This Charming Man
Behind the Beat: Mike Joyce Lifts the Lid on Life with The Smiths
Johnny said, “We’ve got to have him in the band. He’s got the fucking balls of King Kong to come here and audition on shrooms.”
By Fred Spanner
He’s the bloke who kept The Smiths in time, and at last, Mike Joyce has swapped his drumsticks for a pen. His new book, The Drums, dishes the dirt, drops the beat, and takes you behind the kit for the wild ride of a lifetime. From sweaty Manchester clubs to chart-topping chaos, Joyce’s story has got it all.
From the early days of Manchester’s post-punk scene to the heights of indie stardom and beyond, Joyce reflects on creativity, camaraderie, and the art of keeping a beat both onstage and off. In an exclusive conversation with Loaded, he opens up about writing the book, revisiting old memories, and why rhythm still drives everything he does.
We chat backstage in the Glee Club, Glasgow.
I don’t think this venue was here back in the days of The Smiths. I’m not sure what it was back then.
I don’t remember this place. We played Barrowlands, of course. It was always great coming up here.
Taking you back to your very early days, I understand you almost didn’t become a drummer due to a serious accident.
I was involved in a life-threatening accident when I was younger. I was the youngest of five kids, and being the baby of the family, I got special treatment from my mum. If I’d wanted the moon, she’d have got it for me.
When I asked for a drum kit, my parents scraped some money together on the “never, never”. It was an expensive piece of kit, and they couldn’t really afford it. They were thinking, “Is this a career? Is this just a bit of fun? How is it going to manifest itself?”
My mum took me into a shop in Manchester and purchased a kit. She nearly fainted when she saw the price, mind. As it turned out, it was a career move.
What made you decide to write your memoirs at this particular moment in time?
I’ve been asked so many times over the years. I kept getting told that I’ve got some great stories, and I should write a book, but I’ve never felt the need to do it. As the years have gone by, I’ve had so many people coming up to me and asking what it was like to be in The Smiths.
I can’t just say “It was incredible.” That doesn’t really encapsulate the amazing situations I found myself in; in life, in the studio, and just being with these incredibly talented people. So I thought it was time to commit it to print, so it’s there forever.
Also, I had a very unique position in the band. I got the best seat in the house. I saw both the band and the crowd, and I wanted to explain what that was like. Also, I wanted to mention the recordings and the producers, because I don’t know if it’s ever been touched on before. I’ve never read Morrissey’s book, but I’ve been told it doesn’t really talk much about the creative process.
I understand you were under the influence of mushrooms when you auditioned for the band. I this something you’d recommend?
No, it’s not big and it’s not clever, kids. It was just a few. I wasn’t sitting in the corner, shaking, and saying, “I want to go home.” It was like having a shot of Jack Daniel's or Tequila. It just gave me a heightened sense of reality.
Johnny said afterwards, “We’ve got to have him in the band. He’s got the fucking balls of King Kong to come here and audition on shrooms.” So it worked in my favour in the end.
I think the beauty of the book is that you’ve covered the golden period right up to the split and haven’t gone beyond that. That’s the bit everyone wants to remember. To be honest, Morrissey’s book is mostly a list of complaints. What were the rehearsals like?
The sound wasn’t great in the rehearsal room. We set up where we wanted to. From where I was, it sounded pretty drum-heavy, as you can imagine. I’m sure from Morrissey’s point of view, it was the same. He just had this tiny P.A. At this point, no one, including us, had really heard what we sounded like.
I mean, we liked what we heard, but until we actually committed to record, we wouldn’t know how other people were going to hear The Smiths. So, when we recorded Hand In Glove, which was the very first record we did, it sounded like the most incredible thing I’d ever heard.
I’d never heard anything like it before, or since, which is strange as it’s a very basic vocals/guitar/bass/drums line-up. That’s quite an achievement, without actually trying to sound different. That was a seminal moment.
Did you feel like you had to restrain yourself a bit to make sense of what everyone else was doing?
It was like pieces of a jigsaw that fit in the right spaces. At the beginning, Andy and I were locked in. We were tight. In the early days, I tended to go along with what he was doing, but he was a really busy bass player, and I ended up being more guided by Johnny. He was such a great rhythm player; I ended up grooving with that a lot.
