Woe Is He: Morrissey in concert. (Not at Saturday’s Warner Theatre show.)For the longest time, I saw no need to replace the caricature that popped up in my head whenever I thought (infrequently) of Morrissey with actual, first-hand observation. I’d come late to the Smiths party; like,15 years after the group broke up, and I’d never continued my investigations on into Morrissey’s by-all-accounts worthy solo output. The admittedly cartoonish impression I had of the man — a fey, Wilde-quoting, self-declared celibate animal rights activist whose misanthropic take on humanity makes Elvis Costello seem like Bobby McFerrin — was enough. Years of Refusal, indeed.
Still, I’d always heard he was a superb live act. The combination of the release of Refusal — Moz’s strongest effort in at least a decade-an-a-half, say the experts, and one that sounded sublime to my novice ears — and the glorious Warner Theatre was too enticing to resist.
The gig did not disappoint. Sashaying in front of a giant stage backdrop with “REFUSAL” stenciled over the pecs of a shirtless muscleman, the Pope of Mope lived up to his reputation for elegance, excellence, and sexual ambiguity. The set was a potent 95-minute, 21-song cocktail: half the new album, a handful of Smiths chestnuts, a well-curated assortment from his two-decade solo catalogue, and a cover of the Buzzcocks’ “You Say You Don’t Love Me.” Through it all, the star’s rich vocal timbre rang startlingly clear, seeming to float atop the muscular crunch of his five-piece band. There was none of the stage-crashing that I’d always heard was part of the Morrissey ritual, but he did shake a lot of hands. “Good evening, Squashington!” he said, looking approvingly at the crush as he made his entrance.
