Smiths Los Angeles Universal Amphitheatre Review

THE SMITHS 

LOS ANGELES UNIVERSAL AMPHITHEATRE

WHOEVER SAID that misery loves company wasn't kidding — almost 12,000 people turned out for The Smiths’ two-night stand in Los Angeles. What they heard were 24 perfect pop sparklers, exquisitely executed by maestro Johnny Marr, while the Most Miserable Man in Manchester camped around the stage, occasionally stopping to pose languidly across the monitors, or stand, nipples to the wind, to face his adoring public. 

But this was a wondrous journey through The Smiths' song-book, from 'Hand In Glove' to 'Panic', with all those funny, depressing, and anguished points in between. 

Listening to The Smiths on record forges such a bond of intimacy between Morrissey, the music, and the listener that hearing those same songs played live, in front of thousands of people, is like having your diaries read aloud in public. Sharing The Smiths can be painful. 

The man Himself was at his most winsome, triggering a minor stage invasion by telling the restless crowd. "If you get stopped by a security guard, kiss him on the lips!''

After being pelted with enough flowers to start his own nursery, the Singer acceded to popular demand by divesting himself of his shirt, revealing, appropriately, the hairless, caved-in chest look usually associated with seven-stone weaklings. 

Morrissey was, by turns, foppish, humble, funny, and effete, but never dull. 

There are those who say he can’t sing, but his ability to switch from the heartstring-twanging intensity of 'How Soon Is Now' to the singalonga jangling chorus of 'Panic' shouldn't be underestimated. And anyway, any man who shaves under his arms has to be something special. 

JANE GARCIA