Nick and I saw Morrissey tonight at the Palace Theatre and I'm pretty sure my sixteen year old heart still can't believe its eyes. But there he was, mere feet in front of us, pompadour and cowcatcher jaw and all, whipping his microphone cord around like a ribbon dancer.
The enormous backdrop image was a shirtless sailor, fat stogey in his cheek, flexing both biceps. Across his chest were the words, "refusal". It was so very Morrissey, the kind of thing that is endearing if you're a fan and very corny and stupid if you aren't. He did just enough Smiths songs to sate the very diverse crowd and the encore ("First of the Gang to Die") was far more surreal than seeing Steven Morrissey "in person". So many people were trying to rush the stage to hug him (or rub him..or feast on his flesh) that there was a fleet of bouncers, crouched like wrestlers, clotheslining and tackling anyone who dared to hop on stage (and there were many). It was hard to concentrate on Morrissey's fey flirtation with his mic when such an entertaining melee was unfolding in his midst.
We ran into Chris and Erin downtown after the show, and the four of us had drinks at TipTop, all star-addled and buzzing on beer.
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