My own personal history with the Smiths/Morrissey has been mixed. I am not a rabid fan, but have valued every single album release in different ways. However, my live experiences thus far had not been brilliant. Picture a clement October 28th 1986, and a young boy in North Wales, luxuriating in his bath, beyond excitement before being picked up by his older sister’s friends to go and see The Smiths in Llandudno. Once scrubbed and scented I awaited my collection, only to be deflatingly left exactly where I was when I discovered that the night before Morrissey had been hit by a coin in Preston and the gig was cancelled. Two gigs later and The Smiths were done. Fast forward to 11th December 1997, and this time to Morrissey playing one of only two UK gigs at the Northgate Arena in Chester, which was essentially a sports hall. There was something lacklustre about everything connected to the concert and it lasted only a piffling and perfunctory sixty minutes. But I’d seen him. And that was the last time until now, partly as a result of my flitting about all over the country and always being slow off the mark when it came to snatching up tickets.
Fortunately, on this occasion I was in the right time and place and didn’t have too far to travel which was fortunate, because in their wisdom, the Mancunian authorities had decided that the day when 23,000 people were winging their way towards the Co-op Arena, it would be a splendid idea to close the Mancunian Way. Detouring into town therefore I passed the site of the old Albert Finney bookmakers and was sent around Strangeways to avoid the inevitable snarl ups. Once in town, and having availed myself of some guilt free fayre from beneath Manchester’s Buddhist Centre, it was with some trepidation that I soakingly stepped through a serendipitous Manchester deluge up towards Morrissey and the Co-Op Arena.
As with all things Morrissey, this was an EVENT.
From Friday to Sunday, Salford Lads Club had hosted the Mporium pop up shop, the Morrissey merchandising wing, and as always the Club were perfect hosts. Given his only real link to the Club is THAT photograph, Morrissey has been incredibly generous to them, and apparently much of the merchandise sales will find it’s way into the Club coffers which will hopefully protect it from further threats. The Co-Op Arena venue itself seems relatively easy to access, and it really is a cavernous bowl. I bumped into Paddy Considine in the foyer, which was really so strange, as the night before I had sat down to watch Dead Man’s Shoes (again), the best British film of the last twenty years.
Once amongst the throng, there was already archetypal and iconic footage on the huge screens, and it wasn’t too long before the magnificent visage of James Baldwin appeared, along with a dramatic and booming soundtrack which coincided with the dip of the lights and a heart-vaulting visceral roar from the expectant crowd.
Morrissey strode onto the stage looking in rude health, bare chest peaking through a tailored jacket, the arms of which were clutching at some gargantuan gladioli. The band looked equally sartorial, and in contrast to the media’s constant nods to Morrissey‘s hackneyed reputation as fey, miserable and wimpy, their sound was muscular and at times entirely violent.
“My God I’m here” he bellowed, as they launched into the strident All You Need is Me. Post gig I heard complaints that the opening track was disappointing, but the clue to its choice, is in the title. One of my least favourite songs followed, but it appears I am in a minority and so, having welcomed us to “the coop, the coop, the coop”, You’re the One for Me, Fatty was accompanied by a painful, predominantly male singalong (who knew Manchester suffered from a tone-deaf epidemic?) and the launching of pints heavenwards (Why?). The epic and in thrall squall of How Soon is Now battered the arena into submission, before Morrissey introduced the next offering as being “quite nasty. I think you’ll like it”. I Wish You Lonely certainly benefits from the live treatment as it lolloped raucously around the venue. Morrissey‘s later albums have been much maligned, predominantly by a music press that still seems hell bent on ‘getting him’, something he alluded to later on, and yet Low in High School for one, contains some brilliant songs both lyrically and musically.
“I spent the night in Yorkshire. Have you ever heard of the Sawley Arms? Well I wasn’t there”. Morrissey, at his witty and charming best then questioned “What tablets are you on at the moment?” before launching into the jaunty lilt, and the very The Smiths sounding Rebels Without Applause. Morrissey‘s voice is still remarkably robust for someone of his advancing years, and having admitted that “I compare myself to Catweazle”, the band broke into the glam stomp of Sure Enough the Telephone Rings and then a vibrant One Day Goodbye will be Farewell, staccato drums being leathered beneath the baleful gaze of Saïd Taghmaoui from La Haine. Indeed, the backdrops always add a majestic framing of the songs, and tonight we had Oscar Wilde, Peter Falk (I think), Bruce Lee, Bowie and Johansson amongst others, not that the singer needs them, because Morrissey is still the most captivating frontman plying his trade these days. This is a sad indictment of the forty or so musical years that have passed since he first appeared on the scene. He is utterly unique, and no-one comes close.
Black Cloud was the last of the ‘flexing of muscles’ songs, and it signalled a segue into a phenomenal second half of the show that ticked most of my boxes (oo-er), although I might have liked to hear Still Ill, but we can’t have everything, can we? Morrissey claimed he had “thousands of letters” requesting the next song, another newbie, I Ex Love You, which again harks back to early Smiths days in it’s jingle jangle jollity and ironically sunny lyrics about a relationship split. Having examined his set lists at previous gigs I was a little worried that a favourite of mine, Bonfire of Teenagers might have been jettisoned in favour of this, perhaps through concern about ‘overegging the pudding’, but my fears were allayed when with no introduction (because it doesn’t need it) the familiar piano intro began, and there seemed to be a palpable in-take of breath as the Manchester crowd realised that this was the song in memory of those innocent boys and girls who lost their lives just down the road, at the the other Arena in town.
