Review: 27 September 2007, Fillmore Auditorium

First thing you should know about going to Morrissey concerts: His fans
cry. Often. Second thing you should know about going to Morrissey
concerts: Even if you think you are his biggest fan, you probably
aren’t.

For example, at the last night of his four-date stint at the
Fillmore, there was a fan who brought his four-year-old son with him,
who was named Morrissey. Little Morrissey (or Moz Jr., as I shall now
refer to him), was well-trained, complete with faux-pomp haircut and
occasional arm flails. At one point, the real Morrissey (Moz Sr.), took
the boy onstage and crooned as Moz Jr. copied his arm-flailing dance
moves. It was a moment of unadultered fandom unmarred by irony,
eye-rolling or jokiness: if it seems surreal, you’d be right.

Perhaps the indie rock equivalent of Phish or the Grateful
Dead, Morrissey fans will often go to multiple tour dates, obsess over
lyrical details and, yes, name their kids after His Mozness. Do not
fooled by their Fred Perry jackets or vintage eyewear: they are the
same as your average 'N Sync fangirl.

The set was a combination of newer hits, like “You Have Killed
Me” and “I Was Born,” from Ringleader of the Tormentors, and older
Smiths material, like closer (and highlight) “How Soon Is Now?”
Although mostly focusing on newer songs, his career-spanning setlist
gave the show a feel similar to perhaps a Frank Sinatra Vegas review,
with Morrissey as the melancholic crooner at center stage.

At 48, Morrissey stands as an iconic figure amongst peers who
have faded into obscurity (Ian McCulloch?) and just started to suck
(Bernard Sumner), paying respect to the fans who put him at the top of
the charts only in the last few years. His last album, Ringleader of
the Tormentors is his highest charting LP, either with the Smiths or on
his own. So many of his performance details have moved from fact to
legend, such as the gaviolas and hearing aid from his early days, to
his shirt-ripping apexes (yes, he tore his shirt off, twice) and
hyper-dramatic stage moves.

Going in, it’s already known what’s going to happen, but due
to Morrissey’s flair for the dramatic, the fall of the curtain before
the show still instills a sense of excitement and unpredictability that
makes him a more relevant pop figure than the ’80s pop figures he’s
outlived. He preens, he struts and generally makes the stage his own as
his audience sings along to all songs, new and old.

More importantly, he’s beyond irony—unlike some singers who
might add a wink-wink sensibility to such an emotional and grandiose
stage show. And the audience responds similarly, and it's rather
unnerving to see your baristas, record store clerks and local arts
writers all tearing up at the chorus of “Stretch Out And Wait,” or
tearing at a freshly shorn shirt from the man himself.

And, as Moz Jr. stood next to Moz Sr., the audience cheered,
and gave up being pretentious for the Pope of Mope, singing along
wildly to “Let Me Kiss You.” After all, there is some importance in
being earnest, if only for a single night.

Burn down the disco, hang the blessed DJ with Tyler at arts@dailycal.org.