Music critics love two things above most. One is an artist returning to the spot of his initial successes. The other is songs about music critics. Having wrung the bygone rock flash from his new crew with the help of Mick Ronson (who died in April 1993), Morrissey settled back into the chime of his Smiths years. The fallout from Madstock would cling to his gold lame jacket for some time. Fortunately, though, his return to British performance would come only after a 43-date, two-leg North American tour. By all accounts, he was rapturously received; to America, the Union Jack was an exotic artifact, nothing more, and Morrissey was a link to a delicately attuned indie sensibility that took poor root stateside. (The legend of Morrissey’s Latino fanbase dates to this time.)

So while one might have expected the pugnacious Moz to double down on his newly claimed rock’n’roll territory, his doubling back wasn’t unsurprising. His two American tours (with Sire Records’ two Smiths compilations released in between) paid dividends: “The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get” was his second Modern Rock chart-topper and his only Hot 100 entry; Vauxhall was his first album to chart in the top 20, as well. On a personal note, three of his key collaborators died within a four-month period: his manager Nigel Thomas (who foresaw his charge’s American success), his primary video director Tim Broad, and Ronson. Exhausted from touring, beset by loss, he turned in what is, for many — and Morrissey himself — his finest solo work.

As a collection of his most direct and — it would appear to be — most personal lyrics, Vauxhall is a prime tour of the Mind of Moz. Gently arpeggiated, solemnly strummed, the record keeps one foot in the past at all times. There are a couple references to fathers, a gentle portrait of oblivious Britons at a war’s dawning, a track loaded with namechecks of Graham Greene characters. The wah-laden “Billy Budd” seems to obliquely reference a couple of Beatles tunes. It’s no surprise, then, that the biggest shocks come from opposite ends of the PPM. Morrissey goes sotto voce for “Lifeguard Sleeping, Girl Drowning,” giving equal billing to twin clarinets.”There’s no movement,” he moans: “Hooray.” In “Speedway,” a damn chainsaw gets revved, startling the listener at least as much as the admission that “all those lies, written lies… they weren’t lies.” With a wide-ranging vocal approach, Morrissey strips all potential cheek from the text, while the band bombs the ocean floor. Producer Steve Lillywhite’s recording of the drums alone would practically make this Moz’s finest closer.

Lillywhite, best known for his widescreen sheen, applied to painfully earnest acts like U2, applies a light touch to the proceedings, relying instead on the compositional skills of Boorer and Whyte. The result was a best-case for Morrissey: a well-received record that (generally) cooled the conflagration from Madstock while cementing his popularity in America, to which he moved around this time. As far as the man himself was concerned, Vauxhall and I was his high-water mark; critical and audience opinion has generally sided with him.