Mark writes:
Welcome return of daffodil king
Morrissey
by John Aizlewood
There's something of the Norma Desmond about Morrissey in 2002. Living in self-imposed, bitter exile in Carole Lombard's old house off, appropriately enough, Sunset Boulevard, the mid-Eighties icon has found himself without a record deal since 1997's weary Maladjusted.
Marooned in America he may be, but back in the old country, he retains a certain cachet, selling out his two nights at the Royal Albert Hall in a matter of hours. Before he appeared, the atmosphere was so fervid the "here we go" chant was transformed into "Mor-is-ee". Indeed, the whole event, and this was certainly an event, had the air of a morale booster, both for Morrissey - who will never break his new homeland - and for his daffodil-hurling devotees, simply relieved to have a rare fix of their most peculiar object of devotion.
As the introductory pealing country church bells (it's a wonder he didn't hand out toasted muffins, too) rang out, the sense of hope and anticipation was almost palpable. He did not disappoint.
His four backing musicians - nothing so avant garde as keyboards here - appeared to have been barred from moving, so Morrissey was left to carry the show alone. This he did.
These days: lissom, clad entirely in black, and quiff erect, he resembles comeback-period Elvis Presley. He has the same off-kilter sexuality, too, writhing on his back to the climax of Meat is Murder, a rare incursion into his Smiths' canon, gladhanding his acolytes at every turn and nimbly dodging the frequent stage invaders.
His asides were droll, if hardly bons mots worthy of his spiritual mentor Oscar Wilde. "Don't worry, if we play it again we'll bring an applause machine," he sighs, after the new single The World is Full of Ghastly Bores is greeted with generous applause rather than pandemonium.
In fact, the new material suggested that Morrissey's American sojourn has not wholly been a creative disaster. Mexico had the evocative air with which he once re-created the Manchester fairgrounds of his youth.
Better still, The First of the Gang to Die is his most glorious chorus since Everyday is Like Sunday and Suedehead, which were aired and received with heartwarming gusto.
Wisely, he chose not to outstay his welcome and after a solitary encore of The Smiths' There is a Light that Never Goes Out, the lights promptly came on and the church bells pealed once again. Morrissey's saga is far from over.
