Here it is
Being a long-suffering Morrissey fan has in recent years begun to feel like the love that dare not speak its name. The former Smiths singer, who turned 50 in May, enjoyed a spectacular comeback this decade with the biggest albums of his erratic 21-year solo career, You Are the Quarry and Ringleader of the Tormentors. But then came the furore over his views on Britishness and immigration. More disappointment followed with the boorish and plodding album Years of Refusal.
After cancelling two sets of British dates because of illness, Morrissey really needed to pull something special out of his Brylcreemed quiff at the first of four London shows. And he did. With guitars cranked up to sheep-stunning volume, the singer and his five-man gang of swashbuckling rockabilly brigands filled the auditorium with ear-bashing excitement. The beefy Mancunian crooner was on boisterous form, his voice booming and sonorous.
Another crowd-pleasing trump card was the high number of Smiths classics he played, comprising a third of the set rather than the usual grudging handful. He opened with a lusty This Charming Man, closely followed by a muscular Ask and a punchy Girlfriend in a Coma. The cascading, heart-tugging guitar solo at the climax of Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want also sounded crisp and lustrous. But the best of the old was How Soon Is Now, once the anthem of adolescent despair, now a commentary on midlife disappointment. “I’ve already waited too long, and most of my life has gone . . . thank God!” Morrissey bawled before ending the song flat on his back, legs splayed, lit by a golden spotlight as thunderous waves of guitar crashed over him. Love him or loathe him, nobody does spite-filled self-pity with quite the same narcissistic swagger as Moz.
Skull-rattling volume and adventurous instrumentation helped to electrify the lacklustre new album tracks, notably the fiery flamenco-punk gallop of When Last I Spoke to Carol and the bass-heavy bruiser I’m OK by Myself. Giant gongs, crashing kettle drums and blazing trumpets brought an extra layer of melodrama.
Morrissey concentrated on recent material, earning the rowdiest reception with Irish Blood, English Heart and his shirtless, roof-raising encore The First of the Gang to Die. He also kept his catty quips to a minimum, although he dedicated The World is Full of Crashing Bores to all the mourning Michael Jackson fans, perhaps just to prove that age has not mellowed him. This show may have been a charm offensive, but the old contrarian was still both charming and offensive.
