FADING FAME ASIDE, MORRISSEY STILL HAS HIS FAITHFUL FOLLOWERS

By Greg Kot
Tribune rock critic
February 13, 2000

During the course of a two-hour interview backstage at a Chicago concert venue nearly a decade ago, Morrissey distilled his life to a handful of words: "I was petrified of anonymity."

Anonymous he may be to most of the world, but Morrissey is still the only pop star that matters to his still-thriving cult, which filled the Chicago Theatre to capacity Thursday. They arrived to embrace their beloved misanthrope, to hand him gladiolas and devour his sweat-soaked T-shirts, which he tossed away every few songs like dirty dish rags.

Flouncing and flopping whereas most pop heroes strut, accentuating his misfit status even as he primped his modified Heartbreak Hotel pompadour, Morrissey both celebrated his star status and impaled himself on it.

Now without a record deal, he bathed in momentary moments of self-pity: "Nice of you to remember when millions and millions forget." He even managed a dig at Johnny Marr, his running mate in the Smiths, suggesting that old wounds still have not healed. But for the first time on an American tour he liberally sprinkled his set with songs from that period.

One of those, "Meat is Murder," produced the most impassioned performance of the night; only Morrissey would save his deepest emotions for a song about slaughtering farm animals. His longtime four-piece backing band merged droning textures with baritone spaghetti-western guitars and neo-rockabilly riffs, providing a canvas for the singer to etch his considerable personality.

A crooner who suggests Anthony Newley as much as T Rex's Marc Bolan, Morrissey broke up his languid melodic lines with growls, purrs and outrageous phrasing. "Can you squeeze me into an empty page in your diary," he pleaded, managing to sound both desperate and condescending during "Hairdresser on Fire." He is eternally longing for "the one who never picks you," wading through daily disappointment with almost comical self-loathing.

Yet, though he is often typecast as incorrigibly miserable, there is something of a knowing smirk in the way Morrissey goes about his business, an in-joke shared by his audience, from the defiant declaration of "Alma Matters" to the shared faith of "Speedway". As he retook the stage for the encore to knock off the Smiths' "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me," he offered his twisted take on "Sunset Boulevard": a fading star hanging on instead of quietly disappearing. "This story is old --I know -- but it goes on." For Morrissey and his fans, there can be no other way.