Morrissey-The Forum, London. (4 1/2 stars)

We see these things. We see flowers spray out from the stage like organic fireworks, scintillating our view with their colour. We see fans pulled from the grappling hands of security guards, dragged onto stage for their two second hugs and their moment of glory. On stage. With him. We see him topless, fleetingly; slimmed down to that old boxers build. Muscular, able and healthy. We see a banana pulled from a pocket, wobbled against a crotch; a big edible penis. We see the daftest of grins. And we see the funny side.

But we also see these things. We see a slowness; a stilted slur in the movement. Microphone leads whipped gently where once they lashed, knees crooked where once they folded, arms gesturing where they once flailed. So we think of Mohammed Ali: adored, respected, but eventually destroyed by it all. And we decide that Morrissey is the Mohammed Ali of pop: just as the world still listens when Ali stutters a word, a smaller world still listens when Morrissey sings. And that's good enough. By far. Because, besides being to Robbie Williams in the "entertainer" stakes what Byron is to Roger McGough in the poetry ones, Morrissey's songs, these horribly overlooked songs, still burn. There's two kinds: the quick and the dead, dead powerful. "Billy Budd, "Tomorrow" and "Alma Matters" sparkle like forgotten pop diamonds, bristling with energy flashing into the dizziest heights of mindless joy. F*** the wordplay. F*** the clever-clever posturing. These are pop's last stand against contrivance, the last taste of instinct we'll tongue this year.

But the powerful songs? They still bruise. Both emotionally (the wilting sigh of "Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me"; the rich, rich triumph of 'Now My Heart is Full') and politically, with Morrissey sneering: "If Prince William wants the right to kill, he must have the right to kill" before 'Meat Is Murder'. And then our guts just clench, tighter than they've ever clenched before.

Good? Better than he's been for years. Which is better than anyone else has ever been. We see that. We hope you see that too.

Robin Bresnark.