MORRISSEY- London Roundhouse (21/01/08)

I’ve always been perplexed at the reverence afforded to Stephen Patrick Morrissey. Sure, he’s one of Britain’s best lyricists, but the relative staidness of his melodies and his appallingly egotistical behaviour makes him an exceedingly difficult character to love. Monday night’s show at the Roundhouse didn’t change my opinion of the man one jot, although I’ll admit his songwriting’s much better than I’d previously given him credit for. It started off fantastically; a rapturously received How Soon Is Now followed by his best solo single, the brilliant The First Of The Gang To Die. But then new material and obscurities started to take over the set; to give him his dues, a couple had promise, although others came across as generic as your average Feeder song. Given the recent furore over his comments about immigration to the NME, National Front Disco was an audacious addition to the setlist, leaving a bad taste in the mouth of more than a few present, although the excellent Death of A Disco Dancer almost made up for his questionable foray into controversy.

Although he complained of “a frog in his throat…and not a small French person”, Morrissey’s unmistakable croon was thankfully undiminished, and despite looking more like a middle-aged bank manager every day, he still has the flair of the consummate showman. Shame about the sound though; for such a well-regarded venue, the acoustics were dreadfully tinny, with Morrissey’s vocals often lost in a haze of echoes and bass. His uninspiring pub-rock musicians didn’t help matters much, although their plodding takes on the Mozfather’s oeuvre was at least mildly competent (unlike Cat Power’s band last year, who were truly atrocious). Peculiar crowd too; the front third frantic hardcore supplicants at the altar of Moz, madly scrambling to get the merest angstrom of bodily contact with their Messiah, the rest music hacks and disinterested scenesters showing the same enthusiasm that normally greets a wake. Ah well, closer Last Of The Famous International Playboys was a blinder, a superb singalong moment in a show mostly bereft of genuine atmosphere- if all of his songs were as good as that, then I’d be more inclined to understand the slavish hero worship he attracts. I’ll happily acknowledge his status as one of the great idiosyncratic icons of British music, but I’ll never be able to love him half as much as he loves himself.