Tuesday, 08 July 2008
you're gonna miss me when i'm gone
With Morrissey entering his 25th year in music, this failed journalist, the middle-aged, growing-old sort-of-gracefully going-grey not-man being Morrissey straddles the artistic wasteland. Firmly now ensconced in his third imperial phase, following the halycon days of The Smiths, his 1991-94 solo years, and now a reborn late period with a bizarrely Elvisian backing band of American Rock Session Musicians, Moz performs his first ever open air headlining show in London.
With a bill of meticiously chosen Moz-approved support acts, this Wireless Festival’ - in effect, a great big gig in a park - is like a mini one-day Meltdown. The rambunctious New York Dolls perform in a rammed tent, and sound just like they did in 1975 : that is to say, like a shiny, polished lovesick dustbin falling down the stairs of a ghetto. It is a surreal sight to see - with one glance the actual New York Dolls performing - and to look the other way and see them in 1977 performing on a massive video screen as Morrissey’s into tape.
In an absolutely jampacked tent - with additional spectators spilling out yards and yard and yards behind, Siouxsie (Not The Banshees) is fantastic. An atheletic, spellbinding otherworldly alien of a woman, her merciless backing band twist and turn conventional music into bizarre gymnastic shapes, with the original Goth Metal template that surely inspired Bat For Lashes : the sound is immense, the palette full and bristling with texture, her lyrics sit beautifully on top of dense soundscapes, the vocal melodies not at all obvious, and thus, fascinating and intriguing. Light years away from the obvious pop years of The Banshees. Not that the Banshees aren’t here : “Israel”, “Happy House”, “Christine” and a multitude of other traditional numbers are faithfully recreated here. Aided and abetted by a one piece silver and black outfit that makes her look like some kind of uber Supermensch Batman Villian, Siouxsie is an under-rated, individual genius who proves that age need not be boring.
Beck is next : and he plays his cards close to his set. His individual, perverse talent is shelved in favour of a rare Greatest Hits set of “Where it’s At”, “New Pollution”, “Devils Haircut”, “I Think I’m In Love”, “Nausea”, “Loser” and the heartbreaking “Everybody’s Gotta Love Sometime” that exposes musical actors like Shitney Fuckston for the pale pornography of emotions their histronic wailing is. Beck hides behind a hat and long hair with a solid, fluid backing band that hit a peculiarly white boy alt.funk pocket groove that keeps the vast field at the least, entertained. There’s new stuff from his album ‘Modern Guilt’, which suffers only by being completely unknown, but still follows the traditional Beck formula of being about nothing and everything all at one. He’s gone in a short hour leaving the field effortlessly pleased but also anticipating the enigma that is Morrissey.
Is Morrissey an enigma? Well, yes, and no. if you believe all art is autobiography, then, by Christ, Morrissey must really have put it about over the course of his life. Of course, no one really knows what he is, except that these days he is to some degree, obviously sexual. But being a 47 year old man, there comes a time when sex ceases to be an issue : Morrissey is almost a permanent adolescent, nonsexual, yet aware of it in an abstract manner.
The artistic wasteland? At his age, most of his contemporaries have dried up, split up, or taken the easy route of reforming their old band to become a nostalgia act. Not Morrissey. Like all great artists, he will not do something because of the money. If he did, he would’ve taken $50,000,000 and taken The Smiths to Coachella. Instead, his six piece backing band - compromising of only one member from most of his solo career (Boz Boorer), and four compliant, cheap Americans in the shape of ex-Smashing Pumpkin Matt Walker, ex Red Hot Chilli Pepper Jesse Tobias, and the unexceptional Solomon Walker on ploddy bass, and, to be blunt, the weak link of Chris Pooley on guitar/keyboards/tincan/trumpet - unfortunately bludgeon some of his material. “The Last of The Famous International Playboys” is a great song reduced to a bar-room plod through a lumpen rearrangement. After that, the band manage to overcome Morrissey’s often perverse setlists by performing a virtual greatest hits selection. Sure, there’s no sign of “Suedehead”, “Everyday Is Like Sunday”, “The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get”, “Now My Heart Is Full”, or most of the other big hits from his solo career, but when you have released about 60 singles, it’s fairly hard to play even a vaguely pleasing selection of material. Moz though, does his best, with a bristling selection of songs that clearly show that he is, without doubt, a genius : his lyrics wipe the floor with lesser talents, bristling with wit and insight, melodically bursting with intrigue and bite. Anyone who can make a lyric like “spending warm summer days indoors, writing frightening verse to a buck toothed girl in Luxemborg” sound as breezy and cheerful as Abba deserves a medal.
By the second song, Morrissey and his band are rampaging gleefully through “Ask”. For a decade Morrissey overlooked the enormous catalogue of Smiths material, and when he finally opened the enormous gamut of their talent for live performance, these songs were rapturously received as if Christ himself had been reborn. Nonetheless, personally, I find Moz dotting these random 20 year old songs around his set to keep those people who havent bought his solo albums undersells his talent. After all, it’s almost as if he’s apologising for daring to continue outside of the Smiths enormous shadow, and, at the same time, assuring the audience that there’s a Smiths song coming soon, so be patient.
Which is a shame, as his solo work is, overall, equal of The Smiths. Late period highlights such as the bitter “That’s How People Grow Up”, and the wonderful, sumptuous, brilliant “Life Is A Pigsty” are often overseen by the fact that Johnny Marr didn’t write them. And whilst, overall, his band are tight and a defiant set of ambassadors, the effect is spoilt by a erratic - and distractingly discordant keyboard solo - in “The First of The Gang To Die”, and a impotent trumpet solo in “I Just Want To See The Boy Happy” that sees some of the crowd openly wince. For God’s Sake Moz, get Mikey Farrell back - he wasn’t crap.
Not that the crowd mind. There’s 40,000 people between 5 and 55 jigging around in the wind, mouthing words such as “a plastic bag, stranded at the lights, this once was me!”, and age proves no dimming of the passion of the heart. New material from the upcoming album, such as “Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed”, and an enthusiastic fumble through The Buzzcocks “You Say You Don't Love Me” meanwhile prove that Morrissey is far removed from mining a poignant past for cash by ever moving forward.
“You’re Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone” he sings with his characteristic, hopeless arrogance. And he’s more right than anyone will ever know.Only registered users can write comments.
Please login or register. Powered by AkoComment 1.0 beta 2! |
