John Peel once described the Smiths as “just another band that arrived from nowhere with a very clear and strong identity”. Unlike other bands, he said, the Smiths weren’t trying to be T Rex or the Doors; they were simply the Smiths, a group whose aesthetic lineage was curiously hard to trace. What they left in their wake, of course, is far easier to map out: there are few indie bands since who don’t, at least in some way, take their cues from Morrissey, Johnny Marr, Mike Joyce and the recently departed Andy Rourke. As far back as their 1983 debut, the Smiths were inadvertently shaping ideas about how indie should interact with fandom, masculinity and the mainstream music industry, and writing music that would be referenced and reinterpreted by generations to come; over the past 40 years, you can see their aesthetic and spiritual influence in everyone from the Stone Roses to Oasis and the 1975. The Smiths’ influence is so widespread that it can be hard to pinpoint what, exactly, their specific legacy has been: even decades later, nobody really plays guitar like Marr and nobody really writes lyrics or sings like Morrissey. Instead, there’s some kind of ineffable vibe, a sensibility that can be felt. John Reed, director of catalogue at Cherry Red Records and the compiler of Scared to Get Happy, an exhaustive compilation of 80s British indie music, says that the band “became a template – something either sounds like the Smiths or it doesn’t. There’s maybe only a dozen other British bands who you could say that about.” Instead, it’s easier to speak to what they offered when they first debuted, and what made them go from, as Reed says, “zeros to heroes overnight”. Tony Fletcher, author of A Light That Never Goes Out: The Enduring Saga of the Smiths remembers that the band offered “a sense of positivity at a time when Britain felt really fucked. They were offering this sort of exuberant, joyous positivity; they were working-class lads who didn’t mind smiling.” Although Morrissey’s lyrics, now, are seen as uniquely pessimistic, Fletcher says that at the time there was a “liberating” feeling listening to the Smiths, given the way they brought a comic, pop-focused lens to the grimness of life as a young person in the midst of Thatcher-era Britain. “Their politics were very clear, but they weren’t coming out and apologising for being working class, and they weren’t coming out with the kind of militant statements that some other bands did,” he says. “Morrissey’s line ‘I’ve never had a job / Because I’ve never wanted one’ [on You’ve Got Everything Now] – that was a seminal line early on at a time of great employment.” The interplay of gloom and light, of Morrissey’s biting lyrics and Marr’s bright guitars, are what has made the band so enduring for successive generations of British indie musicians, says Connie Constance. The 28-year-old Watford musician counts the Smiths as one of her biggest reference points when it comes to guitar sounds, along with the Clash. “The sound has all the negativity that I think Brits just naturally have,” she says. “It has this gritty, I’m not bothered, moany thing, while having this beautiful layer on top that makes everything feel like it’s gonna be all right.” Although Constance first engaged with the Smiths as a child, she didn’t realise until later the impact they had on all the other bands she had grown up listening to. “I was listening to their back catalogue and being like, ‘Oh my gosh, this sound is so laced into all of British indie rock,’ from that moment onwards.” Greater Manchester mayor Andy Burnham, a longtime Smiths fan, remembers that the band “came along at a time when the north-west of England was probably at its lowest ever ebb in recent history. It seemed to me to be a recurrent theme in Morrissey’s lyrics that you can kind of aspire to be more than this. You don’t have to be dragged down by your situation or circumstances.” In Burnham’s eyes, the band gave the region a rare sense of cachet. “When I got to university, people would ask, ‘You’ve seen the Smiths?’ and it was like, OK, I’ve got something that you want – that was important, in terms of building a sense of confidence and ambition.” Richard King, author of the book How Soon Is Now: The Mavericks and Madmen Who Made Independent Music 1975-2005, says the Smiths created a give and take with their fans that felt fresh. “Morrissey wasn’t an adolescent, but he did seem to know how to articulate the extremes of adolescence, and there were very few people who did,” he says. “There was a sense of generosity and value in every release – the picture sleeves, the tone they used, the B-sides: everything they did had this value that you couldn’t find anywhere else – and it felt like it was coming directly from the band. It meant that the emotional investment that you put in as an adolescent, into the songs and their meaning, you felt like that investment was returned by the band in their quality control and their look.” Although it had been common to pledge sartorial fealty to a genre or subculture – such as punk or goth – Smiths fans, even before they had released an album, dressed like the Smiths. Although other artists had developed a similar aesthetic sensibility previously, most of them, such as Orange Juice’s Edwyn Collins, took their cues from 1950s Americana, with leather jackets, sunglasses and immaculate quiffs. Morrissey combined the 50s hair with what Reed calls a “studenty” look – raincoats bought from charity shops and vintage stores. That look, now, has calcified into what might be termed the classic indie boy aesthetic: T-shirts and shirts tucked into 501 jeans, thick-rimmed glasses, mismatched or ill-fitting outerwear. Fletcher saw the band in late 1983, and remembers seeing that “fans were already dressed like them – in London, people were carrying flowers in their back pockets. From 1984, Morrissey had the big overcoat thing, and suddenly you just started seeing people like that. It was like some of them were just coming out of their shell – they were very bookish people who suddenly realised that bookish was fashionable, and they didn’t have to apologise for their NHS specs and being a bit dishevelled and literate and into pop music.” Burnham remembers Manchester’s Affleck’s Palace as being a centre of the Morrissey aesthetic. “Morrissey created it, but people would go there to replicate it,” he says. “It was vintage 501 jeans before they were as ubiquitous as they became, cardigans, stuff that was deliberately old-school looking. It was kind of an outsider look – it became anti-cool fashion before that existed in our heads.” He recalls the Smiths acting as a kind of codex for broader culture. When the band performed on the South Bank Show, for example: “I remember everyone videotaping it, and it really laid out a hinterland of references. People started reading Oscar Wilde – it kind of did broaden your horizons, liking the Smiths.” The band’s iconography and music was so strong that despite’s Morrissey’s aesthetic and political shifts after he went solo – on 1988’s Bengali in Platforms he suggested south Asian migrants didn’t belong in the UK, and by 1992 he was draping himself in the union jack – many fans can easily separate the Smiths off in their minds. The freedom that the band seemed to offer their audience – to remove themselves from staid ideas of how to look, dress or think – was revolutionary at the time. King remembers the way Marr and Morrissey interacted on stage, and the amount of fun they seemed to be having, feeling radically new. “The two of them dancing together as men, but both being very feminine and, in Johnny’s case, quite androgynous, was incredibly powerful,” he says. “It felt to an adolescent audience that it was giving them agency to act differently – two men dancing together not in an overtly homoerotic or political way, but just having fun together in their own unique way.” Moreover, Morrissey pioneered a musical expression that wasn’t geared towards heterosexual romance – or even romance in general. “To have somebody that wasn’t singing either, ‘I’m in love with you,’ or, ‘You broke up with me,’ but singing, ‘I’m not really sure if I want love, I don’t know if I want romance’ – he managed to encapsulate feelings that so many people had,” says Fletcher. “I don’t think anybody had come along with that.” Constance says that Morrissey’s less explicitly masculine presentation has “allowed a softer side of men in indie bands to come through” in the years since. “I feel like men can share a bit more in the indie world, and they can sing and get things off their chest a bit more, rather than being just this like brutal anarchist punk or superstar over-sexual glam-rock male,” she says. “Someone like [the 1975’s] Matty Healy – Morrissey was the first of that [archetype].” “Like a lot of the best bands of that time,” says Reed, the Smiths’ “stature has grown – the music has spread around the world. British indie music was massively influential on music that came out of North America, South America, Australia, all around, probably more than in the UK. That isn’t specific to the Smiths, but the Smiths are a big part of that.” “They proved you could be an indie band, make the charts and be successful,” says Fletcher. “Do things on your own terms, be controversial, make great music, be proud of guitars, not be luddites. You could be all of those things.”