Make-up Is A Lie?

 Make-up is a Lie - Thoughts on the New Morrissey Single 💄

 

 

So I'm at Calgary airport on a 7 hour layover waiting to connect on a red-eye to Atlanta. I've read some pretty interesting takes on Morrissey’s new single Make-up is a Lie, from his forthcoming album of the same name… and I thought since I haven't written in a while, I'd try my hand at it. Please bear with me as I'm typing on my new tablet and I'm sitting in a Chili’s… thank goodness for booze.

The announcement of Make-up is a Lie came as a Christmas surprise for music-starved Mozzer fans, who haven't been treated to a new album release since 2020’s I Am Not a Dog On a Chain, which feels like many lifetimes ago. What stands out to me right away about the title track is that it's composed by keyboardist Camila Grey, who has been a member of Morrissey's band since 2023. I think it's exciting to see a lead single composed by new blood, and I also really love the fact Morrissey has women in his band now. Have you seen Camila on stage wearing dark sunglasses with fingers nimble as butterfly wings playing DeBussy? It's divine!

Make-up is a catchy composition which marries classical style with quirky futuristic elements, including delicate guitar accents and intricate rhythm section interplay, building up to a musically layered, atmospheric chorus, which is lyrically minimalist… simply “Make-up is a Lie” repeated in Morrissey's warm, scrumptious baritone.

 

 

 

 

Now, what about those lyrics… I've seen a lot of different takes from various fans online through social media and blog posts, and there seems to be some debate about what exactly the “make-up” is. People have suggested everything from cosmetics, to relationships, to art, and some other interpretations in between. Originally, the hyphen in “make-up” looked strange to my North American eye, but apparently this spelling is not unusual in Britain, although I also believe it could be done purposely, perhaps for some kind of double-entendre, as Moz does enjoy a bit of cheeky wordplay on occasion. The verses focus on Morrissey's, or the narrator’s, meetings with a woman, seemingly a poet in Paris who keeps exclaiming “make-up is a lie,” even choosing, perhaps in emphatic frustration, upon her death, to have those same words carved into her headstone.

As for me, the title almost immediately irked me, being somewhat of a girly girl with a fairly robust makeup collection… if indeed the song is taken at more of an obvious face value interpretation, and is actually about cosmetics. What is the lie if so? One only has to venture so far online regarding the topic of what women (or others) choose to put on the faces they present to the world to find some rather disturbing opinions. The “manosph*re” and inc*l communities accuse women of using makeup to ‘falsely’ improve their appearances to lie to men that they are more attractive than they truly are with the bare face nature bestowed upon them. If you dare check Twitter these days (I would recommend against doing so), you can find a number of terminally online men complaining about this aesthetic romance ‘scam,’ and there is even a very popular account that posts before and after comparisons of women, presumably without the subjects' permission, asking other guys if they would feel “bamboozled,” as if it isnt rather obvious humans aren't typically born with black cat-winged eyes and sparkling pouts.

On the other hand, the statement could be more feminist than menimist. Think 2nd-wave feminists, which Morrissey has certainly been influenced by, and books like The Beauty Myth by Naomi Woolf, which reject the idea of women merely being attractive, obedient ornaments or objects for men. Pamela Anderson has made headlines over the past few years for unveiling a no-makeup look, often touted as "bold" or "brave."  But why should baring the faces we were born with be revolutionary? Why must we fit into acceptable boxes of presentation and behavior determined by others? Sometimes being a woman feels impossible.

I like the idea that makeup is personal choice, and we shouldn't feel obligated, as 41% of heterosexual women are uncomfortable going out in public without makeup, which is a pretty depressing statistic. While I at times go out without it, I am absolutely more insecure that way, which I'm not ashamed to admit. But there is also the artistic aspect of applying cosmetics, and it is also a channel of self-expression, not to be constantly laden with the burden of men's expectations, women's insecurities, or their churning dialogue against the big machine of capitalism, as the beauty industry is worth $500 billion plus in revenue. In my opinion, makeup is best considered neutral, neither inherently good or bad, and simply morphs to whatever value or purpose its wearer believes it to have.

