Past this point lies the derelict wasteland of 'indie'. The battle lines have been clearly drawn, marked and then excessively padded with gingham. The foot soldiers of the world have united and taken over. Florence and The Machine are regarded as edgy and relevant and unfortunately Lady Gaga is still breathing. The idiots have returned but instead of being self-admittedly stupid, they've adopted a veil of fake intellect. A guise of brief popular knowledge, tarted up as powerful insight. This is 2011. This is what happens when art isn't alternative.

Britain's setting during the 1980s was one built entirely out of aggression. The punk scene had been abandoned during the late 1970s and the regimented pop-star had returned. Politically, the working classes were systematically attacked by Conservative rule and British-culture was being steadily invaded by the imperialistic radio-waves of Americanisation. In the climate of such opposition, the rebellion had already begun. Nurtured within a Manchester council-house, kitchen-sink romanticism had been expertly preserved for the upcoming backlash. Likened to that of a dewy wilting follower, anti-depressant aficionado Steven Patrick Morrissey would become the be-quiffed leader of this resistance; alone proving his roots sank further than most.

In 1982, The Smiths were formed. The initial step toward retaliation had begun. Morrissey, a devout disciple of the Manchester punk scene, would parade a list of principles encompassing Punk's DIY approach whilst promoting an idiosyncratic devotion to Englishness, vegetarianism, sensitivity, sexuality and intelligence. Johnny Marr would revolutionise guitar-playing, reclaiming its status above and away from the synthetic grasp of the popularised keyboard player. His arrangements more than the ignorant "jingly-jangly" stapled association but instead fertilising the dole-ridden plains of working-class Britain with exuberance, joy, sadness and beauty.

The independent ideology had received a plausible outlet, born from choice not necessity, The Smiths: Marr and Morrissey. Even after panted, moist sniffs from major record labels, independence, self-control and promised freedom meant The Smiths signed to the then flailing Rough Trade Records (going through administration at the time). Such bold, declarative examples of independence identified a desire for artistic license ahead of monetary gain, an embodiment of true independence and creativity, as well as an ironic nod to the inevitable judicial future.

The Smiths thirst for creativity permeated the core of their musical ideals. A relentless demand for full control in every aspect concerning their art meant Morrissey and Marr could produce entirely intimate dual recordings, uncompromised from inception to creation. From verbally penetrative song conception on the back of leather car seats ('Shakespeare's Sister') to the atmospheric knife-dropping mixture of several innovative riffs ('How Soon Is Now?'). Morrissey and Marr were a constant during every process of production. Morrissey would operate during the day, Marr under the cover darkness and tables of whiskey; festering amongst the amps, leads and liquor.

Morrissey's masterful lyrics ranged explicitly; heartbreaking confessionals of isolation and emptiness, wherein the bleak would be explored as much as the bland dismissed ('I Know it's Over'). Uncompromising affronts riddled with controversy and seething frustration ('Shoplifters of the World Unite'). Confrontational implorations wrapped in satirical wit and sardonic humour ('Still Ill'). Dark introspections ('Death of a Disco Dancer') countered by light-hearted and revelatory vignettes ('Girlfriend in a Coma') all of which would bear the unmistakable brunt of Northern England and a dissatisfied genius.

By 1987, The Smiths had ended in controversial and uncertain terms. Marr had left the group after a conveyer belt of tours, managers and empty bottles of booze. On the verge of alcoholism Marr took a brief break from The Smiths, lack of management and musical direction had poked the guitarist to the edge. During this holiday, the NME published an article announcing "The Smiths to Split". Exhausted from a fierce, ever-present and impassioned relationship with Morrissey; Marr feeling betrayed by this public-reveal would decide to permanently leave The Smiths in July 1987. In the short five years that The Smiths existed, a masterful cacophony of 5 LP's was organically produced; 4 studio albums and a live album marked their unjust and untimely demise. They never had a single strike higher than number 10 and were largely dismissed by the mainstream media.

Independent music isn't independent any longer; it's now "indie" a cool, hip fashion shelter for the mentally deficient, a free accessory that can compliment your skinny jeans. The Smiths headstone has been pissed on and I for one am battling for its grave to be moved from the overpopulated graveyard of derivative vandalism and into the leafy cemetery reserved for true and important artists. Please join me in my cause.