A new US concert film celebrates Morrissey's 25 years solo, but can it mend fences and bring back alienated fans – like me?
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Almost 10 years ago, I interviewed Morrissey for NME – the first time he had spoken to NME since 1992, after the paper expressed its disquiet at Morrissey's flirtation with skinhead imagery in one of its most famous cover stories. He was every bit as good value as a fan like myself could have hoped, ending the interview with the characteristic advice that, since I hadn't enjoyed a lasting love affair, I was better off giving up and getting "a nice budgie" instead. A few weeks later, I saw him celebrate his 45th birthday in a triumphant concert at Manchester Arena. The album was a hit (it's still his most commercially successful, solo or with the Smiths) and the single Irish Blood, English Heart had exceeded even the most optimistic expectations, reaching No 3 in the British singles charts. Morrissey was back.
Spool forwards to today and, as Andrew Harrison wrote recently, Morrissey is in a very different place. Two weeks ago, he announced the cancellation of his South American tour due to lack of funds, while this year has also seen him struck by a variety of illnesses: an ulcer, pneumonia and food-poisoning, among other maladies. Meanwhile, Johnny Marr is touring triumphantly, playing sparkling versions of Smiths songs that put Morrissey's leaden renditions to shame.
It's almost enough to make you feel sorry for the cantankerous old sod. For all the man's faults, he is still Morrissey, living proof that pop music changes lives (let's glide over the fact that even David Cameron claims to be a fan). Watching Morrissey 25: Live, a new concert film with a cinema release celebrating his quarter-century as a solo star, I was hoping to emerge from the screening re-baptised into the church of Moz after a period of diminishing faith, but received only a partial immersion.
Filmed in March, at a gig at Hollywood high school by director James Russell, Morrissey 25: Live opens with backstage shots of Morrissey in moody black and white, and breathless testimonials from fans. For those of us who deplore his Little Englander tendencies, it's great to be reminded of Morrissey's massive Latino fan base, and that his constituency is still essentially indie kids, with bushy beards and pierced septums even as they approach middle age. But the fans also provide the most excruciating moments. I've been to dozens of Morrissey gigs, but never seen the mic passed around the front row so the fans can declare their devotion to the room at large. One even said "thank you for living," a sentence which elicited groans from the hacks watching the film. Surely even Morrissey doesn't need such an extreme form of ego massage.
But what of the object of the fans' obsession? His voice is on top form, and the performance has a showbiz veteran's confidence and craft. Lit well and filmed in a hectic style replete with unusual angles and flashy jump-cuts, Moz lashes the floor with the microphone cable like a disgruntled lion-tamer, wearing a shirt which appears to be covered in a giant Rorschach test. The band are considerably less stellar. Sadistically forced into tight t-shirts by their master (Boz Boorer looks particularly uncomfortable), they get their revenge by putting the aural equivalent of hobnailed boots on some of the Smiths' most quicksilver songs: plodding would be too kind a term for The Boy with the Thorn in His Side.
The setlist has more than its fair share of B-grade material. Only the fact that the gig takes place in a school explains Morrissey's decision to open with the distinctly dodgy Alma Matters, while the Your Arsenal LP is represented by one of its worst tracks, You're the One for Me, Fatty. However, Meat Is Murder is appropriately heavy – brute force being one thing this band can manage – and the unreleased To Give Is the Reason I Live has Morrissey in a torchy mode which suits him well. It's also a surprise to hear how well You Have Killed Me has held up, though the band then proceed to huff and puff through a genuinely great Moz solo song, November Spawned a Monster.
The film does capture the fervour that only a Morrissey gig can provide, and it's simultaneously moving, exciting and funny when the somewhat stout singer rips off his sweaty shirt and throws it to the ravenous crowd – twice. The gig concludes in the traditional fashion, with a stage invasion of devotees wanting to give Morrissey a kiss (though when a nine-year-old got up there some of my fellow cinemagoers were muttering "plant").
Is it enough to make you forget "the Chinese are a subspecies"? Not quite. Yet there is still enough in Morrissey 25: Live to rekindle an old fan's dying embers. Morrissey needs to mend some fences, and make amends to those he's alienated – even David Bowie showed that he was still sore when he refused to allow Morrissey to use a picture of the pair of them on a rerelease of The Last of the Famous International Playboys. (Morrissey used a high-camp picture of him and Rick Astley instead). Concilliation is not the kind of thing that comes naturally to Morrissey, to put it mildly. But if he can swallow his pride then the curtain may still rise on Morrissey: act three. Reported by guardian.co.uk 1 week ago.
