It should come as no surprise that this is decidedly a fan's book. Those not already indoctrinated into the church of Saint Morrissey will find many of Simpson's ruminations, or to be more accurate, declarations, absurd. But of course, few of those types -- the Philistines, the brutes, the normal people -- will be inclined to pick up the book in the first place. In truth it's possible to appreciate the man's music without buying wholesale into the mythology and the iconography, but it's a bit like non-believers participating in a Catholic mass (something, we learn, young Steven Patrick must be quite familiar with). This is interesting, but not exactly spiritually fulfilling. And in this vein, many of the hyperbolic claims Simpson makes throughout the book: The Smiths is the greatest rock record of all time, The Queen is Dead being a close second, Morrissey as one of the most unique and indispensable cultural icons of the century etc., are givens to the faithful. In a bit of Mozzian bravado, the writer says "...poor Oscar [Wilde] was merely an early, failed, and somewhat overweight prototype for Morrissey."

And so, the book is aptly titled. These questions are questions of belief, of knowing, and analysis in either direction remains unpersuasive. That doesn't stop Simpson from digging into the heart of it for 250 pages, though.

And like the story of all saints' lives, Morrissey's is one of martyrdom. Simpson delves into the well chronicled Northern English upbringing, the feeling that our hero just didn't belong, that he would not grow up and resorted to hurling himself on an alter of libraries and turning from the flesh. Also keeping with the religious motif, Simpson's book begins, and reads throughout, like an eye-opening religious conversion. For many people of his generation, seeing Morrissey perform on television for the first time was no less powerful than their parents watching the Beatles. In a particularly rife passage Simpson relates this awakening:

  "And that voice, coasting, feet off the pedals, over the chiming, tearful, bright guitar chords that also sounded entirely new and familiar, young and ancient all at once; so naive and so wise, wistful and lustful, carefree and very, very controlled, and -- this is the really ill part -- so clearly taking pleasure from the feeling of the words in his mouth...with more lyricism in a single syllable than most popsters had in their entire back catalogs...this was an alliteration of the soul."

It's clear there is more being awoken here than a mere appreciation for pop music, and note the use of the word ill. Something is off here. But it's also clear from the above passage that Simpson is looking to inject a bit of his own poetry into the book. In most cases it serves him well, because, again, any Morrissey fan will read the above and know that what he or she is reading is precisely the truth and it can be no other way.

This is rock n roll after all, so although there is poetry here, this is also about sex. Or the lack thereof in Morrissey's case. "I also knew the moment I saw him that he was the man my parents had warned me about: the man who steals children from their destiny and makes good sons bad." That's not only an echo of the theme of the song he is talking about "This Charming Man", it also provides a second and third spoke in the overblown Morrissey metaphorical triad. For fans he serves as a reckless Pied Piper, addictive drug, and redeeming saint. On one level, like all rock icons, he steals our innocence (and of course the sexual ambiguity made this work for both girls and boys at the time); he is the drug that makes us feel better at times, and worse at others for having shown us what the bottom of life looks like; and ultimately the Saint, or simply, SOMETHING to believe in. "Instead of feeling eighteen and inept, I felt a thousand years old and wiser than the hills, and somehow this allowed me to float above the pathetic reality of my life."

So, you get the sense finally that we're not dealing with an objective account of a man's life then? Saint Morrissey does take care of the traditional timeline of Moz's life, from the early days of books and boredom, through the Smiths years, high and low, the solo years, the political missteps, the bold declarations, the transplant to LA, and the resurrection as one of the most influential artists of the past few decades. Nothing that a Morrissey fan doesn't already know. But a few bits of cleverness that fall flat aside, Simpson has put together a solid piece of work here. I am particularly fond of the intro quotes in each chapter from the likes of Wilde, Phillip Larken, and Sartre -- comrades in soul, if not arms -- and most interestingly, from Morrissey himself. For the fan (and let's be obvious, no one else besides the odd astute student of contemporary pop culture is going to want to read this), reading their hero's words is a bit like reading the gospel; a faulted, overly self-conscious gospel.

As Simpson makes abundantly clear, saints are those that reject the sins of the world, the pleasures of the flesh so that others might not. Morrissey suffered for you. Let us now join together in Simpson's book and suffer all over again.