This song is taken from Microdisney's LP The Clock Comes Down The Stairs, probably my favourite LP of all time. I've not posted MD earlier because choosing a song was so hard, even now I don't know whether to choose And or Humane. Humane is a more typical Microdisney song, And is better. I've chosen.
For years I’ve brooded over the injustice of Microdisney failing to garner the recognition their talent deserves, so much so, I once worked on a script for a stage play, based on the life of Brian Clough not as a football manager but as a record label manager, it was rubbish but, it’s a good time to dig out the day Clough who had recently moved to Rough Trade met one of the band’s for the first time. It captures, how fucked up I am that Microdisney still aren’t loved, for instance their monthly Spotify listener tally is 6259, the Toy fucking Dolls get 155,000 listeners a month. WTF.

Scene: A dimly lit Manchester studio, 1985. Brian Clough, the new head of Rough Trade Records, enters. The label’s prized act—The Smiths—sit awkwardly, expecting some kind of pep talk. Clough surveys them with undisguised contempt before launching into his speech.
CLOUGH
(pauses, inhales deeply, shakes his head as if trying to process the enormity of the situation)
I have walked into many dressing rooms in my time, and I tell you now—I have never seen one so utterly... self-satisfied. Look at you. Sitting there, like kings of some artistic empire you think you built. You don’t smile. You don’t laugh. You don’t even look like you want to be here.
(pacing now, hands clasped behind his back)
Now let me tell you something. I’ve been listening to the bands we’ve got under this roof—the lot of them. And do you know what I hear? Craft. Precision. Intelligence. Microdisney, for one—now there’s a band that respects music. That lot don’t just sit around wallowing in their own legend—they work, they refine, they push forward.
(turns sharply to Morrissey)
And you, Young Man. You want to be a poet? Fine. But poetry without purpose is just indulgence. You write about heartbreak, about alienation—but where’s the fight? Where’s the bite? Microdisney don’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves. No, they put thought into every line—every chord means something. You? You repeat the same lament four times and call it depth!
(now pointing at Johnny Marr)
And you—God help you, you’re the only one here who understands music. But instead of driving this lot forward, you drape your melodies in sadness and call it style. Style? Style’s not staring out of a window while a bloody tambourine does all the heavy lifting!
And let me tell you something else—if you want to know what true musicality sounds like, look no further than Sean O’Hagan. That lad plays with intent. Every chord, every arrangement—it’s sculpted, crafted, thought-through like a fine bloody painting! Did Microdisney waste their potential by drowning in sentimentality? No. They had skill, precision, and a guitarist who knew how to push a song forward—not just sit there basking in the glow of his own reputation, how you lot bloody outsell them i’ll never know.
(Clough scans the room, suddenly sneering. He steps forward, voice lowering to a deadly calm.)
And now I want every single one of you to take your NME awards, your Melody Maker covers, your smug little write-ups telling you that you’re the most important band in Britain—and I want you to throw them all in the bin. Every last bit of it. Because you did not win those with graft. You won them with bloody cult worship. You won them by turning misery into fashion, by convincing people that your self-pity was genius.
(slams a hand down on the mixing desk, sending empty cups rattling)
It ends now. This moping, this self-indulgent martyrdom—it ends now. While I’m here, you’ll write songs with depth, with bite. Because I do not stand for laziness, and right now, you lot are coasting on the fumes of your own reputation.
(leans in, voice now deathly calm)
Now... Are you going to sit here, drowning in your own importance, or are you going to start behaving like a band that actually deserves its place in history?
(The band shifts uncomfortably. Morrissey narrows his eyes, Marr smirks slightly—Rourke and Joyce glance at each other, unsure if Clough is serious or just completely insane. Silence. Clough stares them down. Then, abruptly—he exits, slamming the studio door behind him.)