But perhaps the lyrics have nothing to do with cosmetics at all? For Morrissey's Parisian poet seems very worked up about the topic. She may be lamenting her waning appearance, or the frivolities of vanity, but perhaps it's deeper than that, and “make-up” stands for the face we present to the world, when we don't present our true selves, or a form of masking. As humans we are often encouraged to bury our emotions, opinions, and personalities to mold ourselves into something more sanitized and palatable for others.

Art is one avenue where such unmasking may be more acceptable… thus art, itself made-up, is a form of truth. Picasso once said, “art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.” Maybe Morrissey's poet is frustrated in her repetition because she can't - or doesn't - finish the statement - we as observers have to find that truth within the art for ourselves. Is this the plight of the artist? Trying to convey truth through the make believe of the creative process while seeing the material world crumble? Would the world, for instance, be in less of a mess if it were run by artists?

One other interpretation is that make-up stands for making up in the context of relationships. Once a relationship is damaged, can it truly be repaired? Can it grow back stronger, or is this merely an illusion as mistrust may forever rumble underneath? In this sense is make-up just a miserable lie? The poet, in her outburst, may be lamenting failed romance, friendships, or even working relationships.

Maybe the cleverest thing about the lyrics to this song is it can mean so many different things at once, and invites discussion.

So make-up your own mind and enjoy this debut single from Morrissey's upcoming album.

Morrissey Prints for Paws

 Moz Prints 4 Paws

Los Angeles is a big Morrissey town; in fact, many fans fondly refer to it as Moz Angeles. It’s one of those rare cities that is alive: full of vibrant people, music, culture, and life. Over the past week, as wildfires have devastated much of the Los Angeles area, seeing footage of people and animals displaced and in such distress has left a hole in my heart. Having just returned from attending a Morrissey gig in LA the previous week, it’s hard to believe how quickly life can be turned completely upside down. I can’t even imagine how frightening and devastating this is for those who live there.

My heart goes out to everyone affected.

Like many, I feel helpless watching from afar and would like to try to do something. I have never really thought about selling my Morrissey concert photos as I’m not a photographer or anything, but I’ve had some fans ask in the past about purchasing prints. So now is the time, I think, with 100% of profits going to Pasadena Humane Society. Since the wildfires began, Pasadena Humane has taken in over 400 animals, including wildlife, from the Eaton fire emergency. These animals need varying levels of care due to injuries such as smoke inhalation and burns.

So let’s do this! Here’s how it works: I have selected 3 prints* from recent Morrissey concerts, which are available in 8x10’s, in either glossy or satin matte finishes.

Print A: Moz Sydney 1

Print A

Print B: Moz Sydney 2

Print B

Print C: Moz Strasbourg 1

Print C

The price for an 8x10 + shipping is $25 US, with each additional print costing $15.

(outside of North America please add $3 for shipping)

For each order, please specify

1. a) Print name(s)

b) quantity

c) finish: glossy or satin matte (defaults to glossy if not selected)

2. Mailing address for shipping cost.

I will then reply with the total cost, which is payable through Paypal (sorry, CashApp and Venmo are not available in my country).

The best ways to reach me for orders or inquiries are:

sadglamourphotos@gmail.com

or message me on

Instagram

Twitter (X)

Bluesky

Please remember 100% of Profits will be going to the Pasadena Humane Society. That means once the cost of the print, packaging, and shipping is covered, the rest goes to the animals! If you purchase photography, you will be kept up to date on donation information!

You can also donate directly to Pasadena Humane Society here.

*custom prints may be available upon request for a small additional fee

Update:

As of January 20th, 2025, we have raised $161.08 US for Pasadena Humane. This fundraiser is ongoing so if you would like to order prints, please let me know! Thank you to everyone for their donations and social media support.

