At first glance, Steven Patrick Morrissey and Fiona Apple McAfee-Maggart would seem to share little in common: a sexagenarian male Brit recently noted more for his (to put it mildly!) highly dubious political views than for his musical output and a 42-year-old, bi-coastal (at this point, equal parts NYC and LA) American woman with at least semi-reclusive tendencies and neurotic compulsions. Yet, first appearances can be deceiving: both Morrissey and Apple are unapologetic iconoclasts and sometime pariahs, united, despite their obvious political differences, by a profound and scathing distrust (for better or worse) of "the media," the music industry and record labels, and established "authority" and "institutions" in general. Both are borderline misanthropes who seem fonder of non-human animals, incapable of deceit and duplicity and in need of protection and advocacy, than of (most) human beings. And, though Apple has taken strides forward as an increasingly remarkable sonic stylist where Morrissey has always depended on the musical gifts of his collaborators, both are first and foremost brilliant singer-songwriters, marked by idiosyncratic literary sensibilities (Apple's famous admiration of Maya Angelou compares well with Morrissey's lifelong Oscar Wilde obsession) and singularly affected vocal performances.
The consequence of these significant commonalities is that both Morrissey and Apple--despite having enjoyed accomplished careers, earning the "distinguished veteran" status that many such artists simply coast by on in perpetuity--have delivered new albums that sound unmistakably like they still have something important left to prove. Urgent and powerful and intensely personal, these records are "edgy" in the fullest, truest sense of that over-used adjective, with titles tellingly selected as explicit thesis statements. Moz needs the world to know that, love him or hate him (or something in between those extremes), he's "not a dog on a chain," and will never be so. Apple opts for the imperative over the declarative, imploring her listener (or herself) to cut the thick, oppressive bars caging them (or her) in. It's not that Morrissey and Apple don't want to be liked, or to have their music purchased and praised. Of course they do. But what they both crave more than that, and perhaps above all, is "to be free"--a primal desire that can often be rather boring or banal as an artist's mission statement, whatever the medium. What makes these two albums so interesting and engaging (and often prickly!) is that neither Morrissey nor Apple is ultimately, totally sure of what "freedom" means, or what exactly it entails.
To each their own frustrations. They're not mine, that's for sure, but when the songs are this fucking good, personal and/or political identification takes a backseat to complicated, volcanic emotion impeccably translated into rhythm, melody, and dexterous lyrical poetry that might well have merited approval from the likes of Angelou and Wilde.
