As Morrissey points out, 2016 has been the “year of the reaper” in terms of losing great artists and pop icons. This week, the 57-year-old revealed that the cancer-related treatments he has undergone lately have slowed him down, and there has been talk that this sole British date this year might be his last. So eyebrows are raised when he strides on wearing a medical dressing just beneath his throat. The singer has used such items as stage props before – he wore a hearing aid on Top of the Pops in 1984 – but intrigue becomes alarm as blood seeps through the dressing.
At first, Morrissey seems unaware of this development, which unfortunately occurs during Speedway’s lyrics about being greeted by a hearse. Nor is this the best moment for some plucky stage invader to grab him by the neck, after which the singer pulls his lapels together to hide the now blood-soaked bandage. However, when it suddenly falls off, there isn’t a visible mark on him. It’s hard to know whether this is the latest in a career of memorable theatrical gestures or whether the man is truly suffering for his art.
His life and work have been inseparable for ages. Long before Autobiography, he said that if anyone needs to know about his life, it’s all there in the songs. Tonight’s setlist isn’t one packed with greatest hits (terrific opener Suedehead a notable exception) but seems to have been chosen to offer powerful and frank insights into the singer’s current state of mind. Mortality figures heavily. In fine voice as ever, he sings: “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
Other songs seem to have been picked for their pertinence or to suggest that Morrissey is Manchester’s answer to Nostradamus. Ganglord, about police brutality, is particularly prescient and The Bullfighter Dies came true again in Spain this summer.
However, this epitome of a trouper hasn’t lost his sense of humour. “I don’t normally look this bad,” he begins. “I usually look much worse.” Boom boom. Elsewhere, he declares himself “the new lord mayor of Manchester”, before aiming fire at Andy Burnham, who probably will be: “He’s very nice. He’s from Liverpool.” Cue pantomime boos.
However, the atmosphere is becoming increasingly emotional, with a subtext of the precious nature of our remaining true pop icons. Lumps hit throats when Mozzer lists 2016’s celebrity deaths (notably omitting David Bowie) and sings: “All the best ones are dead.” He disproves his own words with a rollicking, celebratory rendition of the Smiths’ What She Said, and a sublime Everyday Is Like Sunday triggers a monsoon of audience affection.
By Irish Blood, English Heart, the singer is topless, defiant, revelling in the fruition of the song’s predictions of disenchantment with the political class. An uneven but extraordinary evening ends with some unusually enigmatic last words: “Whatever happens, I love you.”
