A friend recently complained that while Morrissey once documented the universal travails of lonely, lovelorn, and misfit youths in council estates, he now seems to be artistically overwhelmed by the experience of being Morrissey. And indeed he does have a tendency to say things like “This is the museum of modern art... and I am modern art!” Well, I reckon Morrissey was always obsessed with being Morrissey, it’s just that back in the day he was five minutes away from a council estate and a feeling of suburban ennui, and now he’s five minutes away from Malibu. But he’s still the same person and he still deals with the realities of his modern life, in the same way as he dealt with the boredom of a Manchester disco in 1982 – with wit, humour, and a touch of well targeted disdain.
The adulation on display this evening at the Royal Hospital is something to behold. Middle-aged acolytes dance enthusiastically; young emo-supplicants look happily moody; and monged Morrissey pilgrims stalk around like Student Grant stereotypes. The general feeling is “Holy crap – it’s Morrissey!”
Yes, Moz has developed into an essential piece of British iconography, sort of like the Union Jack, Queen Victoria, or Hadrian’s Wall. Unlike these other icons, however, Morrissey and his band still have the ability to rock like bastards. From the impassioned opener ‘Irish Blood English Heart’, through a startling array of hits, it’s all good. They play note-perfect Smiths songs, including ‘Ask’ and ‘Death Of A Disco Dancer’; he pillages his own back catalogue for the catchiest, smashiest songs in his repertoire – ‘Billy Budd’, ‘The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores’, ‘The First Of The Gang To Die’. All the while, his band strike utilitarian poses of rockmanship on either side of him, and he’s in chatty form. “Did you wheel yourself down to see Iggy?” he asks coyly. “Did you wheel yourself down to see Leonard?” he inquires archly, before announcing apropos of nothing “My family’s from Finglas!” He scolds fans for claiming it’s his fiftieth birthday, smiles like someone’s sexy uncle and asks whether ‘Vicar In A Tutu’ is really any good. He encores with ‘Last Of The Famous International Playboys’. He takes his shirt off twice – probably not the wisest move in the world for a man in his late ‘40s, but he’s Morrissey, he’s on form, the songs are great, the band is great. And frankly, he can do whatever he wants.