A reverential and sombre hush descended as Morrissey lamented and crooned for all he is worth before, at the songs ending, there was an explosion of sheer relief from the crowd after having, for four minutes, been transported back to one of the darkest days in Manchester’s history; 22nd May 2017 lest we forget. Painted as ‘controversial’, there is absolutely nothing wrong with the song. Again, there has been some sniping in the media about the lyrical content, primarily due to the “Go easy on the killer” line, and yet Morrissey was totally vindicated a couple of weeks ago when Hashem Abidi, the brother of the bomber attacked three prison officers, causing life-threatening injuries via burns and stab wounds. Similarly the lyric “And the morons sing and sway ‘Dont Look Back in Anger'”, is quite obviously not aimed at the family and friends of the victims as some would like you to believe, but at a public response that chose trite platitudes rather than having to really think about what happened. As for the anger, well, didn’t we all initially share the same thought at the recent Liverpool parade incident? Morrissey is a social commentator and one without equal, regardless of what you like, or may not, about the content within his commentary. A beautiful piano interlude acted as a suitable coda to Bonfire of Teenagers before the joyous singalong of Everyday is like Sunday resumed the celebratory nature of the show, only for matters to be brought back down to earth by a quite heartfelt rendition of I Know it’s Over, Morrissey, with jacket casually draped over his arm (only to end up with it over his head at the song’s denouement) and watched over lovingly by the backdrop of a youthful and smiling Elizabeth Anne Dwyer.
Suggesting he and his band were “nearly engaged” Morrissey introduced them one by one, and then, having done so, he had something to get off his chest. He bemoaned the fact that amongst the “drivel” he reads about himself “which is very often”, his place of birth is more often than not given as Davyhulme. He corrected the record when asked by an audience member, “I was born in a really scruffy place, just kidding, I’m not telling you” then coyly muttered “Old Trafford“, to a derisory response from a segment of he crowd, given that the site of today’s venue is on the Manchester City campus. United fan Morrissey responded with “Oh you may boo, you may boo louder, you may boo even louder…I have a lovely pair of firm, solid…labradors”, before he began wrestling magnificently with the majestic and brooding Life is a Pigsty.
A pause was taken to thank those “who have travelled very far to be here tonight. I know some people came from Wilmslow, they work in Waitrose. Some people came from Prestwich…they don’t work.”
A full and vibrant Speedway followed, all dramatic stops and starts, before a double bass found it’s way on to the stage causing me to briefly wonder if this was going to be Sing Your Life, but instead it was another paean to rockabilly in The Loop, and rock it did (I am not sure if it billy’d). Lamenting that “Sarcasm is now illegal in England, naturally” he launched into a terrific Scandinavia which was greeted less fervently than other songs on the set list (probably because the casuals wanted There is a Light), to which his response was “You don’t like that song, do you? I can tell. But I do!” A pummelling and proud Shoplifters of the World ensued before the Arena was dramatically bathed in big balls of pink and orange cloud, and our hero disappeared behind it intermittently as Jack the Ripper stalked the venue. With it’s eastern drenched guitar lines, I Will See You In Far Off Places, was a spectacular and threatening treat, and included the mildly controversial (for those who search for such things) change of lyrics to “And if the EU doesn’t bomb you…” and then instruments were downed and the wings were headed to.
Of course, they returned, Morrissey now changed into a Blakey from On the Buses t-shirt as the band shimmered into a beautiful rendition of Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me, which was presaged with Morrissey exhorting “I would like to remind you that, many people in the media in this country work very hard, and very long, with the hope that nights like this would never again happen for me, that they would never be possible. My very cultured, my very intellectual response to such people is…” and a big fat raspberry is slobbered into the mic. He continued “Please look after your country. Memories are our strength. Please look after your mothers, look after your cats. I love you, I love you, I love you,” and in lieu of the usual lyrics to the closing Irish Blood English Heart the latter refrain was repeated ad nauseum along with “God bless you” as he pressed the flesh of those close enough to receive their communion. A final filmic image of man putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger provided confirmation that the show had ended and I headed out into the thankfully, now rain free Manchester night and followed the canal path back into town with hundreds of others.
This journey featured an impromptu and mass singalong of This Charming Man from everyone traversing town-wards, all treading delicately and secretly hoping they might avoid an appointment with the infamous and quite possibly mythic ‘Manchester Canal Pusher‘.
When Sinead O Connor died, Morrissey passionately and succinctly called out the media that previously hounded her, for now hailing her. When he is no more, the same writers who demonised him, will be falling over themselves to eulogise a great and unique British star, and wherever he is, it will be greeted with a knowing and arched eyebrow.
Morrissey namechecked Oscar Wilde tonight in very funny aside when he spluttered “You may be surprised to hear, I’m not the easiest person to live with. I’m really not. But that’s ok. Was Oscar Wilde easy to live with? Was Ezra Pound? Was Bernard Cribbins?”,and he will be remembered in much the same way as Wilde and long after the forgotten press assassins will have had their writing hands stilled. Morrissey, the man, the myth the legend had a deserved and triumphant homecoming. A sold out 23,000 Arena gig is further confirmation that despite all the detractors; the cancel-culturists and the dull minded, Morrissey is still very much a living, breathing, and hugely popular British icon.
If you believe in freedom of speech, then you believe in the freedom of people to say things you might find unpalatable, not that he did tonight, but Morrissey has always been a contrarian. He has always espoused views from the far end of whichever spectrum he finds himself positioned within (Margaret on the Guillotine for instance), but as he has pointed out in song previously, “I will die with both of my hands untied” and it is this – his freedom and the fact that he does not have to answer to anyone – which means that mean spirited writers feel the need to construct their sentences with massive dollops of jealousy and spite.
And yet, here he still is.
Prince Far Out
