ancient petals, while effective arrangements give depth to a structure with an oriental flavour.
8 - The Night Pop Dropped
After hearing it on the previous tour, the song here illuminates its companions with a generous effervescence, offering euphoria and mystery at the same time. The guitar intro takes us back to The Charlatans, but it is a continuous oscillation between genres and decades, managing to achieve its centrality in the bridge and chorus, the moment when we see our mentor back in the areas he practised many years ago. The tolling of the bells and the solo reminiscent of Booker T. and the M.G.'s is truly surprising. And it is cognitive catharsis, in constant progression.
9 - Kerching Kerching
We rediscover a distant friend, a rare musical moment that moves us, the feeling of immortality that is evident in its devastating beauty. Morrissey's vocal crescendo is the best consolation we could hope for, with his register becoming close to that of his ancient past.
10 - Lester Bangs
Moz's attention returns to creatures who have suffered interference and hardship, as in the case of this extraordinary music journalist, who offers the singer the opportunity to confirm his anger at the establishment, against wanting to conform to social narrative. The Beat Generation is spectacularly summarised here, contributing to the memory of those who were able to write about music in a different way, with his Creem magazine far ahead of its time compared to its peers. Touching.
11 - Many Icebergs Ago
In each of his albums, we are confronted with majesty, epicness, and a delirium of emotions that leave no room for opposition. A hiss, a timid and gloomy bass, the volume increasing, the roar skilfully kept at bay and then the hints of guitar that slowly create a sequence of chords, all waiting for the voice that finds the way to generate fear, thrills and the joy of still having that style for which it has become essential. A dialogue, a journey into the bowels of truth, passing through the deprivation of a rhythm section that is absent for most of the song. A melodic crooning, a delightful atmospheric ascent that is nonetheless capable of taking your breath away.
12 - The Monsters of Pig Alley
Compared to the version performed recently, the song features a beautiful acoustic introduction before fully presenting all the hallmarks of Morrissey's style. These are rhythmic tears, an echo that starts with Viva Hate and reaches the present day. A spiritual ascent, while the piano notes offer us that sweetness that accompanies the melodic work of the guitars, in a rhythm that takes our steps and draws us to dance among the stars. Poetic, evocative, consoling, the song is a continuous question, with the grace of not forgetting the nourishing simplicity of a pop caress.
