I'm currently reading "The Smiths – Songs That Changed Your Life" by Simon Goddard. It's a real anorak affair, providing all the minutiae details and anecdotes behind every recording by the band. Which suits me fine.
However, I could well do without the author's apparent insistence on imposing his own descriptions of the records upon the reader. Particularly when they're like this, from the section on "Hand In Glove":
"…[Morrissey's] inimitable voice trembling upon each syllable with the force of a dormant human volcano suddenly erupting in a white-hot supernova of embryonic passion."
That's surely a contender for some kind of award, akin to those Bad Sex awards. Purplest Prose Awards? Dancing Badly About Architecture Awards?
Bad writing aside, it's also entirely redundant, as the book's target market is, by definition, Smiths obsessives. All of whom I can imagine reading the book, then rising as one and addressing Mr Goddard:
"You don't have to TELL us what the songs sound like. We KNOW what the songs sound like. We are SMITHS FANS. DO YOU SEE?"