Andy’s bass line was so good that if you took it away, it would sound like a completely different song. So, it was quite an unusual setup. Johnny was leading, as they were his tunes, and we went with it, and if anything needed to be taken out, it was taken out. Andy and Johnny were out of this world.
One of Morrissey’s complaints in his book- I think it was number 148- was John Porter’s production on your first album. The Smiths. He didn’t feel that it encapsulated the excitement and energy of your live sound.
I tend to agree with him. I think it was a tall order. I did some work with Suede, and they said the same thing. We were pottering around on the desk in the studio, and they said, “We want to sound like this.” It was a rehearsal tape, and it sounded terrible. I said, “You can’t sound like that. That’s a live recording. You won’t get it to sound like that.”
I think where Morrissey and I will agree with each other is that the energy, drive, ambition and even the occasional brutal playing were lost on that album. John wanted to record a great-sounding album, and he did.
There was one instance when we were playing What Difference Does It Make, and John asked me to simplify it a bit. Johnny’s guitar bit was so busy, it was getting lost. So I stripped it down to the basics. I preferred it the way it was, and Morrissey agreed, but you have a producer for a reason. John said, “If you play that straight, I guarantee you’ll have a hit record.” And we did.
I couldn’t really turn round and refuse to do it his way. I’d never recorded an album before, and he was in Roxy Music for fucks sake, so he knew what he was doing. Then he said a very smart thing, which was that it was a good idea to play it my way when we performed live, which I did. It was a nice compromise.
Did you feel, as time went on, that you were allowed to do more than the basics on record?
From that very first meeting in Tarrif Street, and up until Strangeways, I don’t feel I ever met any of the guys properly to talk to them about it. I just tried to bring to the table what I thought was right for each song. I had to get pretty good, pretty quick, when faced with the musicianship of Andy and Johnny. Not just decent players- incredible players. As a drummer, I’m not that great. I just play along and do what I can do.
Did Morrissey have a habit of not turning up to studio sessions sometimes?
There were a few no-shows, but we never really pried into why. I remember we were supposed to be doing a video shoot once, and he didn’t turn up. If he had a reason not to come out to play, then he didn’t come. I didn’t ask or take him to task over it. It was a mark of respect for his own personal life.
You mentioned Morrissey’s humour in your book. I like the idea that he might dress up as a clown and leap out of a wheelie bin, shouting, “Surprise!”, but I suspect it was a bit more subtle than that.
Yes, he had a very dark sense of humour when I knew him. Very sarcastic and witty. A typical Mancunian in terms of that. Very funny.
I remember someone telling me a story about Russell Brand wanting to speak to Morrissey, but he didn’t know what to say. In the end, he went with, “I love watching you perform.” Morrissey looked at him, without skipping a beat, and replied, “Seals perform.”
A very funny bloke. I mean, there’s plenty of humour in the lyrics. People used to go on about The Smiths being miserable, but that just comes from the song, Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now. It’s tongue in cheek. The song’s about the idea of being sixteen years old, and excited to get a job, but then, when you do, finding out you’re just as miserable as you were before.
If you get The Smiths, you get The Smiths. If you don’t, you don’t.
Which part of the book is he most likely to disagree with?
I don’t know. Will Morrissey read it? Probably not. The kind of relationship we have nowadays, he’ll probably use it as toilet paper. He’s very highly opinionated, so you never know.
He might love it, and you can put an “Approved by Morrissey” sticker on the front cover.
Hmm. We’ll see…
I understand you were quite emotional when you first heard him singing the words to I Know It’s Over.
Well, yes. We’d done our part to the song, the lights went off in the studio, and you could just hear his voice. It was an unusual way to do things. Usually, the singer would work out things with you. He used to take the cassette (Google it, kids) and he’d work out his part.
So, he came in and sang it for the first time, and - as you can imagine- it was incredibly moving. It was perfect.
John Peel championed The Smiths by playing them to death on his show, but the rumour was that he never attended any of your sessions or gigs. Is that true?
Yeah, as far as I can remember. John Walters was the man who came to see us and booked us for our first Radio One studio session. I don’t remember Peel ever being there, but he certainly played us a lot on his show.
Let’s talk about the late Andy Rourke. There’s now a mural in Manchester to honour him.
Yes, we wanted a permanent reminder. Not just a gig that would be over in a night. It’s huge. It couldn’t look any better. There’s also a QR code on there to raise awareness of pancreatic cancer. It’s a great tribute to the man, and it was the least I could do.
