Good intentions, eh? I fully intended to pixillate my impressions of the 17th the very next day - but Real Life 'Vauxhall & I' events overtook me. Ah well, here's what I remember:
At least a week's worth of angst over what to wear. What period of Morrissey should I try to emulate? Smiths Moz or Solo Moz? Fey Moz or Butch Moz? Denim or gold lame? Was it okay to wear leather? With little by way of recent pointers (he's been pissing around in LA for the last few years) I aimed for vaguely smart-casual Mid Solo Career Moz... actually dangerously similar to Any Period Jeremy Clarkson (501s are so bloody uncomfortable; how did we manage before twisted denim?) No matter - Bengali (nee Plums), in Nobody Knows I'm Not A Lesbian matelot-and-wonky-cigarette-holder mode, was stylish enough for both of us. Well aware of my follicular limits, I didn't even attempt the hair...
First time I've ever been to the Royal Albert Hall. Arriving early, I was impressed by its sheer weight of presence, swathed in early evening rainclouds. A small tin of Vaseline sat incongruously at the foot of the stone balustrade: had some proto-Moz been adding some last-minute fortification to his/her quiff?
The ticket said there were "bars and restaurants" in the Albert Hall, but the ticket tout outside gave me an 'are you mad?' look for even suggesting it - and directed me to the Imperial College student union bar, a little way down the street. Verrry nostalgic, all New Order-y. Bengali arrived and we headed inside, to find there were bars, bloody loads of them. Pfft.
I'd ordered my tickets online and, unable to find 'standing' tickets, opted for Stalls, as near to the front as possible. Slightly disappointed to find that our seats were on the right side, more distant than we'd have liked - and behind a rather unlikely pair of huggle-happy 'You're The One For Me, Fatty' types who kept turning round and eyeing us balefully...
Can't remember the name of the support band; they were unmemorable. We headed off to the Champagne Bar to watch the sexy suited-and-booted skinheads and Brylcreemed rockabilly dykes in full swagger. In general, the audience seemed more mixed than usual for Moz concerts; older (inevitable), less obviously 'hooliganistic' and more women. And, with notable exceptions, more straight than I'd remembered.
Back in the Hall, there was the familiar air of rising expectation. No backdrop (Moz usually performs in front of an enlarged blow-up of this or that obscure and ancient soap star, boxer, whatever) but the familiar, off-kilter audio compilation: Sparks, Nico and John Betjeman. Then what seemed like a looong pause... to allow the Anticipatometer to touch 'Religious Ecstasy'. Scattered 'MOR-RIS-SEY' chanting...
... and then - EEEEEEEE! - he's here!
'Hairdresser on Fire' was first, a nicely-barbed London-centric singalong opener. For some reason, he'd altered the lyrics: "all around Sloane Square" became "stoned around Sloane Square" (interesting drug reference - was Moz drawing attention to the plight of the S Club Three?) and "is it real" became "that's all you need". Cryptic old bugger.
And, wherever one was standing, he did look older, greyer, porkier (head-to-toe in 'slimming' black, he avoided the traditional shirt-rending until right at the end, when he could suck in his gut long enough to run off the stage - I know these tricks...). The quiff looked suspiciously good, though, and he still gave good stage dynamic - it was nice to see the ol' microphone-lashing again.
He seemed unusually chatty too, with lots of good-humoured between-song banter, ranging from self-deprecating ("Thankyou for sitting through that - your stamina is commendable") to mock-petulant ("Who needs The Observer anyway?") After one of the new songs, he remarked, "next time, we'll bring an applause machine"; it's possibly the first time I've heard an entire audience go "oOoOoOoo".
In terms of songs, it struck me as a real fans' selection. 'Suedehead' and (a rather beautifully mellow) 'Every Day Is Like Sunday' were the only singles he played; the rest was a far-from-obvious trawl through favourite album tracks ('Alsation Cousin', 'Little Man, What Now'), exquisite oddities ('Jack the Ripper') and a handful of new songs.
The new stuff: on first hearing, 'The First Of The Gang To Die' (a spiteful wish-fulfilment paean to Mike Joyce?) and 'Mexico' were good knockabout Moz-fodder; the rest was more forgettable. All better than the 'Maladjusted' album, though, thankfully...
Security seemed tighter than usual, with far fewer than usual stage invasions (and Bengali and I being unable to sneak into the central auditorium bit until right at the end); people still managed it, though, particularly with the first few wonderful bars of his encore, 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out'. There was the usual disrobing and flinging of his shirt into the audience, with predictably 'tank of piranhas' consequences. As usual, he buggered off without finishing the encore, leaving a dwindling group of dazed-but-happy people (including Amy Lame, doing a passable impression of Cherry Bomb's fat lookylikey), touched by the hand of Moz, staggering around the auditorium waving shreds of his shirt.
So... less scarily testosterone-heavy than previous outings (he seems to have lost most of the deeply dodgy National Front Lite element which dogged earlier tours) and quite unexpected in terms of playlist - but enough of the old magic to keep his congregation happy.
No sign of the 'Special Guest', though. Guess he and Johnny haven't made up. Yet. |
