Morrissey’s 14th album Make-Up Is a Lie finds him wearing all his favorite guises: eternal romantic, tireless crank, fragile old soul, free speech martyr, rock-nostalgia torchbearer, heavenly miserablist. He claims his years of controversial political utterances have made it hard for him to find a label to release the record, his first in five years. He ended up on Sire, which put out the Smiths and his early solo work. “I want to move away from those who stare at screens all day/I want to speak up and to not be trapped by censorship,” he sings against the Eighties-alt-rock guitar sparkle of “You’re Right, It’s Time,” more than one example here where clunky self-absorption gets in the way of a pretty good song.
The nadir is the sallow disco shitpost “Notre Dame,” in which he floats the xenophobic conspiracy theory that the 2019 fire that destroyed Notre Dame cathedral was the result of an uninvestigated terrorist attack. (He made the lyrics here a little more vague compared to the version he performed live but the intent still seems pretty obvious.) Mostly, though, he avoids dicey subject matter for solid autobiographical songwriting. “Zoom Zoom the Little Boy” sets two classic Moz themes – passionate animal rights advocacy and deep misanthropy — to a fun Swinging Sixties tune. A number of songs return to his deepest childhood musical loves. “Lester Bangs” is a tribute to the 1970s rock critic whose reviews of the New York Dolls and Roxy Music changed his life when he was a sad teenager — “this nerd hangs on your word.” “The Night Pop Dropped” returns to the shock of David Bowie’s death to honor his greatness, and Morriseey lovingly knocks out a zesty cover of the Roxy Music deep cut “Amazona.”
Those reflections on youthful passion contrast sharply with the Mozzer’s current state of self-pity. On “Boulevard” the only thing he can empathize with is a lonely street trod upon and senselessly abused. “Birds shit/Schoolboy’s spit/Right at you,” he moans. He recently had to cancel some tour dates due to health issues, and on “Headache” he offers an assessment of mortality that’s pretty morose even for him: “Man born of woman has a short time to live/And it’s still too long,” the 66 year-old artist intones. For many people, even longtime fans, dealing with Morrissey has become a headache. This album isn’t going to do much to change his strange place in the world, but his pain is real too.
Tupac Shakur at the Club USA in New York City, New York, 1994.
Prosecutors Put Rap Lyrics on Trial. Maryland Is About to Shut It Down
“I’m Gucci. It’s a rap. F**k [can they do] about a rap?”
Those are the words of Lawrence Montague on a jail phone call, words that now sit at the center of a broader legal reckoning unfolding in Maryland over the use of rap lyrics as evidence in criminal proceedings.
Maryland prosecutors introduced Montague’s rap verse, recorded using a jailhouse telephone and later posted to Instagram as evidence of his guilt for the killing of George Forrester. In December 2020, Maryland’s highest Court ruled in Montague vs. Maryland that rap lyrics can be admitted in court as evidence of a defendant’s guilt. The Court’s treatment of the genre as inherently violent reflects a deeply flawed and biased assumption, and Montague was ultimately convicted and sentenced to fifty years.
On appeal, the state’s highest court affirmed Montague’s conviction, finding that Montague’s lyrics made it more probable that he shot and killed Forrester. In doing so, the Court embraced the very kind of bias the legal system is supposed to guard against.
That ruling set a dangerous precedent, particularly for rap and hip-hop artists in America, and prompted Variety to publish our January 2021 opinion piece. What we didn’t realize at the time was that the article would help spark a national movement — now a united front of influential academics, defense and civil rights attorneys, and prominent music industry advocacy organizations including Songwriters of North America, the Black Music Action Coalition, The Recording Academy, and more. Together, we’ve partnered under a coalition known as Free Our Art, led by high-profile music executive Kevin Liles and co-chaired by me and Prophet. Over the past few years, the coalition has built a diverse and bipartisan group of allies, urging lawmakers to act. This week, in a full circle moment, Maryland became only the third state to pass a bill reconsidering how creative works are used in criminal trials. The bill now heads to the desk of Maryland Governor Wes Moore, who is widely expected to sign it into law.
When signed, Maryland’s Protecting Artists’ Creative Expression (PACE) Act will join California and Louisiana, which enacted similar laws in 2022 and 2023 following advocacy by BMAC, SONA and later Free Our Art. Critically, the legislation establishes clear standards for when creative works may be admitted as evidence in criminal proceedings.
This law addresses a growing concern among the music industry, legal scholars, and civil rights advocates, as rap lyrics have almost exclusively been used against Black and Brown artists in more than 820 cases since the 1980s. The PACE Act seeks to limit bias in the courtroom, reinforcing First Amendment protections that are frequently overlooked today. When signed into law, the legislation would limit the use of artistic expression as evidence to narrowly defined legal circumstances. Any creative expressions the government is looking to present as evidence must be presented to the judge before a jury trial even begins. These include instances where a defendant clearly intended the work to be taken literally, where it contains specific factual details tied to an alleged offense, where it is directly relevant to a disputed issue, and where its probative value outweighs any unfair prejudice.
Race has long shaped how rap lyrics are interpreted in the legal system. Courts have often misunderstood the history, purpose, and cultural significance of rap music in America, which emerged in the 1970s in the South Bronx as a response to poverty, unemployment, gang violence, isolation from mainstream America, and unfair treatment by government institutions. Courts are starting to correct the problem — overturning convictions where rap lyrics were wrongly used — but that’s not justice, that’s damage control. We need real protection on the front end. That’s why the PACE Act matters.
And the momentum is building: New York, Georgia, and Missouri legislatures are in discussions to pass laws to defend artistic freedom and draw the line.
Black artistry deserves the same legal protection as any other form of creative expression. Yet past rulings, including the Montague case in Maryland, have left Black artists exposed to bias rooted in misunderstanding — and too often, a refusal to engage with the culture itself. Research shows that rap, a predominantly Black genre, is more likely to be seen by jurors as more threatening, more dangerous, and grounded in reality. The result: Black expression is treated as evidence of criminality, while white artists in other genres such as country music exploring similar themes are afforded creative freedom. In court, slang, generic references, and race can unfairly prejudice juries far beyond their actual probative value.
Artists such as Tupac Shakur, Public Enemy, N.W.A, and Kendrick Lamar have long used hip-hop to tell stories and challenge injustice. That tradition is central to the genre and should not be mistaken for confession. Black artists deserve the opportunity to express fear and anger and process trauma and lived experiences without that expression being used against them in court. That distinction is exactly what this legislation seeks to protect.
With the PACE Act now moving through the final stages of approval, Maryland has an opportunity to correct a longstanding imbalance in the legal system. If signed into law, it will set a clear standard — one that other states should follow.
Dina LaPolt is an entertainment attorney, activist, and co-founder of the Songwriters of North America; and Willie “Prophet” Stiggers is the chairman and CEO of the Black Music Action Coalition. Special thanks to Loyola Law School student Kayla Ruff.