Morrissey

September 29, 1997

MUSIC REVIEW BY ANDREW PATNER

In a week when the Rolling Stones packed Soldier Field twice and Bob Dylan played for the Pope in Italy, it would seem hard to argue with Neil Young's observation that ``rock 'n' roll will never die.''

But what of pop and indie rock, the groups that arise--hummable and subversive alike--to capture and shape the brief times around them? When balladeers of adolescent angst grow up, can they still grow as artists? Or will the next decade offer an array of indie oldies acts?

Those questions were heavy in the air when the former anti-pop sensation Morrissey played the Aragon on Friday in an all-ages show that attracted more than its expected share of the twenty- and thirtysomething Dockers/Q-101 crowd. An exceedingly polite mosh pit served mainly as a conduit for passing stalks of the British singer's trademark gladioli to the stage.

As co-founder of the Smiths in 1982, Steven Patrick Morrissey captivated kids on both sides of the Atlantic with lyrics that could have been lifted from their journal entries and a hypnotic drone of a voice that pulled you into his anomie. While punk rockers slammed their doors on parents, Morrissey's songs simply closed them--a Joni Mitchell for his time, backed by electric guitars.

With the group's demise in 1987, Morrissey appeared to relish his solo career. (This is the man, after all, who gave us ``Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now.'') His wan figure, his poutiness and his professed asexuality all seemed to play into every teenager's darkest fantasy--you really are alone.

The teens have grown up now, and Morrissey himself is 38. The face is thicker and the body somewhat pumped. Backed by his very solid band of two rockabilly-influenced guitars, bass and drums, the singer turned the camp dial way down to offer a pleasant if uninspired hourlong set emphasizing work off of his most recent albums, including the new ``Maladjusted.''

Sweating and suffering from a ``Chicago flu,'' the Manchester native kept his patter down and offered little explanation for ignoring many of his better-known solo songs or for his hitherto rare inclusion of two Smiths' songs--``Paint a Vulgar Picture'' and an encore of ``Shoplifters of the World''--which pleased the older members of the crowd to no end.

Perhaps by finding joy in misery--``The More You Ignore Me (The Closer I Get)''--Morrissey has found a fusion that will carry proto-yuppies into adulthood. Things will be fine, the music seems to say. But, the lyrics respond, wasn't it great when they were horrible?

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