Bigmouth strikes again

At the end of every show, Steven Patrick Morrissey takes his shirt off. He seems less svelte underneath these days, despite a strict vegetarian regimen that, at an April concert in California, prompted him to leave the stage after announcing, "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope to God it's human."

The prolific former front man of the seminal 1980s English rock band The Smiths has been called "enigmatic and compelling" (by Martin Smith in the Socialist Review), "an insufferable, puffed-up prat" (by British television presenter Richard Madeley) and everything in between. One thing you can rely on with Morrissey, even at 50, is his ability to polarize.

His songs have helped shape the identities of thousands of disaffected teenagers around the globe. Morrissey is one of the rare figures in popular music capable of blurring "the lines between what it means to be a pop icon and a religious icon," as Chloe Veltman wrote in Believer magazine.

The lyrics he penned during the Smiths era spoke directly to a certain type of youth: the kid who got voted last onto the team in gym class, wore black and had a penchant for Oscar Wilde novels. At a time when pop songs were repetitive and generally devoid of any deeper meaning, lyrics like, "Now I know how Joan of Arc felt / As the flames rose to her Roman nose / And her Walkman started to melt" (from the song "Bigmouth Strikes Again") resonated deeply with disaffected listeners shaken by lovelorn feelings of teenage angst, despair and the stigma of not fitting in.

So much so that for some fans, especially males, Morrissey's music still occupies a central place in their lives. "I think a lot of men can relate to what he is talking about, wanting to be needed, a feeling of frustration and loneliness," explains local Morrissey fan Toby Williamson.  

His portrayal as difficult and arrogant is not completely unfounded. After The Smiths split up in 1987, mostly due to differences between him and fellow songwriter Johnny Marr, Morrissey was taken to court by The Smiths drummer Mike Joyce over unfair handling of royalties. He has been involved in numerous other music industry feuds, and was accused of racism because of the song "Bengali in Platforms" on his 1988 debut album Viva Hate, which included the line, "Life is hard enough when you belong here" - interpreted by some to mean that South Asian immigrants should not be living in the UK.

But almost 10 years after what many would consider the heyday of his career, fans still book hotel rooms and airline flights months in advance to see Morrissey perform. He is notorious for canceling on a day's notice without issuing any statement of apology. This year's UK tour was cut short when he canceled two of his London gigs due to health issues. On fan forum Morrissey-solo.com, a disappointed admirer writes, "No gig again! No apology again! What a waste of money!"

However, when he does take the stage, "Morrissey concerts are a bit like a makeshift communion," explains longtime fan Daniel Brown. With a good number of shows on this year's tour selling out, it's clear he still has considerable drawing power. The personnel on this tour remain unchanged from his last album: Boz Boorer and Jesse Tobias on guitars, Solomon Walker on bass and Matt Walker on drums.

The set list tends to stay the same from gig to gig. It is heavy on songs from his latest record, Years of Refusal, released in February, which was mostly positively received. Tom Ewing's review on Pitchforkmedia.com called it Morrissey's "most vital, entertaining and savage record since 1994's Vauxhall and I."

Refusal is heavier than his earlier releases, with some nods to garage rock, and more angry than whiny. Morrissey seems ready to pick some bones with enemies and ex-lovers alike. In the record's angriest song, "It's Not Your Birthday Anymore," he sings, "It's not your birthday anymore / There's no need to be kind to you."

Still, the record lacks the freshness and authenticity of his best work. Having spent a decade living in a Los Angeles mansion, basking in the adoration of thousands of fans who would gladly give up their left arm just to spend two minutes in a room with him, Morrissey is no longer the awkward, shy and scrawny kid from Manchester he portrays himself as. His lyrics fail to reflect this change in lifestyle. Then again, would anyone be interested in what he has to say if they did?

Seeing Morrissey in 2009 is undoubtedly less exciting than it was in the early '90s. Nonetheless, experiencing this one-time legend beats seeing most contemporary rock bands in concert.

Sarah Borufka can be reached at
news@praguepost.com