Still miserable, thank heavens

You are the Quarry

(Attack/ Sanctuary)

'On returning / I can't believe the world is still turning,' sighs Morrissey on 'I'm Not Sorry'. As the focal point of the Smiths and as a solo artist, Morrissey has long viewed the world with a potent and occasionally sublime mixture of contempt, bewilderment and weariness - one that would deteriorate into petulance at the drop of an adverb. Now, 10 years on from his last good record - 1994's Vauxhall and I - Morrissey is luxuriating in a new role: that of an exiled monarch being ushered back in from a long spell in the wilderness.

He can afford to be magnanimous in victory: You are the Quarry, his seventh, is something of a return to form. It invokes Oliver Cromwell, Jesus, Estonians and a Hispanic thug called Hector just for starters. Then there are the sold-out concerts and a stint curating London's Meltdown festival. All in all, it's quite a vindication for the LA resident, sustained so long by the uncritical devotion of his American fans and (as the closing track points out) his royalties from greatness past.

Clearly, though, the wounded hero has scores to settle. Brandishing a machine gun on the cover, he peppers his tormentors - 'crashing bores', magistrates, critics, policewomen, 'legal eagles' - with a hail of disdain. 'Irish Blood, English Heart' tackles one of the ugliest chapters in Morrissey's career - his falling out with a once-adoring NME over allegations of racism, triggered by Morrissey brandishing a Union Jack in front of an audience of skinheads in 1992. 'I've been dreaming of a time when to be English is not to be baneful,' he bristles, 'To be standing by the flag not feeling shameful or racist or partial.' The candid final track, 'You Know I Couldn't Last', casts an eye over his career and rues 'every "ist" and every "ism" thrown my way'.

The high watermark of peevishness is 'How Could Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel'. 'I've had my face dragged in 15 miles of shit,' Morrissey hisses, referring most probably to the travails of trying to get a record deal. Then there's the random shots at 'pop stars thicker than pigshit' and his love-hate relationship with his adopted homeland ('America is Not the World'). Exile has not blunted his tongue.

The fighting talk is howver accompanied by music that veers from rousing to the downright dismal ('I'm Not Sorry'). Here and there, a guitar oscillates in a faint echo of the Smiths ('Let Me Kiss You'), and the chipper pop of 'First of the Gang to Die' comes as a great relief after all the ill-fitting, electronically enhanced guitar-rock and tinkly pianos. Mercifully, the album evens out at a level of listenability that is less than ideal but not actively rotten.

But we're not really here for the tunes. It's a glimpse into Morrissey's roiling soul we're after. He is the quarry, and the spectacle of his agony is sometimes disturbing. Songs like 'I Have Forgiven Jesus' mine a deep vein of self-loathing that, poignant in his younger self, seems more troubling in a man in his forties. He is 'sick and depraved', and even a crashing bore: 'I must be one/ Because no one turns to me to say, "Take me in your arms and love me".' He implores a lover to close their eyes and imagine 'someone you physically admire' in order to bear his kisses.

The fruitless search for love has long been a trope in Morrissey's writing; a universal theme which has endeared him to the unrequited lover in all of us. But this mature self-repulsion is rather sad. Meanwhile, couplets like 'The woman of my dreams/ She never came along/... There never was one,' will reignite the debate around Morrissey's closely guarded sexuality, an inquiry he hates almost as much as being ignored.

So really, it's just like old times: Morrissey railing against the royal family; craving 'tea with a taste of the Thames'; begging to be loved but spurning anyone who wants him as 'insane'. It's nice to have him back.