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Concert
Review by Nick Morgan |
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MORRISSEY
The Roundhouse, Camden Town, London, January
22nd 2008
There
was always going to be dissension, but it wasn’t
helped by the chaos of our journey through a North
London gridlocked by fans of the locale’s
two finest soccer teams heading for a cup-tie
at Highbury (sorry, the Emirates Stadium), or
by Jozzer’s even later arrival from ‘lunch’.
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| But
mix together one youthful Smiths fan, three old
cynics, and the miserable Mancunian misanthrope
– aka Morrissey
– then you can only expect fireworks. “You
can’t tarnish Smiths’
songs just because you don’t like Morrissey
- and anyway do you think he cares what a moron
like you thinks?”. Hmm – fair point
I suppose. |
| It’s
the Roundhouse, and it’s night number two
of a week-long residency for Morrissey and his band,
led by ‘musical director’ and song writing
partner, the weighty Boz
Boorer. The place is packed – in fact
the whole week is sold out, and sad to say for many
people Moz (as I understand he’s known to
his familiars) didn’t actually make it through
the week – packing in early on night four
due to illness and cancelling the remaining gig.
So we’re luckily installed next to the sound
desk, the youthful fan disappearing into the mosh,
Jozzer surrounded by chattering girls (“I’ve
never been to a concert where I’ve had to
spend the whole evening listening to people talking,
apart from myself that is”). In from of me
is small bald bloke, mid forties I would think,
who is word-perfect as he sings along with every
song. To his left is a tonsured man of indeterminate
age in loose black trousers and a black T-shirt.
This guy is in an advanced state of enthusiasm from
the moment the band take the stage and break into
Morrissey’s ‘The last of the famous
international playboys’, followed by The Smiths’
‘How soon is now’ (that’s the
one with the great sliding guitar line). When, about
half way through, they play The Smiths’ ‘Stretch
out and wait’ he shakes gently, clasps his
hands to his chest and raises his eyes to the wonderful
Roundhouse roof as if in a state of religious ecstasy,
which I think he is. The girls are giggling and
taking photographs of each other – “oooh,
this one’s my favourite too” squeals
one. Jozzer raises his heavy eyebrows and mouths
“What a wanker”. Yep – here’s
a guy who certainly polarises opinion. |
| He’s
a big ugly fellow, as he’d be the first to
admit – “I suppose I’m only here
because of my good looks” he quips to the
adorers at the front, with whom he maintains a respectful
banter all evening, delicately taking a gift from
one and gently laying it down by the drums, foolishly
giving the microphone to another – “Morrissey
– you are my drug of choice” she says.
In between he shares random thoughts “We’ve
got a new album, one more to wear your life down
with” - “Every song a dose of syrup
of figs” – and even chooses to scorn
Presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton and praise
her opponent Barack Obama. |
 |
| But
despite this apparent intimacy he remains somehow
aloof and in control – and there’s a
sense that he’s just on the edge, which is
where all great performers should be. That is probably
what gives him the presence that allows him to command
the stage, and the audience. He’s got the
haircut, he’s got the voice (well mostly,
not too many high notes but it’s strong and
commanding) and he’s certainly got all the
Morrissey rock star moves. He’s cool, and
he knows it. |
| Jozzer
snarls. “It’s one bloody Morrissey song
to the tune of another”. And here he may have
a point – there is a certain sameness about
everything. It’s partly the structure of the
songs – conversational, anecdotal, and often
in the third person. And whilst I’ve been
told that the ‘miserable’ accusation
“isn’t fair - it’s just ironic
for God’s sake – don’t you understand
irony?”, there is a fair degree of compulsive
self-obsessed and rather gloomy meanderings in the
lyrics. And of course Mr Morrissey does have the
habit of starting to sing each song exactly in the
same place, which is never quite when you expect
him to, until that is you’ve heard a few,
after which the unexpected becomes a tad predictable.
And I’m not sure that Boz and the boys in
the band help (despite their very smart matching
t-shirts) – they’re enthusiastic enough,
and are surprisingly keen to make a lot of noise
whenever the moment arises, but subtle they ain’t.
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| And
as I’m reminded whenever I lock horns with
the youthful Smiths fan, “It’s easy
to judge Smiths’ songs the same because of
Morrissey’s voice, but you should listen to
Johnny Marr’s
guitar because that’s where you’ll find
the difference”. Quite true, and sadly Boz
is no Johnny Marr, not by a long stretch. |
 |
| But
nonetheless, for all this griping, it turns out
to be a unexpectedly enjoyable evening – there
are some not-too-bad new songs like ‘That’s
how people grow up’ from his forthcoming album
Greatest Hits (which I’m told, Morrissey lovers,
features a picture of Morrissey’s
“Arse” on the cover, with the handwritten
message “Your arse an’all”), and
Morrissey classics like ‘The world is full
of crashing bores’ (really?) and ‘First
of the gang to die’. Then there are four classy
Smiths’ songs – two already mentioned
and ‘Death of a disco dancer’ and ‘Stop
me if you’ve heard this one before’.
Oh yes – and whereas on the first evening
he played the not entirely comfortable ‘The
National Front disco’, tonight he ends the
set with ‘Irish blood, English heart’
– an equally edgy nationalistic sentiment
(“I've been dreaming of a time when to be
English is not to be baneful, to be standing by
the flag not feeling shameful, racist or partial”)
– the choice a clear and pointed reference
to his current litigation with the New Musical Express
over allegations of racism. |
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And although Mr Moz might still not be first on
my list of stars to have dinner with, I ended up
with a warmer sentiment towards him than I began
with. And then in an unexpected moment a week or
so later he earns my enduring respect. Having performed
‘That’s how people grow up’ live
on TV, he strode from the stage, blanked the oleaginous,
obsequious and obscenely over-paid host Jonathan
Ross, and escaped his slippery embrace on the
way back to the dressing room. Now there’s
class! - Nick Morgan |
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the index of all reviews:
Nick's Concert Reviews
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