MORRISSEY : Boston, MA Avalon, Saturday, February 19 2000

Washed up. Has been. Faded glory. These are just a few of the terms the British press likes to use when referring to their fallen hero and icon for the socially impaired, Morrissey. Yet, how many has-beens manage to sell out tours of North and South America? How many washed-up performers have legions of fans following them from city to city, with an allegiance that puts Grateful Dead fans to shame? How many faded stars need to set up plastic shields in front of their drummers in order to protect them from the tons of gifts and flowers being showered onto the stage nightly? Not many, except, of course, the bard from Manchester, Morrissey.

In Boston, Morrissey has sold out two nights in a matter of days at the 2,000-plus capacity Avalon (more than most of England's biggest bands, including the Manic Street Preachers, have been able to do in the States at anytime, anywhere). On this first night, the crowd has trudged through eight inches of snow and sleet in hypothermia-inducing temperatures to line up for hours (try 7am) before the 6pm door time. Once inside, the rabid run to the front of the stage, staking out spaces as close to their hero as possible. The opening act (the all-right-but-bland Sheila Divine) is politely, yet impatiently, received. The tension starts building during the pre-selected-by-Morrissey intermission music played in the same order every night. So when Nico’s guttural Germanic wail is heard, the crowd hushes, they know the time is near. Not to disappoint, Moz, and his pretty-boy rockabilly backing band of Boz, Alain, Gary, and Spike come out soon after, and everyone is in hysterics.

Alas, the first song is not worthy of such applause, the rather tepid ‘Swallow On My Neck’, which never really kicks in. No one seems to notice however, as all present worship the man, even if he were reading his grocery list. With a little more grey and a little less hair all together, Moz is looking a bit older than he did when he last rode into Boston in 1997. But there’s something in his confidence, his assurance, his look of all around good health, that says 40 is treating him pretty well. In his faded Levi’s, array of T-shirts (three of which he throws into the crowd, causing mini-riots and a near fist fight) and finally, a loose button-down light blue oxford, Moz’s charisma devastates the fanatics in attendance.

With no new album to support, he plays whatever he pleases, and that includes a number of Smiths tunes, like ‘Is It Really So Strange?’ and a withering rendition of ‘Meat Is Murder’, dramatised by a flood of red lights. The set showcases his still-superb lyric writing capabilities, even if some of the tunes are not up to par with his Johnny Marr collaborations. Morrissey senses he’s appreciated here, and he’s never been more personable with a crowd. His charm and wit are nothing new (nor are his complaints), but he’s extremely sociable tonight, poking fun at Limp Bizkit, posturing about politics, and complaining about catching lurgey. The previous night’s show in Pittsburgh had been cancelled due to Morrissey’s sniffles and back spasms, which probably account for the fewer number of people trying to do the obligatory jump on Moz. Of course, a half dozen or so still make it past security and onto the stage, tackling the singer to the ground before security can pry them off.

Moz and Co play one song off his last album (‘Alma Matters’ off 1997’s ‘Maladjusted’) and throw in some B-sides (‘I Can Have Both’ and ‘Lost’) along side “hits” like ‘November Spawned A Monster’ and ‘Ouija Board, Ouija Board’, an acoustic, bongo-drums driven ‘Boxers’ and finish with a touching ‘Tomorrow’. The one song encore turns out a heart-breaking, Smiths-glory-days era ‘Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me’. The audience drifts out to the sound of Frank Sinatrax's ‘My Way’, full of memories and memorabilia (including Morrissey condoms) to share at the first of two Morrissey after-show parties being thrown at local clubs. So yes, he’s a long way away from The Smiths and he’s older. Maybe he’s not as ambitious any more. Maybe he’s gotten too comfortable. But, past his prime? Nah. Morrissey’s right in the middle of it, riding on top. England’s dreaming.

Catherine Barbosa

Mon Feb 21 2000 18:01 GMT