Update:

We are almost at $200 US raised for Pasadena Humane.

New print added! Available in 8x10 Glossy or Satin Matte

Print D: Toronto 2019

UPDATE:

Prints 4 Paws has raised $55.89 more for Pasadena Humane, with the donation total now at $216.97

I am still offering prints witb 100% of profits going to Pasadena Humane. So now is still a good time to order!

Australia Review Part 1: Intro and Brisbane: A Rare Kind of Electricity

 

I’ve decided to post this unedited version. I kind of tackle some existential thoughts I’ve been having – which feels slightly unwise but I am just so tired of feeling I should censor or bend myself for other people whose opinions I shouldn’t really care about. Enjoy it.

The five-hour flight from Sydney to Perth is simply a glimpse of time once you’ve crossed the Pacific ocean from North America all the way to Australia. Everything is relative, I suppose, and that applies to time and distance: two seemingly impossible factors to ever fully control, as much as we’d like to. Nothing frightens me about flying itself except the people, and people have confused and frightened me for my whole life. Being in the sky and looking out at the sprawling landscape below, cracked beiges and olive greens, makes everything feel huge and endless. It’s not until you arrive in Australia, so unfathomable from across the globe, that you realize how big the country actually is.

The terrain looks unknowable, wild, and vast, and I wonder what kinds of, if any, animals live down on that dry, scaly land. I’m so happy to be away, if only for a few weeks, from my hometown where being an alien is painful. My own sense of inadequacy for not fitting into such a life of boxed stores, boxed houses, and boxed lives never really leaves: a birthmark of guilt and confusion. However, when I’m away, none of that really matters and feeling alien morphs into a sort of delicious freedom. And now I’m on a plane, the closest I’ll ever be to becoming a migratory bird, nestless and restless, and Australia waits below.

Koala street art

And yet, on landing in Perth, my body can’t quite keep up with the excitement, or the intensity of my mind. I realize I still need rest from jetlag, and I inwardly curse the aches, pains, and lines that separate me, with layers of dust and rust, from the youthful sparks I know somehow still course underneath. And I realize some wonderful people will obviously comb my writing to find out my insecurities so they can then write about me anonymously, but I will continue to say what I think and feel because I don’t believe I should censor myself simply because of other people’s issues. So there you go. Three paragraphs in. Of course people confuse and frighten me, why wouldn’t they?

Lounging by the hotel pool, we receive the news the Perth show is unfortunately cancelled, and I am oddly calm, remaining confident the other shows will work out. This is unusual for me, as I’m typically stereotypically a pessimist, but something feels different, and I know it’s gonna happen someday, so I make my way to Melbourne. In the ubers connecting to airports, a different world rushes by, complete with fancy exotic birds I can’t name and gnarly, flat-topped trees.

The day of the first concert in St. Kilda, we walk down the Yarra River and from afar I notice a black swan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a black swan in person before, so we cross the bridge over the river to get a closer look. The swan is dark and thoughtful as he elegantly, almost coyly tilts his head while paddling, making little ripples of water circle away from him. He’s alone and beautiful, the only swan amongst silver gulls and ducks, and I take his picture and begin to wonder if he’s sad. There’s a beer can floating in the water nearby. People. Sometimes I think too much.

Black swan in Melbourne

The two Melbourne shows race by, more blurs in my receding memory, and I’m further invigorated, at least temporarily divorced from regular life. There are drinks with friends I haven’t seen in years, December’s summer blazes on, the street art is awesome, Morrissey’s voice is spectacular and soul-elevating, I catch one of Jesse’s guitar picks, I cry and laugh and sing at the gigs. It’s going “well” if I could maybe just turn my phone off... but the messages come in: “Do you know you’re being written about?” “On that site...” Actually, yes, just don’t remind me. People. The ones telling me, of course mean well, I think?... should I know? Probably. Does it matter? I’m not sure. To hide away seems like giving in: posting photos and writing are some small things I enjoy. I vacillate between the quiet power of ignoring it, and the emotionally-driven one of reacting. I’m euphoric one moment, then desperately sad the next, but... to be fair, I’ve always been like that, so I don’t think anything has changed, and maybe that’s just me, background noise or not. I’ll take the euphoria for now and forget about the rest, for the euphoric bits don’t come as often.

