Ringleader of the Tormentors
Like the album that immediately preceded it, Ringleader Of The Tormentors is a record of extremes. Extreme bitterness, extreme joy. Above all, extreme guitars – they chug and howl, burying the Moz whine beneath vast drifts of fretwork.
Ed Power
First, there is a mournful eastern chant that seems to at once ring with horror and exultation. Next, the drums – funereal, cinematic but with a dark, glittering groove. Someone wrenches a power-chord from an electric guitar. The note sings, then wails, then shudders, as though undergoing a crisis of identity.
Thus does the new Morrissey LP open, with a bitter-sweet symphony, a glimpse of the exotic, a foretaste of the furious riffola that awaits in the hinterland.
Like the album that immediately preceded it, Ringleader Of The Tormentors is a record of extremes. Extreme bitterness, extreme joy. Above all, extreme guitars – they chug and howl, burying the Moz whine beneath vast drifts of fretwork.
Yet Ringleader, recorded in the distinctly un-Morrissey vista of Rome, is a more subtle piece than You Are The Quarry. For one thing, it finds him reflecting rather than damning. There are pot-shots sure, but they are less pointlessly caustic and self-immolatory than before. Mostly, he holds fire; when he squeezes the trigger, the aim is true.
It is also, by Moz standards, unusually visceral. Hot, human emotion rises, steam-like, from the LP’s every pore. For perhaps the first time Morrissey has written a suit of songs that address the senses – and sensuality – rather than the emotions; this is by far his least ‘cold’ album yet.
Musically, Ringleaders is not always a triumph – for want of a heartbreaking melody the ballads, in particular, stall when they should soar. But when it does click ( to these ears the success-to-turkey factor is approximately 2:1 ) it is nearly irresistible.
Alongside the growling, prowling guitars, producer Tony Visconti, the glam godfather behind Bowie and T.Rex, deploys a lush cornucopia of strings, pianos and brass. At times, the arrangements feel close to decadent; Morrissey could be auditioning for the part of Rufus Wainwright’s misanthropic elder sibling.
Ringleader never again reaches the heights of that opening tumult of textured wails and throbbing chords. Nonetheless, there are moments here when Morrissey has come within touching distance of crafting his masterpiece.
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