Our Intellectual Elvis.

It's almost as if other bands don't exist. It's almost as if I can't express my deep love for the nearly-rans of Mozza's shadow, Gene, and their set of classics that - in the shape of Speak To Me Someone - show me that they are his spiritual heirs and as good as they have ever been. It's as if the Ordinary Boys, (and never have a band been more aptly named) never were. And I wish they never were. It's as if the Cockney Rejects, who perform after Morrissey in the hall downstairs, are merely the bastard offspring of Linkin Park and some dreadful Oi Oi punk band after a lobotomy, were some dreadful mistake.

And it happens like this. Five songs into the set, Boz Boorer, Morrissey's faithful guitarist for the past thirteen years (over twice the lifetime of The Smiths) gently strums a repetitive, ambient riff that Mogwai have spent their entire career aping.

And it hits me. That voice. The voice that is Our Elvis. And it comes from everywhere and nowhere. It comes from inside. He sings our life. And it only gives us a handful of words. But this song saved my life.

I know. Wherever you are. Whatever you are. Don't Lose Faith. I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday. To You. Please wait. Don't Lose Faith. You say that the day. Will never arrive. And it's never seemed so far away. Still I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday. To You. Please Wait. Don't Lose Faith.

It's this song that reduces grown men to tears. It's this song that saved my life in 1992. It's the type of song that can topple the walls. Change worlds. Save lives.

With the worlds weight crashing on our shoulders, we need someone on our side. And here he is. And so he arrives, in incredible style.

We're reminded that like the Yellow Pages, Moz isn't just here for the good things in life. But here he is. Our Intellectual Elvis. Our exile. The man who came in from the cold. After the wilderness years, the years when some of us stayed true, everybody wants a slice of him. But Morrissey will be the permanent exile. After a lifetime on the fringes of acceptance, you learn not to listen to them.

"I didn't listen to them when they wanted to arrest me, and I certainly don't listen to them now." - William S Burroughs on accepting a literary award, New York, 1984.

And I ask you. Where were they in 1999? 2002? Sat at home, not even thinking about where The Mozfather was. Where are they now? The woman who asks me what the last song was. You know, Irish Blood, English Heart. Mozza's biggest hit since 1988. If you don't know what that is woman, you must've been living under a rock called Ignorance for the past few months.

And to think I only made it in by sheer luck and chance when heathens like that are allowed in his presence.

But here he is. A living Icon. A legend, even if he would bristle and deny such a role. Even if he would secretly enjoy being so revered. He's already got the Elvis backdrop. The singalong crooning of an audience eating out of the palm of his head. And the moments where everyone - even those of us in the bleachers, in another time zone - are dancing, and singing, and finally living, and you can't even hear Mr "Truculent, Devious And Unreliable" in all his glory.

And my god. He shouldn't be this good. He has no right. He should be like everyone else whose 45. Producing bland, brainless tripe. Unambitious, gutless, bland, thicker than pigshit, another crashing bore.

But the thing we love the most about him is the thing we hate the most. Moz has always done Whatever The Fuck he wanted. He always been true to himself. Even in the wilderness years, he knew he could get another deal, but it required the kind of betrayal he could never do. He could've been signed overnight. If he agreed to ditch his band and replace them with Everything But The Girl.

Honestly. Some people have no clue.

So tonight is just another show in his rehabilitation tour. The whole is so much more than the sum of the parts. Nothing less than brilliant. Even if there are frankly almost bland renditions of the now obligatory Smiths songs. Shakespears Sister, The Headmaster Ritual, Rubber Ring, and There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, the latter widely regarded as The Best Ever Smiths song. Which of course, makes it probably the Best Song Ever Written. So quite why it is sandwiched between two songs from his new album  in the middle of the show is a crying shame.

The problem with Morrissey is not Morrissey, but the fact that his backing band sometimes lack the imagination he so blatantly has in spades : Nine songs are taken from his latest album, which is also the worst record he's made since Kill Uncle. Like Kill Uncle, sadly You Are The Quarry is like a fanastic single with a lot of bad b-sides.  The finale of the set is the bland, forgettable I'm Not Sorry. And most of the rest of the set fares little better : with several songs from his new, unfamilar new album, three unreleased numbers (the fabulous Don't Make Fun Of Daddys Voice, No One Can Hold a Candle To You and a brief snatch of the New York Dolls Subway Train). But unlike the tremendous "Kill Uncle" tour, which saw La Moz return as King from five years in exile, we're older now, and clever swine. And we've seen it before.

So tonight, it was almost routine. No stage divers. No interaction bar the odd moment of Moz offering his palm to heal the sick. And the obviously rehearsed throwing-your-shirt-into-the-crowd move. It's like Elvis handing out towels. 

But Moz has always been like Bowie. Never trading on past glories, but always looking for new things. New contexts. New setting, even if it is for the old pictures.

Which means that he only sings three of his twenty six solo singles, and one of those isn't in the shops for another two weeks. Which means that there are as many unreleased songs in his set tonight as there are hits.

But that's Moz. Truculent, devious, unreliable. Always trying something new. It doesn't always work (as some of the blander songs prove tonight), but my god, he's still got it. He can still reduce grown men to sobbing lumps of jelly by merely opening his mouth and singing your life.

There is a light and it will never go out. It burns in our hearts for Moz. Even if La Moz will have you know that everday is like Sunday. We love him all the same. We love him for his weaknesses, because they are his strengths. No One can hold a candle to him. 

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