Melbourne

We fly to Brisbane. On the plane, I finish reading a book for our somewhat defunct Australian book club: Candy, by Luke Davies. I love it: the writing style, the darkness, and aching romance of the broken characters. It’s a book about heroin addiction. Reading about perfect people with perfect lives is, of course, tedious, and shattered souls reflect multifaceted reflections and rejections, which is strangely always far more beautiful. I enjoy walking through Brisbane, and in my travels I see everything from kangaroos to “bin chickens,” and I wear a sundress and drink red wine out of a massive glass.

The next morning we wake early to learn the queue has started for the only General Admission gig of the Australian tour. The list begins and is mostly regulars, save for a couple locals. By 8 am the heat already swelters and swells, and I feel so Canadian, and so pale, moving wherever I can find a gasp of shade from the sun. In my bag I have a small present for Morrissey, and I want to write him a letter, but I feel uncharacteristically wordless, perhaps from the travel, perhaps from being more overwhelmed than usual. I decide tonight is not the night for that, and I get ready with a friend in my hotel room. Queuing in the heat has made me feel ragged, and I take time to curl my hair and moisturize, and for once I dress in something more colourful and floral, but everything I do is with shaking hands. Some friends and I agree: shots are in order, and we rush into a bar across the street from the venue: Hey Chica!, as vibrant pink flamingo murals watch on.

The shots help, and we reorganize ourselves in line, this time with little sharpied numbers on our hands, which somehow always makes things feel far more secure, even though it probably doesn’t do much. At 7pm, we speed walk into the theatre, in order, and I grab the perfect spot on the barrier. Every time is the first time, and relief washes over me to be standing on the rail, waiting for pre-show videos to begin. Morrissey has added some new songs to the playlist this time: and perhaps my favourite new entry (since he added Why Can’t We Be Friends by War) is Birthday Party by French punk band Stinky Toys (that name!) Frontwoman Eli Medeiros’ delivery is so deadpan and awkward it’s sublimely sexy as she shimmies in a tiny metallic red tube dress. A gold snake necklace wraps around her neck, identical to a belt my mother once owned in the early 80’s. Like many things from my childhood, I had forgotten about the snake belt/necklace, and I suddenly remember playing dress-up with it. All I wanted was to feel pretty and important and glamorous, and the gold snake achieved just that. Birthday Party is raw and catchy, and I once again lament not having been around to witness the coolness of the 1970’s.

Source: YouTube

Brisbane erupts as Morrissey enters the stage under James Baldwin’s watch. There’s a different energy to GA shows, and the audience feels more singular: a nebulous breathing, heaving being. Australian audiences, like Canadian ones, are not as rough and wild as those in the UK or LA, but they still exude a tangible, joyous gratitude, and fans sing along and reach across the barrier’s gap, which is too far from the stage for any handshakes with Moz tonight. Like magic, I am immediately freed from the cage of my own head because thoughts so similar to my own are expressed through song: “so... the life I have made may seem wrong to you...” I am revived. I Wish You Lonely remains one of my top-ever songs: it dances with poetic pessimism, it’s rhythmic with biting syllables, and like a vivid half-dream, it’s almost too keenly aware. “Tombs are full of fools who gave their life upon command/Of romance gone wrong/The same old glue and never coming true, never coming true/Tombs are full of fools who gave their life upon command/Of heroin, heroin, heroin, heroin, heroin/And never coming back, never coming back.” No wonder I live for such escape.

