Melody Maker (Dec. 20/27, 1997)
review by Daniel Booth
submitted by Naomi Colvin
| Morrissey without a quiff is Monroe without blonde hair, Mona Lisa
without that smile, Cyrano De Bergerac without the nose. I always thought the world would
end when Morrissey's quiff finally collapsed. But somehow we plough on. "As most of you know, I was the drummer in The Smiths." London laughs. "Paint A Vulgar Picture" begins and London faints. During the guitar solo (you know, the one Johnny Marr bribed God to own) he sits cross-legged at the front of the stage, hands thrust into pained eyes, his face as mean as his life has been. My kingdom for your thoughts, sir. Meanwhile, Mike Joyce is seen selling hot dogs outside. With receding skin and a wrinkled hairline, he is now a more studies performer, limbs under control, poses carefully prepared three weeks in advance. He has replaced the exposed nipple and the rubberband tongue with a furrowed brow - a move which helps the career-analysing duo of "Now My Heart Is Full" and "Speedway" sound dramatically oceanic. The show is more mannered than ever before, no longer a floral eruption of glorious, unrestrained abandon, but then Morrissey has always been that most wonderful of pop stars - an extrovert trapped in an introvert's body. Such is the chasm between crowd and stage that the usual procession of Moz-huggers has been reduced to a few polite kisses on his outstretched hand, although some brave warriors struggle onstage during the gorgeous, gorgeous encore of "Shoplifters Of The World Unite" ("but I was bored before I even began"). It's the closest it gets to sex tonight. It's the closest he gets to sex tonight (or any night...). And let's not be shy here, The Smiths were the best group ever, a more fulfilling phenomenon than The Beatles, the Stones, Pistols, Manics or anyone else you care to mention. It's a feeling of great liberation to light the fuse of one's misery; self-pity is a way of escaping the influence of others (self-disgust is self-obsession, honey), a freedom beautifully articulated tonight in "Trouble Loves Me" and ("our Christmas single") "Satan Rejected My Soul". When Smokey sings I hear violins, when Morrissey sings I hear the whole orchestra. Yeah, I know he's missed so many open goals, but his side is losing seven-nil anyway, so what does it matter? He is a charity without any donations, ostracised and despised to such a degree that even the Elephant Man would muster a sympathetic smile. But he's still the only person I would extend my overdraft for. He borrowed my life years ago and he's never given it back. In these dark ages, adoring Morrissey feels curiously like a confession. My plea has always been guilty. |