The Smiths take the stage for the first time on October 4, 1982


It is a well-established fact that nothing ever truly begins. Things simply get to a point where they are slightly less not-happening than they were before. This is particularly true of rock and roll bands, which have a rather peculiar knack for coalescing into existence only to subsequently implode with all the predictable grace of a collapsing star, but with considerably more shouting and far less interesting physics.

And so it was for The Smiths. On October 4, 1982, in a Manchester nightclub called The Ritz, a group of four life-forms, consisting of one Morrissey, one Johnny Marr, one Mike Joyce, and one Andy Rourke, decided that they would make a noise. 

It was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary Monday evening in Manchester. The kind of evening that slouched casually into existence with all the understated enthusiasm of a damp dishcloth. Outside, the world was busying itself with the usual humdrum affairs: taxis navigated the perpetually bewildered geometry of city streets, chip shop owners contemplated the existential angst of the last potato, and somewhere, a particularly despondent pigeon was no doubt composing an ode to the futility of flight.

But inside The Ritz, a venue that, like many British establishments, probably had more stories than it had structural integrity, something was stirring. Something utterly improbable, decidedly peculiar, and destined to etch itself into the very fabric of popular culture, much like a particularly stubborn tea stain on a favorite jumper.  

Now, The Ritz was, in itself, a profoundly uninteresting building, though it did have the rather novel gimmick of a sprung dance floor, which made for a slightly more energetic, if less dignified, sort of cavorting. It was also, like most nightclubs, a dark and confusing place where things like sense and coherent thought went to die a slow, painful death.

On October 4, 1982, four chaps with an almost pathological aversion to the kind of glitter and shoulder pads that were then waging a full-scale assault on the world of music, stepped onto a stage. They were, to the assembled throng of what one can only imagine were a few dozen curious onlookers and a handful of genuinely bewildered bar staff, an unknown quantity. A musical anomaly. A footnote waiting to be written, or, as it turned out, a bold, sweeping chapter.

This, dear reader, was the very first concert by a band who would shortly be known as The Smiths.

Entering, stage left (or possibly stumbling from the wings, depending on whom you believe), Steven Patrick Morrissey on vocals, a young man whose quiff alone could have sheltered a family of robins and whose worldview appeared to have been forged in the quiet fury of suburban libraries. Johnny Marr on guitar, a mop-topped prodigy whose fingers seemed to possess an independent, almost sentient knowledge of how to make a six-string sing with melancholic jangle. And Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce, the rhythm section, providing a bedrock of understated brilliance that allowed the sonic architects to build their magnificent, miserable cathedrals of sound.

There were no exploding pyrotechnics. No choreographed dance routines involving neon spandex. Just four blokes, a collection of instruments, and a truly astonishing capacity for crafting tunes that made you want to both weep into your tea and dance around your kitchen.

Who knew, on that damp Manchester evening, that this unassuming debut would be the precursor to some of the most beloved and endlessly-quoted songs of a generation? That this small ripple would become a tsunami of introspection, wit, and jangly guitar?

Probably no one. Because, let's be honest, the universe rarely telegraphs its most profound shifts with flashing lights and a brass band. More often than not, it begins with a quiet Monday night in a slightly sticky-floored venue, a handful of people wondering what all the fuss is about, and the unmistakable sound of a truly great band taking their very first, tentative steps.

And for that, we can only be eternally grateful. Even if, occasionally, it still makes us want to lie down in a darkened room and listen to "How Soon Is Now?" on repeat. It's a small price to pay for such magnificent misery.

Here's to the unlikeliest of beginnings.

Location: Manchester, UK

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