The following review and picture appear in this month's edition of Uncut:

MORRISSEY Rock City, Nottingham

Unable to breath, limbs aching, the air heavy with yobbish chants,and it's still only the warm up tape of "Groovin' with Mr Bloe".This is a Morrissey gig all right.

More importantly, this is the man's first UK appearance in two years, a tour which brings to a close what for Morrissey and those who've remained faithful has been a trying decade. As Nico's "Innocent and Vain" screeches through the PA, seasoned veterans take their cue and brace themselves for point of impact, perhaps expecting the ominous well-tailored gentleman gangster from last time around?

Not tonight. It's funny old Uncle Steven in paint splattered jeans and a raggedy West Ham Boys Club t-shirt, come to sing us a few songs while he waits for the emulsion on his passage ceiling to dry. "Hullo Snottingham!" he roars, a finger to one nostril.

Oh yes, it's going to be one of those Morrisey gigs.

Whipping the mic flex, gurning incessantly, even utilising a banana as a phallic substitute during "Boy Racer", he's in good spirits and even better shape. From the unexpected pleasure of "Is it Really So Strange" to the apologetic inclusion of "Lost" (the beautiful, neglected flip of "Roy's Keen") his set is an inspired mix of latter day Mozrock and old, old favourites. With neither record label nor album to promote, it proves his most eclectic showcase in years.

Seething like a vegetarian drill sergeant on "Meat is Murder", his eyes pierce the burger-breathed culprits hanging their heads in shame like death rays. "Break Up the Family", Viva Hate's heavily scrutinised paean to old acquaintances, still rubs a sentimental nerve or two, though little can match "Trouble Loves Me" for Moz balladeering at its emotional apex. Dramatic as ever, "Speedway" brings out the best in guitarists Boorer and Whyte, while re-instated bassist Gary Day completes the cosh boy aesthetic invaluable to the Morrissey live experience.

Yet as an English homecoming, Snottingham responds with fervour, if not necessary rapture. The crush becomes an agonised squirm of desperate loners willing to suffocate their neighbour if it means theirs will be the outstretched hand Moz momentarily tickles. Add to this some disturbingly pathetic cries of "You're sooo important!" (yes,really!), plus a dangerously retarded attempt to offer him an England flag, and one's own zealous admiration for the man begins to feel a little uncomfortable.

As the pre-encore cheers amount to an alarmingly apathetic murmur, the sweeping finale of "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me" is more than they deserve. "Thank you, Snottingham!" Morrissey waves undeterred, "I've enjoyed having you."

One only hopes Snottingham fully appreciated being had.

Simon Goddard