From Radiohead to The Killers to Lana Del Rey, countless artists owe a debt to Steven Morrissey. Alternative culture as a whole does this too; the indie cliché of Levi’s 501s, androgynous thrift store digs and oversized glasses were Morrissey’s signature, as was the tendency to wear his literary influences on his sleeve.

As frontman of The Smiths, Morrisey entered the music scene with eclipse force and has remained at the forefront of cultural consciousness ever since. Over decades of near cult status and controversy, his personality as an artist has become almost as legendary as his music. Today, few names evoke the phrase “separating the art from the artist” more than Morrissey.

So, while the audience found their place for his solo performance at Robinson Center Monday (his very first broadcast in Arkansas, if the archives on setlist.fm believe it), the unspoken questions were: does he maintain the hero status that cemented him in popular culture? The day before a momentous election, will he say something inflammatory? And, given his history of canceling shows at the last minute, will he even show up?

As an individual, Morrissey inspires the sinister fascination of a car crash. But Morrissey, the cultural force, is seismic, undeniable and painful to consider in its own way. Watching it live is a bit like watching the Northern Lights: your attention is marked by a sadness and a hungry fixation and by the knowledge that you may never see something so beautiful in this exact way again .

Vocally, age has taken nothing away from Morrissey. Now 65, his voice has the same timbre and theatrical, propulsive force it had in the ’80s. That said, during songs like “I Wish You Lonely,” which require real vocal enthusiasm , his body was fascinating and still. Typically, his movements were mostly limited to tapping a tambourine, shaking (and throwing) maracas, and playfully swinging his microphone cord.

Morrissey’s renditions of classic Smiths songs were also impressive. The sonic kaleidoscope of Johnny Marr’s guitars is difficult to replicate, but the band performed crowd favorites like “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want” and “How Soon Is Now” with eerie fidelity.

Charmingly, Morrissey encouraged personal moments with fans, reaching out to hold the hands of audience members in the front row and, in keeping with tradition, accepting hugs on stage from fans bold enough to be manhandled by security . The fervor of some of these hugs suggests that, through his controversial history as a public figure, fans still see him as the beacon of the emotional sanctuary that rose to fame in the ’80s.

He also wasn’t afraid to remind audiences that he was just a man. The occasional microphone screams, unintentionally atonal chords and out-of-sync rhythm slipped through the cracks, but that could have been a product of exhaustion. After all, the band had finished their concert earlier than 48 hours ago because of the fans. storm the stage and injure a security guard during a show in Dallas.

Far more difficult to excuse were his brief, clearly rehearsed, but nonetheless reprehensible political statements that paved the way for his infamy: “Do you think you’ll vote tomorrow? he asked, the crowd clapping and cheering. “I have never in my life voted in an election.” The audience’s vocal disagreement did not move him at all. “Place your votes carefully,” he continued, “which obviously means nothing. »

Although Morrissey’s heterodoxy has propelled him out of the good graces of many younger listeners and has, to say the least, raised eyebrows among his elders, fragments of his solo work still reflect the philosophies of modern alternative music fans. “Sure enough, the phone rings / Who wants my money now? / Otherwise the phone would never ring,” he sang, earning cathartic approval from the audience. He also found common ground by sharing an anecdote about a recent meeting with Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders: “She said to me, ‘Oh, Morrissey, I love this song… ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’

The only musical moment that dragged was “Life is a Pigsty,” the quietness of the band’s stage presence not doing justice to this slow, emotionally intense track. This gave me mental space to look at the photographs projected behind Morrissey throughout his performance – a combination of artists who inspire him, like Madonna, and public figures he finds deplorable, like Bill Gates – and ask myself what identity he has outside of his iconoclasm and his identity. navel-gazing misery. Without the force of catchy music, the supporting images made me feel like I was scrolling through someone’s media-illiterate grandmother’s Facebook. It was fascinating to witness his wild polemics up close, but if the show had lasted longer it would have been exhausting.

Despite the loss of part of its “stranger» Ranging from arrogant rants, there’s a unique, almost magnetic quality to Morrissey’s sound – equal parts melancholy, wit and rebellion – that no one else has managed to copy or surpass. As painful as it is to admit it, Morrissey proved Monday that he still knows how to connect deeply, leaving fans captivated by a series that fuses nostalgia with ongoing, singular challenge.