Morrissey review, I am Not a Dog on a Chain: All bark and no bite

Album by the controversial former Smiths frontman has its moments, but they are brief and virtually lost amid the more experimental forays

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So, Morrissey is not a dog on a chain. But then what, exactly, is he? Is this the new Morrissey? Music to match the uncompromising, ugly attitude he now wears in public with pride? Large swathes of fans have been put off in recent years by the continued, relentless, troubling outbursts and – more worryingly – some of his deeply held views.

Whether fans can dissociate the man from the music has become the most pressing matter surrounding his work – for disavowed followers, it will now forever be shackled to Morrissey’s most repellent opinions. On I am Not a Dog on a Chain, it seems as though he has no intention of aiding this quandary, turning his attention to some of his favourite themes: lovelorn protagonists, victimisation, intricate characters, and a pervasive dissatisfaction with the way things are.

Of course, his distinctive holler is still there, but gone are the warm indie-pop rhythms. The album opens with an unwelcome jolt on “Jim Jim Falls”, with something approaching drum ’n’ bass; an electronic beat sits uncomfortably beneath Morrissey’s booming delivery as he implores a person mulling suicide to, essentially, “get over yourself”. Lead single, “Bobby, Don’t You Think They Know”, meanwhile, is a slamming ballad about a pitiful drug abuser that builds to an explosive crescendo of organ and saxophone.

The smoothest eliding of Morrissey’s experimental ambitions appears midway through the album, on “Knockabout World”. It’s an upbeat, bouncy pop song whose guitars and synths meld with his crooning verses. The song is addressed to somebody in the throes of a challenging time. “You’re OK by me,” he sings. He’s probably talking to himself.

After this, the album tails off. Morrissey becomes confused by his own adventurousness – stray trumpets on “Darling, I Hug the Pillow” have a ruinous effect; “The Secret of Music” wastes time on vague witterings that would be best kept inside Morrissey’s own head.

I Am Not a Dog has its moments, but they are brief and virtually lost amid the more experimental forays. Morrissey isn’t as tethered as he’d have his most devout fans – or himself – believe, but he seems destined to live out the rest of his career chasing his own tail.