In thrall to the trickster

Singing his prototypical bummer ballad “Disappointed” during the first of three sold-out nights at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium on Thursday, Morrissey, alternative rock’s most glamorous sad sack, made a definitive vocal gesture. “I drank too much and I said too much and there’s nowhere to go but down,” he moaned. And then he laughed -- “ha ha ha!” -- in a quick staccato outburst that threw a question mark around his cry of despair.

Since his days fronting the enormously influential English band the Smiths, this 47-year-old post-punk method singer with plenty of Irish in his voice has been the cranky guru of a rabid cult that regards his every confession and arch aside as the key to self-understanding. (The cult, incidentally, includes many of today’s rising stars, from Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy to Pete Yorn to Bobby Bare Jr.)

The zealous gathered Thursday, not-so-young adults sporting high pompadours, post-punk black and the occasional Morrissey tattoo; they went bonkers for two hours straight, like teeny-boppers. Clearly getting what he expected, Morrissey sashayed through a diverse set list that included Smiths chestnuts, mid-career favorites and material from his inspiringly strong 2004 release, “You Are the Quarry,” purveying the special comic drama -- or droll tragedy -- his songs flesh out.

“Don’t cry for me, Pasadena,” he wailed upon taking the stage; the words, also inscribed on drummer Matt Walker’s huge gong, invoked the Morrissey who’s campy and sarcastic, crooning the bouncy “Panic,” with its goofy chorus about hanging a DJ with bland musical taste.

Soon enough, though, a low, droning buzz from Solomon Snyder’s bass took the music into moodier territory and Morrissey’s unassumingly effective five-piece band began “Gang Lord,” a grim song about the codependence of petty criminals and the police. Songs such as this expose the other Morrissey, the social observer unafraid to tackle the most disturbing subjects, from child murder to suicidal despair, conveying sorrow on the heels of a joke.

Dozens of writers have sought to comprehend Morrissey’s peculiar art, using metaphors or analogies, so let me add another to the mix. If he were a fairy-tale character, Morrissey would be Beauty’s Beast. Not only because the characters he embodies long torturously for the exquisite, but because, like the dapper antihero of the Mother Goose tales, Morrissey simultaneously repulses and charms.

In his most famous songs, he plays a desolate loser or a misanthrope who declares, “Life is a pigsty.” But he can show his other face, a vision of tenderness and yearning, concluding over a lush bed of soft strings, “There is no room to move, but the heart feels free.” And then he can turn the whole thing topsy-turvy by being utterly snide.

This knotty clump of emotions isn’t what rock, with its focus on body-shaking release, usually offers. But it does resemble what happens within our part-animal, part-spiritual psyches.

A fan might be wary to trust such a trickster, as Beauty was of the Beast. But just like in the fairy tale, the key to “getting” Morrissey is unconditional love. The mood in Pasadena was one of rapturous surrender as lucky fans in front of the stage clutched at Morrissey’s extended hand and everyone else shouted his complicated lyrics without pause. For these devotees, many part of the singer’s oft-noted Latino fan base, Morrissey has become like family, cherished so deeply that every foible is not only tolerated, but also celebrated.

Sometimes Morrissey’s audience abuse reached a level that recalled Frank Sinatra in his Vegas prime, and that delighted everyone. A provocative aside implying that Hillary Clinton might be another Margaret Thatcher elicited a reaction more appropriate for a benediction. When he testily asked them, “Why, why, why?” as they applauded for the 1987 Smiths song “Girlfriend in a Coma” -- and he’s right, the lyric does seem simple-minded after all these years -- they just screamed louder.

As he fitfully flung his arms about or stripped off his shirt (four times) to reveal a thick midriff, they grew ever more gleeful. One young man managed to jump onstage; instead of dancing with or trying to hug his idol, he knelt and kissed his hand.

Morrissey knelt then too, for an instant. The gesture of humility returned him to tenderness. But there were other dramas to pursue, and he soon threw himself dramatically in their direction.

ann.powers@latimes.com

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Morrissey

Where: Pasadena Civic Auditorium, 300 E. Green St., Pasadena

When: 8 p.m. today

Price: $45 to $75 (sold out)

Contact: (626) 449-7360