1991 05 04 Morrissey Dublin NME

RESURRECTION SCUFFLE

MORRISSEY

DUBLIN NATIONAL STADIUM

IT’S A film-maker’s version of the idolatry of pop. When Oliver Stone does the movie (‘Dirk Bogarde is Steven Patrick Morrissey!’) these are the things he won’t need to exaggerate: tiny, white-faced colleens on the point of collapse passed hand over hand through the throng; brawny young skinheads tearfully clutching their bunches of gladioli; the Garda, bemused, smiling nervously, gingerly fingering their nightsticks.

If you’ve seen newsreel of The Beatles, or a video of Stardust or you can remember The Bay City Rollers, then you’ve seen all this before, but it still doesn’t make it any the less compelling. It’s the point at which admiration becomes hysteria, where love becomes a kind of affectionate bloodlust. Scary.. .and crazily good fun.

Morrissey, the ex-Smith, is playing live for only the second time since the dissolution of his really quite good former group. The chosen venue is, by design, a boxing stadium and there’s something appropriate in this. A vinegar tang of old sweat, a feel of blood and sawdust, something a little... bareknuckle. Rabbit-punched by his former friends, declared out for the count by a score of Harry Carpenters, the old champ is coaxed out of retirement for another shot at the crown.

And, of course, he’s back in his corner celebrating before the end of the first. Cynics will say that Moz’s constituency, the bedsit Oscar Wildes and Virginia Woolfs who can’t dance, are simply being pathetically loyal. But this just won't wash. The audience is younger than Ride's and young enough for EMF. The only way they could have bought 'Meat Is Murder’ is by being wheeled into the store in a pram. Amazing though it might seem to fan and foe alike, a generation has been raised on ‘Viva Hate’ and all those funny little singles that made the music press laugh so much.

OUTSIDE THE grey, squat, ugly hall the touts circle. Inside, the seats are held aloft and tossed aside. The introductory tape is amusingly, anachronistically Mozzish: Lulu, Klaus Nomi, ‘The Laughing Gnome’ and, tellingly, old rockabilly. As the house lights dim, the situation becomes pure Hollywood.

Morrissey takes the stage and affects saintly poses framed in a halo of flashbulbs. People scream, actually scream in a way you thought no one did outside of The Rock 'N' Roll Years and the scene freezes in a tableau of adulation. When his band of youthful rockabilly rebels get round to striking up a tune, it is ‘Interesting Drug’, a bland and anonymous song by his standards but given electric shock treatment in this bearpit atmosphere.

He is pelted with produce from Dublin’s finest florists and before the first chorus is out, the stage is invaded and he is clasped in manic hugs. The security people make an effort but they are playing Canute with this tide. All through ‘Mute Witness’ the stage is full of strapping young lads, who would normally baulk at anything remotely 'jessie' planting huge smackers on his Nibs’ lips, and excitable girls clasping him like a vice.

When he bends to shake hands with the front row, where crushed, gasping children are being pulled out constantly, you really fear that he might be torn limb from limb. As love-making goes, it’s frightening.

“Could I just say some miserable words?” (demented cheers simply for the word ‘miserable’) “This is all very touching but if you stay off the stage, we will be able to play better,” says the drenched, perplexed man in the lurex chemise. And for a while it works. The crowd behave themselves, even through the glitter stomp of ‘Last Of The Famous International Playboys’, handled commendably by a band that, cannot be used to this.

‘November Spawned A Monster’ is still a shapeless dirge but this doesn’t prevent one kid flinging herself at him in ecstasy. The Moz curls up by the drum-riser apparently wounded. A burly skinhead dives onstage to comfort him and an uneasy whisper circulates... until he pops up, bold as brass, for the last chorus.

Those who think Morrissey’s current love of rockabilly a little odd have obviously forgotten ‘Rusholme Ruffians’ and the rest. A stand-up bass appears for a brilliant ‘Sing Your Life’, after which an amused Moz conducts the crowd through a few ‘Morr-iss-eees’ to the charming tune ‘Here We Go’. ‘Asian Rut’s’ funereal realism is a brave thing to attempt in this atmosphere but he gets away with it.

‘Pregnant For The Last Time’, rumoured to be his next single, is an energetic meeting between The Stray Cats and Shelagh Delaney. And if the band’s DAs and drainpipes weren’t enough, ‘King Leer’ even features a slap bass solo. There is a ferocious, greasily aggressive ‘That’s Entertainment’ delivered with such spleen that it almost becomes an incitement to riot.

DURING THE pathos of ‘End Of The Family Line' one or two tossers actually ignite lighters and hold them aloft. Moz looks on, seemingly bemused, though not as much as he did during the rather over-wrought guitar solo, to be honest. The opening chords of ‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’ have the crowd baying dementedly and the tide of admirers redoubles. The crew are obviously under instructions to be gentle, offering each fan the chance to touch their idol before being led away.

The paying punters at the back, having shelled out ten punts to watch some crap goth dance a drunken jig with his arm round Moz’s neck, are beginning to get a little feisty, and you can’t blame them. During ‘Our Frank’, Morrissey is actually dragged to the ground with an audible thud, prompting him to deliver, when he’s righted himself, a very appropriate “give it a rest, won’t yer?” that draws a huge cheer.

The call and response section of ‘Disappointed’ is very sweet. ‘Piccadilly Palare’ has its moments and ‘Suedehead’... well, ‘Suedehead’ is so historically special that I feared the stage divers and the tap room ambience might spoil it. But I needn’t have worried...

They return for the encores tumbling and sliding like The Keystone Cops onto a stage slick with perspiration and crushed petals. “I’d like to dedicate this song to Mr Johnny (significant pause) Thunders,” says Morrissey cheekily and the band perform The New York Dolls’ ‘Trash’ by means of a tribute to the recently deceased guitarist.

There is an excellent new song called ‘I’ve Changed My Plea To Guilty’ performed by Moz bare-chested but for a few shards of black nylon. Girls shriek and I start theorising about Madonna. “Thank you very, very much,” he says and disappears. A set list picked up backstage reveals that ‘T-Rex’s ‘Cosmic Dancer’ was scheduled as an encore but sadly never materialised. Oh, well.

IN A scene straight out of Neil Simon’s Plaza Suite, the great man himself misses the drinkette lined up in his honour, apparently “collapsed in his room in a heap of ecstasy”. Stood up, we turn to chit-chat. Clive Langer thought it a very creditable first night and Viv Nicholson, pools winner, ’60s icon and Morrissey loyalist reckons “he doesn’t need The Smiths anymore".

Which is too big a thought for me. But this was a success. Musically it wasn’t perfect (some of the stuff is banged out unsympathetically) but the huge emotional resonance and sheer sense of event outweigh this. The young band aren’t The Smiths but then who ever will be? And heard as a body, Morrissey’s solo material does acquire an identity and personality that many doubt.

The girl I meet next morning by the Liffey is in no doubt, however. “I couldn’t breathe and everything was starting to go black. I knew if I went down, I wouldn’t get up again. In the end the St-John’s Ambulance had to pull me out. But l!m sure he saw me, you know.” She was smiling.

Stuart Maconie