Moz Review - NY Post is Hard Up for Pepperoni

At the risk of seeming un-PC, I don't know what a guy with a name like a Pakistani restaurant appetizer is doing reviewing rock music. Especially Morrissey.

Mr. Phull (of shit) opened his review by, get this, quoting some asshole in the audience who wanted a pepperoni pizza.

This asshole can't possibly be a Morrissey fan, and should've stayed home and shoved a pepperoni up his fucking ass.

Are we reviewing MUSIC or idiots in the audience?

Hard-up Phull of shit can talk to a monkey from the DOMINICAN REPUBLIC about pepperoni pizza. Just as I can say that some idiot Pakistani or Indiana or whatever he is, can't possibly understand British rock.

I also question his line about "meat-eating Morrissey maniacs." If you really ARE a Morrissey maniac, you respect the Moz's view on meat. You don't gripe about it. You go, and you shut the fuck up. What happened to spending two fucking hours LISTENING with your MOUTH CLOSED? Why do you have to eat hot dogs during a fucking concert? You can't wait two fucking hours?

Also, Moz had an opening act. It's entirely likely that the very affluent homos of New York went simply to see Debbie Harry, and they stayed for Moz only because they figured another hour of ass-in-chair would make it warmer for the boyfriend's dick.

The review was titled "A Vegetarian Snoozer." Do you suppose he'd review a Leonard Cohen concert and call it a "Jew Snoozer?" Too bad the homo clique controls so much of the media, because there's no way that a Sam Smith show would be called "a Gay Snoozer."

As for the actual MUSICAL part of the review, once he was through hissing and clucking about vegetarianism, what Phull (of shit) had to say was all too predictable.

Anyone who has been to a Moz concert (or, come to think of it, a Macca, or an Elton, or a Dylan, or Elvis Costello, or Davies) knows that none of these people can stop your mind from wandering. A few songs here and there are not going to impress you. Or the assholes around you are going to distract you. Fer Chrissake that even applies to Viley Virus and Madonna and Lady Gaga who, after a while, run out of costume changes. Their repetitive music and dumb aerobic dance moves get numbing.

Here's what Phull (of shit) wrote on his free ticket. I mean, once he was through talking to some mongrel from the Dominican Republic about pepperoni pizza as a God-given right:

But the ex-Smiths frontman has some of the most avid followers in music, and even with the limited refreshments, the Moz army filled the Garden in droves.

That quiet disgruntlement turned into quiet disinterest, as the 56-year-old turned in a humdrum set. Although his voice sounded resplendent (especially considering his recent health problems), all those years spent proudly living in a shell are starting to date Morrissey.

The mid-tempo indie rock of songs such as “I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris” and “The Bullfighter Dies” filled so much of the set that after a while, each one bled anonymously into the other.

He was far from generous with his back catalog, too, choosing to unearth tracks like the 1997 dud “Alma Matters” instead of dipping further into the myriad of undisputed classics he has at his disposal.

Perhaps most disappointing is the waning of that famous Morrissey wit. Hearing him adolescently preach “each time you vote, you support the process” on “World Peace Is None of Your Business” (a track from the 2014 album of the same name) felt like a blunt, rusty nail compared to the elegant, razor-sharp barbs he’s written in the past.

There were at least some chuckles to be had from his between-song banter, which included a dig at next year’s presidential election. “There are only two possible presidents to my mind,” he said. “One is Jon Stewart, and another one is Bill Maher. Otherwise, forget it.”

The animal snuff film that accompanied the Smiths cover “Meat Is Murder” drove Morrissey’s pro-vegetarianism point home. (He thanked the Garden for going “cruelty-free.”) But while his conviction is admirable, it was a harsh end to a show that was already painfully short on actual entertainment value.

The night’s color — both figurative and literal — was added by Blondie, who opened the show at Morrissey’s request. Debbie Harry sang the hits with panache, including a joyous version of “The Tide Is High” (assisted by the brass band What Cheer? Brigade), before draping herself in a rainbow flag in celebration of NYC Pride Weekend. Even at 69 years old, her fabulousness refuses to fade.

I think the last line about Debbie Fucking Harry tells you all you need to know about Phull (of shit). He's a drag queen. Only a drag queen would use a word like "fabulousness." No, there's nothing really that "fabulous" about her, and I interviewed her well before she became a botox fossil. She's an ok zombie and she had maybe two or three hit songs in her life, and she wears clothes well (and doesn't do too bad when naked and greased up for black photographers). But come on. A "joyous" version of the monotonous "The Tide is High?" There's no such thing as a "joyous" version of a shitty song like that.

Christ, we all know ALL the drawbacks of going to see Morrissey perform. He'll do the gruesome animal abuse footage. He'll be opinionated and not always with sardonic humor. His songs are almost ALL mid-tempo anthems and maybe six of them actually have melodies. So what. You go if you're a fan. Fans aren't critics. And if you're a drag-fag monkey from the Dominican Republic who was only there to glom Debbie Harry's dress and eat pepperoni pizza, stay the fuck home.