Alma Matters

Morrissey sways and turns his head to the music, thrashing the microphone cord, as How Soon Is Now? swells upon us, infatuating like thunder, building walls of cascading, fierce notes. I much prefer the 2023 version of the song to the original Smiths version: for in 2023 it captures a lifetime of longing, and it’s edgier, and darker. With Morrissey, the song has matured into something far more powerful and defiant, and I adore that. He stands at the microphone, wearing a dark blue dress shirt, which he fiddles with and wears open at the neck to expose a large intricate turquoise necklace. “See I’ve already waited too long, and all my hope is gone...” My heart is open and wounded. Yes.

Morrissey and Juan Galeano

Morrissey’s current band is, in my opinion, his best ever, consisting of 5 accomplished musicians and composers with a wealth of experience in the music industry. As a unit they’re tight, and their individual gifts blend to create something divine and dynamic. The rhythm section builds up a driving, pulsing foundation, with Juan Galeano on bass and Brendan Buckley on drums, blending primal rhythmic bliss with virtuosity. Camila Grey is on keyboards, looking cool in dark sunglasses, the keys and notes rolling effortlessly under her fingers. Guitarists Carmen Vandenberg and Jesse Tobias captivate and combine to weave a poetic spell of sound, while imparting depth and passion to the music. It’s art how each song ignites such a unique blend of new energy and lifelong emotion, and I love musicians that can convey so much through their instruments; it’s completely transcendent. For me, the pinnacle of music is when it’s not only technically good, but also captures pure feeling: this is it. The sound is simultaneously more self-aware, bold, and empowered, while retaining the vital energy of youthfulness, which is symbolic of Morrissey himself and what his music, over time, feels like to me. Plus, Moz and the band look so damn cool. It’s beyond exhilarating to witness in the flesh.

Carmen Vandenberg

Jesse Tobias

The setlist itself moves between super-ultra-dreamy romantic pieces like Let Me Kiss You (crooning, melancholic, impassioned) and Darling, I Hug a Pillow, which has a 60’s girl group vibe and an ethereal outro, to stinging, forceful numbers like Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings and Irish Blood, English Heart. It’s this combination, or juxtaposition, however you prefer to think of it, that makes Morrissey’s music so timeless and all-encompassing: a mixture of longing, oft-unrequited love, and bold defiance, particularly towards feeling forced to ‘fit in.’ I am two people. It’s carved into my lonely introvert’s soul as each note or lyric rescues me. We sing back to him; it’s a rare kind of electricity.

“What I was trying to say before, God interrupted me... I don’t exactly get the best press, as you may have noticed... But occasionally, about once every thirty years, if I’m in a long corridor, I’d bump into journalists who said horrendous things about me, and they’re always like little shy school girls... And isn’t it funny how people are very harsh with one another? Well I know I am.” [source:  Celeste_2190, Instagram]

Morrissey leads into Half a Person, and in a way I think many of us remain “16, clumsy, and shy,” and perhaps there is no cure. It’s buried under the layers of rust and dust and one of the only constants unaffected by the passage of time. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want is another reflective piece, almost mystical in its beckoning: “see the life I’ve had, can make a good man turn bad.” Morrissey’s lyrics spin delicate threads of hope around the ever-imposing gloom of life and somehow they elevate despair into wishing. Even the saddest songs bring comfort. The lighting dances like moonlight, and many fans stop singing and moving simply to watch in awe as his voice embraces us with its strength and beauty. It’s all gorgeous.

With two more nights in Sydney ahead, fans roll out onto Brisbane’s streets after the gig, where mismatched partygoers, booze hounds, and club kids congregate and stumble down the street. It is a Friday night, after all. The bar won’t even serve doubles after midnight, which seems harsh but possibly logical, as even by that time people seem madly drunk... or something else... and I witness everything from pastel Harajuku girls on street corners, to drunken satin brides, to old toothless gritty punk dudes. I even see a lumbering man with a huge white beard wearing a purple sequined dress; it’s a scene. And every now and then, someone passes by in a Morrissey tour tee. Thankfully, there is no such thing in life as normal.

Up next... Sydney