Kneeling at the Altar of Moz: Morrissey at the Boston Opera House, Reviewed

A Morrissey concert is a great place to see 100 people you wanted to bang 15 years ago. It's a lot like a high school reunion in that sense, except one in which everyone somehow grew up to become an even bigger nerd than they were before.

So it was at his performance at the Boston Opera House on Saturday night. Each time he comes through town, as I'm sure fans from other cities can attest, you'll see the same faces, many of whom you probably haven't seen since the last show—the Queen Is Dead t-shirts a little more threadbare, the pompadours ever so slightly wilted. Certainly a lot of popular musical acts retain much of their fan base over the years, but there's something remarkable in the consistency, or persistence rather, of the Morrissey acolyte. It's been 27 years since the break up of the Smiths—Morrissey has been a solo artist far longer than he ever was a band member—but unlike many other singers who've gone solo, the ardor has only heightened in the, well, not twilight of his career, because he's still releasing quality music and performing at a high level, but on the back nine at least. How many other iconic frontmen can we say that about?

That wouldn't be the case if he were merely coasting on past glories this entire time. But beginning with 2004's You Are the Quarry, on through Ringleader of the Tormentors, Years of Refusal, and this summer's World Peace Is None of Your Business, he's managed to put together, not perfect albums by any stretch, but a solid two to three songs on each that find their way instantly into the canon.

That level of output is also one of the potential drawbacks of any Morrissey performances. No one outside of a first timer—and there were plenty there on Saturday—is still expecting to see a the Smiths greatest hits package, or a Viva Hate retrospective, but, as my group of friends, ranging from 25 to 40, pointed out on the way home, we each could've listed off ten songs we were disappointed not to hear, and they'd all have been different.

Instead, we were treated to a set heavy on new material, much of it unreleased, a smattering of the Smiths favorites, and late-period tour staples. New single “Istanbul” was a highlight, a sweeping, mid-tempo lament whose lyrics conjure images of recent violence in Turkey. “Earth is the Loneliest Planet” seems another likely contender for a new favorite, with its flamenco style guitar, accordion, and quintessential lyric: “Time after time you say next time. But you fail as a woman and you lose as a man. We do what we can…” Other new songs were hit and miss. “World Peace Is None of Your Business” didn't leave much of an impression outside of a scorching middle instrumental passage that was a reminder just how loud, and well, rocking, for lack of a better word, Morrissey's band always is.

Nowhere was that more evident than on “Meat Is Murder," a song I'd normally place to the bottom of a (very short) list of skippable Smiths songs. Here, with its inevitably off-putting, but begrudgingly accepted video footage of slaughter houses, the band's musical attempts to translate that sense of horror and grinding death-machinery was one of the most metal things I've seen in a long time.

That came toward the end of a lengthy slower, low energy middle set, and brought some life back into the crowd. All of the newer songs were performed well, and the old boy was in fine voice, but throw us a bone here. For me, that came in the form of “Yes, I Am Blind,” a song I'd never seen before, and whose appearance on the setlist would've made sitting through an hour of snoozers worth it alone. Speaking of snoozers, the Smiths' “Asleep” was another number to check off the fanboy bucketlist for many, but beautiful as it may be, and as it was here performed alone with piano accompaniment, it's lyric of “sing me to sleep” seemed appropriate. ("The Queen Is Dead,” “Speedway,” and “Certain People I Know” were other older favorites).

Despite recent cancelations on the tour this week, and the abrupt dismissal of opener Kristeen Young, (we were treated to a video beforehand that was essentially like looking over Morrissey's shoulder as he drunkenly browsed YouTube), he was engaging, and in a lighthearted mood, even if all of his quips didn't quite land. “I know you don't have ghettos in Boston but use your imagination,” he cracked before “I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris.” “It's impossible to stand on such a wonderful stage and not think about all the Americans who've pittered about on this stage,” he said at one point, before listing off all of the Golden Girls by name.

The stage, and the room, incidentally, are absolutely gorgeous. It's the type of theater he's accustomed to playing here when he comes to Boston, but unlike other recent venues, they had a more relaxed policy toward the crowd, many of whom, like myself, crowded into the aisles to get as close as we could. I spent much of the show eye-balling the security guard standing in front of me thinking about whether or not I could push passed him at the end of the set.

Why would I want to do that? I don't really get it myself. I'm a music critic, I've been to thousands of shows over the last twenty years, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've been starstruck, or desperate to get close to the performers, never mind a cranky, contrarian 55-year-old man.

I asked Morrissey about this sort of mythologizing we do of our favorite artists a couple years ago in an interview. Isn't it strange? I asked. Our heroes, his heroes, they're just regular people who do a job pretty well. His response couldn't have been more fittingly Morrissian:

“But they're not 'just another human being,'" he said. “However much you try to wish that they are. Do you think Patti Smith recorded Horses whilst also working the cash register at Macy's? Do you think the New York Dolls were otherwise destined to clean windows for a living? Do you think David Bowie yearned to sell vacuum cleaners, yet filled in the wrong job application by mistake? No. All of these people are very special, and it's only a weightless sense of jealousy that makes you want to believe that they're frauds.”

I don't know if jealousy is the right word, but there's certainly a sense of weightlessness in the presence of people we, however irrationally, adore. That kicked in for me on the closer, an acoustic, mariachi-style version of “First of the Gang to Die," as the crowd around me surged forward toward the stage. Here was my opening. Stage crashers were being tossed off left and right. I dodged the security long enough to make it to the foot of the stage, where I was grabbed and pulled down before clamoring on, but was left there, reaching out, like a supplicant approaching a religious leader, but knowing full well the entire time just how silly this devotional desperation seemed.

I thought of something else he told me in the same interview, about a record signing he did at the old Tower Records in Boston for Vauxhall and I. “We were five blocks away from the store and already we were passing the queue,” he said. “I couldn't believe it. I said, 'Those people are queuing for me?' I started crying.” As the song wound to a close, he came toward my section of the stage, reached out, and took my hand. And then I did the most natural thing for an adult man who should know better at a Morrissey concert—the entire reason why we all keep coming back to his shows year after year in the first place—I cried.

The Smiths have gotten Luke O'Neil through some hard times. Follow him on Twitter - @lukeoneil47