How a nearly 60-year-old, once celibate and gladiolus-waving staunch vegetarian who’ll strip to the waist on stage can spur the security-crushing, seat-destroying, stage-invading encore seen at the Tower Theater really doesn’t compute.
Morrissey, with defiant quiff still standing, demands dedication: The thousands of irregular regulars who trekked to last Thursday’s sold-out performance at the Upper Darby venue gave it to him. No opening act, just a 30-minute video of vintage New York Dolls and Tina Turner with Klaus Nomi as the clarion call to the curtain right before he and the lads hit the stage. Morrissey tests patience: In comparison to past misfires, cancellations and rescheduling, which we haven’t the time nor column inches to explain here, the third show of this four-date U.S. leg went rather well.
Doors at 7 p.m., stage at 9 p.m., encore over just before 11 p.m., and a 21-song set list spanning from 1985 (“What She Said,” “How Soon is Now?”) to a more-than-generous helping of tracks off 2014s World Peace is None of Your Business. The latter is a serving some could live without, but we get it. The man is legend, as evidenced by “All You Need is Me” in consistent tour rotation. We wouldn’t mind seeing it swapped out for anything off the career-reviving Vauxhall and I besides the musical chairs rendition of “Speedway” that in effect deprives the audience of one of its most driving passages.
With a back catalog spanning 30 years and a stable backing band, Moz could do a marathon set. Problem is, the songs performed vary very little between concerts dates and even entire tours. That didn’t appear to affect those with passions just like his, opening with early solo career hits “Suedehead” and “Ouija Board, Ouija Board.” It didn’t take long for the political animal that is Morrissey’s latter years to rear its bullish head. “Ganglord” was reinforced by footage of police kicking, haunting and taunting humans and dogs alike. In his stage banter, of which there was very little despite his seemingly good spirits, Morrissey told the crowd he was sharing the same Philadelphia hotel as GOP presidential nominee Donald Trump and that he’d never been closer to an open grave.
We’d be remiss to not address “Meat is Murder,” another tour staple as of late, which was set to footage filmed inside slaughterhouses. To drive the point home, blood red stage lights directed at the crowd revealed unmoving faces as cattle, chickens and pigs are shot, stunned, beaten and otherwise tortured on their journey to your plate. Its a show-stopper for all the wrong reasons unless, of course, you believe that all living creatures should be treated with dignity and respect… but I digress. Inside the venues lobby, PETA volunteers looking for converts handed out literature both before and after the performance.
The crowd was a far cry from the early 1990s pandemonium that made television headlines in the US, and it took the final five songs to really rally them.
Which brings us, if you’ll excuse the pun, to the cash cow that the well-oiled Morrissey Machine (TM) must be. For that hour-and-a-half before the event got going, a swamped merchandise booth sold T-shirts that so many immediately donned. You know that rule about not wearing the shirt of the band you’re going to see? Doesn’t apply here. Never did. In fact, those wearing a Smiths T-shirt were admitted for free into his first solo concert post the band’s 1987 break-up. We won’t even go into the $100 or more you can easily spend on half-decent seats at any of his gigs.
For the truly devoted, who’ll show up hours before the concert for a mere glimpse of their idol as he arrives at the venue, Morrissey isn’t an artist – it’s a lifestyle. That being said, the crowd was a far cry from the early 1990s pandemonium that made television headlines in the U.S., and it took the five final songs to really rally them. “You’re the One for Me, Fatty,” from his swaggering rockabilly era to the anthemic” How Soon is Now,” a fog-laden and creeping “Jack the Ripper” and blistering Smiths track “What She Said” all clutched the crowd by the collar of their gold lame blouse to the encore. And that’s when the fun finally began… albeit for about four minutes.
Anyone in a position to leave their seats finally did and, in turn, forced security to earn their paycheck that night. The declaration that is “Irish Blood, English Heart,” from a man who once draped himself in the Union Jack flag and has fought off accusations of racism ever since, couldn’t have caused more chaos. Heavy-handed tour personnel repelled anyone attempting to make it on stage and embrace their idol. Fans who were stretched out across the pit chanted along, knowing their time with the man whose songs could save your life was slipping fast.
Stripped to the waist with beads and bangles dangling from belt loops, the man of the moment tossed his shirt fresh with forehead sweat stage right and hastily left behind the kind devil-may-care destruction someone who has said “no thank you” at every plot twist of life could cause. To which we say, no, thank you. The pleasure and privilege has been all ours.
Greg Adomaitis 