STEVEN PATRICK MORRISSEY almost died. Not of any known
affliction or debilitating disease—instead, as one would expect
Morrissey to go, he merely crumpled to a nearly lifeless pile while
onstage in Swindon. “Good evening… probably,” were his near-final
words before ending up on his back, and later, a hospital bed. To die
onstage (not by your side under the wheels of a 10-ton truck) is the
only exit that would properly befit such a man. If, and when, Morrissey
finds himself splayed on his deathbed, arms theatrically draped over
his forehead, odds are he’ll go out like Oscar Wilde, dramatically
bemoaning the wallpaper before passing into darkness.
But while he has managed to stay upright as of late, make no
mistake, Morrissey is most definitely not well. With the exception of
the post-Maladjusted lull of the late ’90s—a period of
quiet that was the predecessor to his grand second, or third, or fourth
act with You Are the Quarry—we are currently immersed in
the worst era of Morrissey’s career. In the days following the
collapse, a Liverpudlian hit him with a launched beer cup (bouquets of
roses or perhaps even panties are appropriate to throw at Morrissey,
but beer simply is not thrown at this man, it’s absolutely
inexcusable). And last week, he unleashed a less-than-poetic string of
profanities at a German who dared heckle him mid-show. I want my
Morrissey healthy, covered in hugs (not beer), and oblivious to
heckles. This is not good.
Primarily notable for its striking cover of the Moz holding a
squirmy infant like a running back cradles a football—which
either acts as a blunt symbol of the man’s untapped fertility, or a
reminder that a child prop is as close as he will ever come to becoming
a sire—his newest album, Years of Refusal, is simply
adequate, a recording that merely kept our appetites satiated until
something better came about. Then came the just-released B-side
compilation Swords, although the album mined material already
available to most hardcore Moz fans.
While the mere act of the Moz setting his sweet and tender feet
within our city limits brings us all that much closer to that Smiths
reunion that we all know will never happen—Johnny Marr
lives here, remember?—he hasn’t treated our fair city too warmly
in the past. Seven years have passed between Morrissey dates in
Portland, thus making the I-5 corridor the saddest stretch of freeway
for us fans that must drive to Seattle yearly to see the man in person.
Even the Sweet and Tender Hooligans (“The ultimate tribute to Morrissey
and the Smiths”) choose to pay honor to Morrissey’s booking agent by
skipping our town entirely.
It would seem that Morrissey primarily exists as a live entity these
days. His onstage hysterics—the man is just as likely to brazenly
peel off his shirt as he is to end up in the fetal position—come
as little surprise, as if this was all a primed exercise for his future
destination of choice: Las Vegas. With two shows nightly and a vegan
buffet, a Vegas Moz will combine the unrestrained flair of Liberace
with the idol sheen of a young furry-chested Tom Jones. There, under
the glitz of some strip casino, Morrissey will attract a devoted
following (yes, even Julia Riley can come) that will wince at the mere
thought of the Nevada sun, but warm at the prospects of wrapping its
arms around the man in an onstage hug. It will be a perfect home for
him. I’ll see you there.
I’m sure Morrissey will put on a good show next week. Too bad he’s [probably] a racist who openly courts & croons English right-wing nationalists.
He has berated people mid-concert before.
And, what the hell, the man ages just like everyone else.
Frankly, Ms. Caraeff, what difference does it make? This charming man is coming to make panic in the streets of Portland. You say he was good in his time, but these things take time, and heaven knows Moz’s music is still ill. Perhaps you want the one you can’t have, just ask Moz, that handsome devil, and accept yourself. And please, please, please, let Moz get what he wants, this time. We’ll probably never see him again.
PS: That joke isn’t funny anymore.
MISTER Caraeff,
Excellent article. Good thing you didn’t mention that Morrissey snorts incense and is dressed by 12 year old boys every morning. Those are both vicious unsubstantiated rumors. Glad you took the high road,
Aim HIGH Portland: BYOMoz Haircut
Who the Hell is “Moz”?
As a Morrissey fan, I don’t see ‘sexes’, I just see lonely, sad, blobs of matter.
Mr. Careff:
No one would defend Morrissey’s music after oh, about 1992 when Your Arsenal came out. Your article does not address Moz’s music but his person. Therefore I will meet you on that soccer field (and in the true spirit of any right-headed Morrissey fan) subject myself to getting my arse kicked. My points are thus:
Firstly, and JEEZUS! One does not throw roses at Morrissey. One throws gladiolus. They are his favorite flower.
Second: Decline? Of the Moz? I’m not gonna get all judgey on you, but it seems like in order to assess the decline of a phenomena or band or anything over time you need to take a few representative samplings and COMPARE THEM, i.e., report, based on facts, what Morrissey concerts were like “back in the day.”
Here is one such fact: I saw him in 1991 in Seattle and way back then people were throwing shoes and he was growling at the crowd. HE LIKES NEGATIVE ATTENTION. It has made him a hell of a lot of money.
Third: You state that Morrissey has not acted “warmly” toward Portland, Oregon. I was at 1994-5ish show at La Luna and yes I agree, he was not warm. But you know what? That’s because he’s one of the GODFATHERS of Emo. GODFATHERS are not warm friendly folk. They are mobsters first, and warm and fuzzy fifteenth.
Fourth: I see you did not detect the humor in baby-holding Morrissey; see point 3.
Fifth: Morrissey expiring Oscar-Wilde like would be an accurate portrayal of the artist if you’d never heard a single note of his music. I can’t post a link here in this comment box so I must improvise: He is poppy! And peppy! And it is TRADEMARK Morrissey to sing happily about death, getting one’s arse kicked, finding jobs and hating them, in a SUGAR COATED fashion.
Sixth: Thanks so much for covering one of my favorite artists ever in such a lazy way. Next time you need someone to write about Steven Patrick Morrissey in a factual manner, please look me up at my blog: Portlandjetaime.wordpress.com, where everything I write is positive and upbeat, but in a sort of downer way, as I do enjoy employing facts, when I can find them.
Mwuah!
Are you people for real? Is there anyone left in this world who likes to talk about anything else but gossip? Get an idea.