That big Irish face

There’s a breathtaking Morrissey impersonator who lives up in Portland. His resemblance is extraordinary, and he replicates the exact physical presence, movements, style of dress; his quiff is either graying in the same pattern or, perhaps -and I’d prefer this- he has it professionally grayed.

He doesn’t perform conventionally, so far as I know. His artform is coming to shows in character. I’ve seen him previously, but it was at a Morrissey concert, where nobody was fooled, for obvious reasons. I knew from gossip that I might see him again in this area, but when I did, at Glasvegas, it was eerie and somewhat terrifying. Because, honestly, how do you know? Are you making a fool of yourself by nodding wisely, saying after all that the real Morrissey would never half-hug a stranger like that as she leaned in to talk to him, or that the real Morrissey doesn’t pee?

(Actually, I know he pees. I’ve seen him run offstage after saying so, though, yes, if we’re going to get down to it, I didn’t actually witness the act. I think he’s saving the onstage whizz for a special occasion.)

Anyway, it didn’t help that the real Carl Barat was wandering around too, looking sad and clear-skinned after his opening set, and occasionally signing an autograph. A troupe of young British women were at the show, delighted with the nearness afforded by his American obscurity. I admired them.