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Morrissey, Royal Festival Hall, June 11 2004

added 16 June 2004 at 11.40

No one saw this one coming. A year ago, the suggestion that not only would Morrissey return with a new album but also curate The Meltdown Festival would’ve been met with howls of derisory laughter and extremely tempting odds from the bookies. Shacked up in his Hollywood hideaway, Morrissey had, for many, become indie’s answer to Norma Desmond, a star from another era railing against the cruelties and insensitivities of an industry that spurned both him and his muse.

And yet, here he is, back from the wilderness, standing in front of neon letters 10 feet high spelling out his name. As with Elvis and the ’68 Comeback Special, it isn’t hard to work out the symbolism. But whereas the King that returned to re-claim his throne from a new generation of young contenders was lean, hungry and with something to prove, Morrissey is…well, Morrissey.

It starts off promisingly enough. ‘First Of the Gang To Die’, the undisputed highlight of ‘You Are The Quarry’ is spectacular as Morrissey weaves his way across the stage, the cracking of his mic lead seemingly whipping his band into action. Equally thrilling is the towering ‘Irish Blood, English Heart’ which sees the air being punched with masses of clenched fists. And then, in the blinking of an eye, the heat is dropped from boil to something resembling a slow simmer…

Dipping way back into The Smiths’ back catalogue (in itself no bad thing), ‘The Headmaster Ritual’ has the consistency of lumpy gravy as Morrissey’s band struggle to infuse it with any life. To be fair, long-term guitar partner Alain Whyte is laid low with illness, and his replacement, Johnny Marr lookalike Little Barry, manfully struggles to fill his shoes, but what once took purposeful strides now shuffles along with the dexterity of a three legged horse at Aintree. But the real problem lies with Morrissey. ‘How Could Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel’, with its self pitying lament of "I’ve had my face dragged in 15 miles of shit/And I do not like it" and ‘The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores’ are hissy fits set to music. Where Morrissey was once full of biting humour and wit, he now sounds bitter and tired, as if he’s setting ‘One Foot In The Grave’ to music. ‘I Have Forgiven Jesus’, with its well-deserved target in his sights, comes off sounding like the kind of thing the Morrissey of yore would have dismissed as too obvious.

What redemption there is comes in small doses. The introduction of keyboards into Morrissey’s live set-up gives the magnificent ‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’ an evocative majestic grandeur and an air of joy to ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’, but it all adds up to the conclusion that Morrissey’s best work is well behind him. But more importantly, for someone who supposedly polarises opinion, Morrissey’s performance sat firmly on the fence.

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