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Stop me if you think you've heard this one before...
Well. Where to start? How about a bit of a resumé of this appositely rainy Liverpool Saturday night up until around five past nine, when a simple plastic pint glass will bring the whole thing crashing down. There's no doubt that the air's heavy with a hesitant expectancy - after all, Morrissey's record for completing whole gigs or even making it there in the first place isn't exactly what you'd call exemplary this year. It's an unexpectedly civilised crowd though - the mildly Moz-curious and the fastidious Moz super-fans mingling amiably, queuing politely for the bar and chuckling at the notices informing them that meat products are off the menu tonight. All of which makes what's to occur later on all the more frustrating. Overheard snatches of conversation betray a unified subject - Morrissey's recent collapse onstage at Swindon, his recovery and return, and solemn hopes that he'll make it tonight. Reports from the previous few gigs are encouraging - he's back on form, in good humour and doling out a few treats for good measure ('Cemetery Gates' from 'The Queen Is Dead' chief among them). This has the makings of a true night to remember. Ahem.
Support band Doll & The Kicks are courteously received. Strictly speaking, this Brighton-based quartet are unsigned, although their eponymous debut album is very much out there - they've done it all for themselves rather than sell out to The Man. At one point, a-propos of nothing, my accomplice turns to me and randomly comments that they're "very competent." And try as I might, I can't think of a better way to describe them. They're good at what they are. But then, so are millions of other bands. All the parts of their heavy-ish sound - criss-crosses of slashing guitar riffs and neat harmonies - are present and correct; they just don't really inspire. Vocalist Doll (back in her hometown) is in her element, all kooky dance shapes and shades of Kate Bush in her delivery. Still, Liverpool's in accommodating mood (so far) and Doll & The Kicks leave the stage to general approval.
Which is the signal for the atmosphere to raise a notch. The giant screen showing videos of Morrissey endorsed acts ranging from Sparks to Alan Price to a clearly addled Lou Reed falls to the floor revealing a typically Moz-esque obscure black and white still of actor Walter Chiari. The house lights dim and the whirling intro music strikes up. And suddenly here he comes, sashaying across the stage to his microphone stand, addressing his crowd; "It's Saturday, it's raining, it's Liverpool...it's perfect!" As has been the recent custom, "This Charming Man" provides the kick start. It's a churlish point, but in this rather meatier incarnation, it's almost "This Charming Man" in name only, bereft of Johnny Marr's sparkling arpeggios and Andy Rourke's Motown bass undercurrent. But sod that, we all duly sing along about how we don't have a stitch to wear anyway. The man himself, flailing his mic lead around with undue abandon, looks and sounds relaxed, comfortable, confident, assured.
Second song in and we're right up to date with "Black Cloud" from this years "Years of Refusal" album, Morrissey spending a fair slice of his time crouched over the lip of the stage, pressing the flesh of his faithful. A sitting duck target. One that proves too tempting for one person who inexplicably chooses the moment to launch their beer glass at the famed Morrissey quiff. With unerring accuracy it glances off Morrissey's head. Momentarily startled, but seemingly not injured, Morrissey retreats backwards. He raises his mic to his mouth. "Goodbye". And he's off, backing band wasting little time in his wake. There's a moment of disbelief, some boos and some chanting of Morrissey's name. Individuals amongst the crowd start to vent anger at the perpetrator, and the atmosphere briefly darkens. A gaggle of security men gather at the barrier and manage to extricate the offender. There's a collective sigh of relief, which magnifies as some black shirted roadies appear to prepare the way for Morrissey's return. Until the one who appears to be returning Morrissey's microphone to its position front of stage speaks into it. "Morrissey has been hit on the head by a plastic bottle. The show will not continue."
Now, let's sort a couple of facts out here. It was a plastic glass, it was maybe half full and it did only seem to make the most cursory of impact on Morrissey - he didn't appear to be hurt. By the time it hit him, most of the liquid (whatever it was) was already spraying over him. There can be no question about the fact that Morrissey could have returned to the stage to complete the show, safe in the knowledge that the offender had been removed from the crowd. The real question is should he have returned? There's no doubt that with 8,000 people in the building, all having paid £35 for the privilege, Morrissey was perhaps a little too quick to abdicate his responsibility. Or was he? Would the incident merely have been the pre-cursor to a succession of copy-cat attempts? Why should he stand in front of people who are prepared to do this sort of thing? And what the hell possesses someone, who has also presumably paid their thirty five quid, to do so? (If nothing else, it inspires the outrage of the man sitting to my left - "That's four quid! Four f**kin' quid! I'd have had it if he didn't want it!")
As the houselights return from their brief respite and it dawns that the show really is over the antagonism towards the offender turns against Morrissey himself. More overheard snatches of conversation - "it's a set-up"; he "never wanted to do the show anyway"; "never again". But the last word to the downcast lady on the steps up to the exit consoling her even more downcast partner. "We f**cking knew something like this was gonna happen." You know what? Deep down, I think maybe we all did.
Tags: morrissey doll and the kicks liverpool echo arena gig the smiths manchester music stephen patrick morrissey this charming man mike joyce johnny marr andy rourke live music brighton the queen is dead cemetery gates salford lads club matt rynn 360 degrees
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