He was a bit of a joker, wasn’t he?
Oh, he was relentless. We were playing Reel Around The Fountain back in the day, and at one point, Johnny went up to Andy at a really poignant moment in the song. Andy looked right down the camera, sniffed a few times, and mouthed the words, “Can you smell dog shit?”
I remember coming out of a pub once with Andy and Damon Gough. We were walking down the road, and this guy passed us who was walking these four fluffy Shih Tzu dogs. Andy turned around and said, “Hey mate! I think you’ve dropped your knitting.” Even the bloke started laughing.
It was relentless with Andy. He was always funny, and he had a really good strike rate with his jokes, too.
Did you feel Andy’s presence when you were writing?
A little bit. I mean, he’s gone now, and cancer is so fucking cruel. He was such a wonderful person. I wanted to talk about his bass playing in depth in the book, as it’s harder for non-musicians to understand just how good he was.
There’s a part on the live album, Rank, when we’re playing I Know It’s Over. Morrissey sings the line, “If you’re so funny, then why are you on your own tonight?”, where Andy plays this note that sounds like a sigh. It was pure art. It was a brushstroke. He does it on two separate occasions. Andy’s presence in the band should never be understated. There was a lot more going on than most people realised.
When did you realise the band had come to an end?
Johnny called us to a meeting in a chip shop and told us he was leaving the band. We were all shocked. It wasn’t as if there had been an incident in the studio or anything. No big bust-ups, like what happens in a lot of bands.
I was surprised, but then every band has a beginning, a middle and an end. But, then again, I didn’t want to let go of what I still had with Andy and Morrissey. So we tried to bring someone in to replace Johnny, but it didn’t work.
Was it an act of desperation? I don’t know. I loved working with the guys, and I didn’t want to let go. We tried to reinvent it, but we couldn’t. We tried one guitarist, Ivor Perry, from the band Easterhouse, but it didn’t happen. We could have tried another, and it might have been perfect, but it might not.
I didn’t feel it was right. I thought it was irreparable. Johnny’s boots were too ridiculously big to fill.
Considering the relatively short period in which The Smiths were around, they left a massive legacy with so many bands that followed admitting they were heavily influenced by yourselves. You must be incredibly proud of that.
Of course, it’s a massive compliment. Anyone who’s been in a band wants that. You want to be remembered for more than just a couple of songs or a certain genre. You want people to be looking at you forever. Here we are, forty years on.
I do a bit of DJing, and when I put How Soon Is Now? on and see all these young kids dancing around, it's a testament to that. We were slap bang in the middle of the 80s, but we weren’t an 80s-sounding band. I think if we’d come out now, we’d have done pretty well too.
That’s a great thing for a band with a traditional line-up; to be able to transcend generation, after generation like that. Kids are coming to the book signings who are massive Smiths fans. It’s incredible.
After our first rehearsal, my brother asked me to describe the sound, and I couldn’t. He said that we must sound like something, but I couldn’t even give him a genre. I couldn’t explain it. He sat in at one of the rehearsals later on, we went for a beer, and he agreed that he couldn’t describe it either. He hadn’t heard anything like it, and neither had I. I still don’t know, to this day.
If you could change one thing about your journey in The Smiths, what would it be?
One thing that used to bug me a lot was that I wished I’d played and practised more. I’ve spoken to other drummers about it, and they said that when they pushed themselves too hard, they lost a lot of the naivety, and it can never be brought back.
I was talking to Donald Johnson from A Certain Ratio, and he pointed out my drumbeat in How Soon Is Now? He said it’s one of the best drumbeats ever. I mean, it’s such a basic beat, but as he pointed out, it’s the original Keep On Movin’ beat. I was playing house beats before house music existed.
I guess if it’s one thing I have to choose, it would have been one more album. I put it to Johnny when he told us he was leaving. I suggested we just have a break and come back for one more album. I’ve heard he was furious about that idea. Apparently, it was the last thing he wanted to hear. I was too shocked and upset at the time to think about what I was saying.
Would one more album have hurt? Would it have been a stinker? I doubt it.
But I have no regrets at all.
The Drums, by Mike Joyce, is out now.
Published by New Modern and distributed by Simon and Schuster.