by Velouria

To paraphrase the man himself, it was wet, it was Wednesday, it was Washington. DAR Constitution Hall, one of Washington D.C.'s many stately, columned buildings, was scented with a bizarre mixture of body odor, mildew, and patchouli. In its glory days as the original home of the National Symphony Orchestra, the hall was crowned with a glass ceiling for stargazing. On this wet Wednesday, it was invaded by a hodgepodge of people all there to worship the one star who united them: Morrissey, former crooner for the legendary band The Smiths and accomplished solo-performer in his own right. They were emo-kids, punks, thirty-something politicos, hippies, yuppies, and shockingly pale curmudgeons wearing all black on the outside to express how they feel on the inside. In Morrissey each of them finds a kindred spirit, a melancholy but mischievous soul who sees more beauty in sorrow and destruction than he sees in himself. Morrissey is the voice of his constituency, the disaffected and angst-ridden of the X, Y, and now Z generations, all represented that night in the heart of the Nation's capitol.

The show began with about 10 minutes of recorded chanting in the dark. It sounded mysterious, though likely because it was unintelligible. Throughout the chanting you could sense the audience willing it to stop, their mounting hysteria, and the looming question of whether he would play any Smiths songs. The chanting stopped and the opening bars of How Soon is Now? were met with screams as everyone realized, yes! there would be Smiths songs. Not that Morrissey hasn't put out an impressive amount of high quality solo material since The Smiths, but to ignore The Smiths is to ignore the songs that helped many of his fans deal with adolescence, the songs they came to love him by.

Morrissey does nothing halfway, so the two-story tall letters spelling M-O-R-R-I-S-S-E-Y and flashing in bright red and white ala Elvis in his Vegas days, should have surprised no one. He strutted on stage impeccably dressed in a crimson velour smoking jacket and sporting his signature 50's gelled-back hairdo. His voice was booming (without shouting), yet sweet. It was remarkably unstrained even though he was apparently recovering from a cold. His band, all wearing black pants and black t-shirts with "Jobraith" in hot pink, were excellent. You have to love how Morrissey always dresses those poor guys a uniform, they become his own twisted satirical version of Robert Palmer's red lipstick girls.

Jobraith, for those who were wondering and didn't know, was a rocker from the 1970's who proudly proclaimed himself a "true fairy" and is believed to be the first openly gay rock musician. He was highly regarded by music industry insiders and critics and he was even touted to be the next David Bowie. In fact, in anticipation of breaking the next big thing, his label, Elektra, spent unprecedented wads of cash on a super-saturating promotional strategy and tour, but he never broke. His story is still cited by music industry execs as evidence of the perils of excess and over promotion. Jobraith lived out his career as a lounge singer and died in 1983 of AIDS in a pyramid on the top of New York's legendary Hotel Chelsea, where profound and struggling artists alike have gone to live and die for decades. Obviously Morrissey was making a statement by having his band wear this uniform. But was he celebrating Jobraith or comparing himself to the tragic figure? I would guess both.

Despite himself, Morrissey would go on that wet Wednesday to prove his worth as an icon. He walked around a lot scratching his head, waving at fans and shaking hands. He had a few campy poses, but was mostly relaxed and playing along with the crowd. After First of the Gang to Die, he took a bow and said to the crowd: "Thank you, thank you and cheers to you for thanking me for thanking you. Yes, I am afraid this is a Pop concert -- and you thought you were sophisticated." He and his band then lit into, November Spawned A Monster, in which the always hip and evolving Moz changed the word "walkman" to "ipod." Other highlights of the show included the crowd-pleasing Bigmouth Strikes Again; Irish Blood, English Heart, a new track which rocks a little more that you probably expected from the old man; Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me, with a superb piano intro, but sadly no accompanying strings; Everyday is Like Sunday, incredible even though again, no strings; and the short but sweet encore.

You hear a lot about Morrissey being a bit of a prima donna and not pleasing the crowd, either by playing short sets, not playing Smiths songs, or otherwise being a bit of a brat, but at this show there was none of that. He fed off of the crowd's adulation and loved them right back, particularly with the encore. It was only one song, but it wasn't just any song, it was an amazing version of The Smith's There Is A Light That Never Goes Out. So amazing that it compelled several audience members to jump up on stage one by one. It wasn't really stage-diving, more like hopping up and waiting to be tackled by one of the bald 400 pound security guys flanking both sides of the stage. Morrissey seemed pleased to have visitors on stage and even made a point of shaking all of their hands. At one point while walking across the stage, he saw one guy behind him out of the corner of his eye about to be carried off by a 400 pounder. Morrissey thrilled the crowd by turning around and walking the length of the stage to stop the security guards and kiss the guy's hand. The climax, however, came as Morrissey ripped off his shirt at the very end. It wasn't the most attractive chest I've ever seen, but the crowd loved it. And with a voice like that, who cares?