..even with his own, self-made gang Moz is a curious outsider.

"You going to that Morrissey?”

“Yes”, we nod.

“Wanna ticket? We ain’t arsed about going.”

“We’re sorted, thanks”

“Only a tenner!” They say.

No doubt these Beeston Ruffians, a pack of five, lager swilling teenagers we first spot up the road shouting “FUCK OFF I’VE ALREADY GOT A FAG!” are the kind of kids that Morrissey would’ve loved to have been as a shy child. How dearly he would love to be carried away by the romance of crime and the lure of the gang. But even with his own, self-made gang Moz is a curious outsider.

Inside the arena – with it’s curiously named Pepsi Concourse, dispensing hot dogs, burgers, ice cream and all manner of plastic-bottled lagers, perhaps the strangest realisation is that, without really trying, Morrissey became mainstream. It’s strange to see Morrissey snuggling comfortably on the list between upcoming shows by Beyonce and Westlife.

As we enter the main hall, the stage is set with a big screen showing archive footage of 50’s rockabilly and Italian Eurovision girl groups.

“What IS with this Italian shit?” the man with the Oasis haircut next to us asks. (Oh, do pay attention, 007)

Inside the cavernous Nottingham Ice Hockey Arena (and also, curiously, the first Morrissey gig I have been to that hasn’t been wildly sold out), the rightfully legendary Moz preens and careens with the same passion and vigour as if he were a teenager in front of his bedroom mirror : from the opening, riproaring “Panic” to the final, misplaced “Don’t Make Fun Of Daddy’s Voice”, the Moz offers a compelling hour and a half in his world. Songs leap and bounce with a fleshy edge not seen on record, and the man croons for all he’s worth (about 8p, he’ll tell you, if you ask).

And what a world. With his peculiarly individual vocabulary, Manchester’s Jesus transports us to a world that never existed : of motorcycle boys, and working class faces. Had the Boy not looked at Johnny twenty five years ago, he would still, bitterly be in his mum’s house dreaming of a beautiful past, living forever in the Autumn of 1957. And if it’s not love, then it’s the Bomb that will bring us together.

His band – featuring, perhaps surprisingly, former members of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and The Smashing Pumpkins – are a tight, cohesive army : a finely coiled spring waiting to explode. Lead by the faithful Boz Boorer, more than once Moz sits cross legged and just watches his band. This minimal, masterful stagecraft, extends to keeping an audience almost captivated at times – the roar as he rips off his shirt and proffers it to the masses, or even conducts a brief Q&A with audience members chosen at not-very-random from the front : “Hi Morrissey, Thanks For Everything.” Is one. The next he answers, by revealing, “I’m Lulu.”

(In a later nod to the faithful, he quotes Saturday Night/Sunday Morning with the inscription found in the vinyl matrix of "The Queen Is Dead" LP : “THEM WERE ROTTEN DAYS”.)

But Morrissey is always a wilfully perverse old codger in many way. The set is slightly lacking : not for the Mozfather a selection of his greatest hits. Moz is never going to face the camera during “Satisfaction” and mouth ‘I LOVE THIS JOB’ to the video screen. Aside from a misplaced “Disappointed” in the middle of the set (a song that isn’t just the perfect Moz set-closer, but possibly the best set-closer ever written by anyone, anywhere), the set is a usual random Morrissey selecton of around 5 Smiths songs, three very old solo songs, and 12 songs from the past couple of years.

The older songs from his era with Johnny Marr are greeted rapturously : “Girlfriend In A Coma”, “Panic”, “How Soon Is Now?”, “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want” and the sublime “William It Was Really Nothing” all delight : though sandwiching these songs at 20 minute intervals between lesser known b-sides and album tracks manages to destroy the momentum any such show would create.

A shame, because with some tweaking, Morrissey could still capture the rapturous, riotus adrenaline of the thrilling (if musically unrefined) “Kill Uncle” tour. 

Overall, Morrissey was undoubtedly in fine fettle for a wet Tuesday in a half-empty Arena : he played with a passion and a well-honed, interesting stagecraft. His songs raised and enraptured around 7,000 mostly mortgaged thirty somethings with hymns to the disaffected that make you realise that Morrissey fans aren’t strange : it’s life itself that is strange and his fans merely live within a strange and alien world not of their own making. As we all do : aliens in our homelands. As one psychiatric nurse one opined : “Everyday life is psychotic. It is the sane who are judged to be not fitting in.”

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