Morrissey
Words: Michael Rabinowitz
Photos: Michael Rabinowitz

Appeared:
July 12, 2007
Ruth Eckerd Hall, Clearwater

He crooned.  I swooned.

A brief history of Ruth Eckerd, her namesake applied to Clearwater’s excellent venue:  Ms. Eckerd was a suffragist, (not a “suffragette,” that would be absurd).  She was hanged for her beliefs in the late ‘70’s and her cause taken up by teenage mutes, a fascinating slice of Tampa area lore unknown to most residents. 

So fascinating it’s difficult to believe.  That’s probably because it’s not true, completely 100 fiction.

But, when Steven Patrick Morrissey speaks it, it’s difficult not to believe in it.  Almost too difficult.

As the post-punk Oscar Wilde, with lyrics so tragic they border on Monty Python-esque absurdity, Morrissey revels in the theatrical arts of showmanship.  Contradictions are a must and vacillating between the farthest of poles and moving to the quickest extremes is a sure fire way toward stardom. 

When Moz is not re-imagining histories of Tampa area benefactors, he is scolding the audience for keeping him too underground. “Here’s another song from an album you probably don’t own,” he brushes off before going into “Last of the Infamous Playboys.”

Witticisms aside, Moz’s vocals are stronger than The Smiths’ days when everyone questioned his sexuality.  Now, neither is in question.  However, the gaunt rigid facial features so recognizable with The Smiths and Viva Hate are now replaced by a chunkier cherubic punim.  The pompadour is, of course, patented by now. 

Backed by a guitar laden barber shop quintet, Moz’s boys—in white collars and black bow ties—plowed through a raucous set focused on classic rock hooks with the Irish poet lounge lizarding his way through an even amount of Smiths and solo catalog work.  

“Stand in the front and you will likely get whipped,” announced the alt-rock Paul Anka with a little bit of S&M master thrown in as he sashayed up and under the microphone chord he flung about in the air. 

For most Moz fans, how soon is now was occurring . . . um, now.  “I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar,” he sang the signature Smiths’ tune, emphasizing his now ironic shyness “I am the son and heir of nothing in particular.” 

It’s martyred saint status that Moz seeks, which explains his current incarnation as the hottest act among south central Latino teenagers, a downtrodden demographic of Catholics that truly know how to treat their martyrs.  (Americans are sooo needy of their Christ figures.)

Easy to oblige the throng of fans, he tore his sweaty shirt off like Michelangelo’s statue, Rebellious Slave, mimicking ecstasy in the escape.  Then, in a sudden feline manner, Moz turns his back toward the maniacal front row.  The tease is on.

This is the push/pull attraction of Moz.  Fawn, but do not adore.  Adore, but do not touch.  Touch, but only briefly, thank you very much.

But the pain of loneliness is the primary catalyst for his connection to fans.  In "Let Me Kiss You" as the audience grasps at his heals, Moz pleads to an object of infatuation, asking “close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire and let me kiss you.”   It is the quiet plea for love and attention—fallen on deaf ears—that is universally shared.  In that way we all share something with Moz, a patron saint of the awkwardly social, the sexually confused, and the possibly Canadian.

Yet, it’s Moz’s confidence that his acolytes bizarrely cling to, a contradictory dichotomy that is a beacon of light for them that never ebbs.  Like Louis Skolnik uniting all nerds at Adams College, Moz gives hope and unity to interlopers worldwide.
 
But not all of his tactics are self-serving.  As with "Irish Blood, English Heart," Moz exploits his own outcaste role to empathize with the Irish over English occupation, the goal being a broader political message than his own lonely nights contemplating suicide.

In the end, no one has exploited the outsider status as well as Moz.  For success, he takes great comfort in his own “ugly” skin.  And any lack of subtlety, he is none too proud to exude.
 
“If you look for my name in American music magazines, you won’t find it.  If you listen for my voice on American radio, you won’t hear it.  And . . .” he adds with a weighted pause, “I feel very privileged about that.”