Reading on mobile? Click to view
Almost 10 years ago, I interviewed Morrissey for NME – the first time he had spoken to NME since 1992, after the paper expressed its disquiet at Morrissey's flirtation with skinhead imagery in one of its most famous cover stories. He was every bit as good value as a fan like myself could have hoped, ending the interview with the characteristic advice that, since I hadn't enjoyed a lasting love affair, I was better off giving up and getting "a nice budgie" instead. A few weeks later, I saw him celebrate his 45th birthday in a triumphant concert at Manchester Arena. The album was a hit (it's still his most commercially successful, solo or with the Smiths) and the single Irish Blood, English Heart had exceeded even the most optimistic expectations, reaching No 3 in the British singles charts. Morrissey was back.
Spool forwards to today and, as Andrew Harrison wrote recently, Morrissey is in a very different place. Two weeks ago, he announced the cancellation of his South American tour due to lack of funds, while this year has also seen him struck by a variety of illnesses: an ulcer, pneumonia and food-poisoning, among other maladies. Meanwhile, Johnny Marr is touring triumphantly, playing sparkling versions of Smiths songs that put Morrissey's leaden renditions to shame.
It's almost enough to make you feel sorry for the cantankerous old sod. For all the man's faults, he is still Morrissey, living proof that pop music changes lives (let's glide over the fact that even David Cameron claims to be a fan). Watching Morrissey 25: Live, a new concert film with a cinema release celebrating his quarter-century as a solo star, I was hoping to emerge from the screening re-baptised into the church of Moz after a period of diminishing faith, but received only a partial immersion.
Filmed in March, at a gig at Hollywood high school by director James Russell, Morrissey 25: Live opens with backstage shots of Morrissey in moody black and white, and breathless testimonials from fans. For those of us who deplore his Little Englander tendencies, it's great to be reminded of Morrissey's massive Latino fan base, and that his constituency is still essentially indie kids, with bushy beards and pierced septums even as they approach middle age. But the fans also provide the most excruciating moments. I've been to dozens of Morrissey gigs, but never seen the mic passed around the front row so the fans can declare their devotion to the room at large. One even said "thank you for living," a sentence which elicited groans from the hacks watching the film. Surely even Morrissey doesn't need such an extreme form of ego massage.
But what of the object of the fans' obsession? His voice is on top form, and the performance has a showbiz veteran's confidence and craft. Lit well and filmed in a hectic style replete with unusual angles and flashy jump-cuts, Moz lashes the floor with the microphone cable like a disgruntled lion-tamer, wearing a shirt which appears to be covered in a giant Rorschach test. The band are considerably less stellar. Sadistically forced into tight t-shirts by their master (Boz Boorer looks particularly uncomfortable), they get their revenge by putting the aural equivalent of hobnailed boots on some of the Smiths' most quicksilver songs: plodding would be too kind a term for The Boy with the Thorn in His Side.
The setlist has more than its fair share of B-grade material. Only the fact that the gig takes place in a school explains Morrissey's decision to open with the distinctly dodgy Alma Matters, while the Your Arsenal LP is represented by one of its worst tracks, You're the One for Me, Fatty. However, Meat Is Murder is appropriately heavy – brute force being one thing this band can manage – and the unreleased To Give Is the Reason I Live has Morrissey in a torchy mode which suits him well. It's also a surprise to hear how well You Have Killed Me has held up, though the band then proceed to huff and puff through a genuinely great Moz solo song, November Spawned a Monster.
The film does capture the fervour that only a Morrissey gig can provide, and it's simultaneously moving, exciting and funny when the somewhat stout singer rips off his sweaty shirt and throws it to the ravenous crowd – twice. The gig concludes in the traditional fashion, with a stage invasion of devotees wanting to give Morrissey a kiss (though when a nine-year-old got up there some of my fellow cinemagoers were muttering "plant").
Is it enough to make you forget "the Chinese are a subspecies"? Not quite. Yet there is still enough in Morrissey 25: Live to rekindle an old fan's dying embers. Morrissey needs to mend some fences, and make amends to those he's alienated – even David Bowie showed that he was still sore when he refused to allow Morrissey to use a picture of the pair of them on a rerelease of The Last of the Famous International Playboys. (Morrissey used a high-camp picture of him and Rick Astley instead). Concilliation is not the kind of thing that comes naturally to Morrissey, to put it mildly. But if he can swallow his pride then the curtain may still rise on Morrissey: act three. Reported by guardian.co.uk 1 week ago.