Usually I start off my show reviews by testing your patience with an anecdotal story about my personal connection with the artist I’m seeing. Then I place the musician in some larger genre and/or historical context, and wax poetic about what makes them extraordinary among countless other bands.
- For the entire duration of Kristeen Young’s opening set I stood in line for a t-shirt. To be fair, it’s now one of the most ridiculous shirts I own, and Moz IS my shepherd.
It’s utterly pointless for me to try to do this for Steven Patrick Morrissey. For longer than I have been alive, music journalists have chipped away at the man, dissected his lyrics, and sought to explain his appeal. All in all, like so many other people, I spend a lot of time with Morrissey’s music. I don’t think I’ll ever come up with a way to artfully explicate it, but he makes me feel less alone, and he will probably always mean a great deal to me.
Walking up to the Moore Theatre in the pouring rain, I first heard a pat-down security guard barking “No flowers! No iPads!” which might be one of the strangest introductions I’ve had to a show. Inside the mood was dizzying; this being my first Morrissey show, I didn’t know if there was always this much excitement in the air for one of his concerts, or if it was a lot of pent up anticipation. (The concert was originally scheduled for November before being pushed back so Moz could attend to his ill mother. He’s also had a bout of health scares that led to some cancellations on this US tour.)