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Morrissey is playing his only North American show this year tonight in Chicago, and according to a MySpace post from the Chicago Suicide Club, the madness has been ramping up since last night:

I stopped by Aragon to drop some stuff off and there were already Moz fans waiting in fucking line since 2am. Straight in from LA and righ [sic] to the venue. Amazing. Thats [sic] devotion. 

I’m tempted to make some comment about being safely halfway across the continent from Morrissey fans, but I really don’t feel bothered enough about this to go there. I’m always fascinated by turbo-obsessive fans who push the act of fandom into uncomfortably religion-ish turf, and surprisingly — even to me — I don’t hate Morrissey. For some reason, my reaction to the man and any music he’s ever made, solo or with the Smiths, has pretty much been, “Meh.” I’ve never owned a Smiths record, and the only Morrissey CD I ever listened to on purpose was the single “We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful.” But I can probably sing along with a third of all of his songs. I can’t think of any other artist that can inspire equal amounts of comfort and ambivalence in me at the same time.

Coincidentally, I ended up at a Smiths night at Portland’s Tiger Bar last night. I don’t get Smiths nights — I crave novelty, which is hard to come by when you’re dealing with a band/artist with that limited of a discography. But I don’t get a lot of things about that scene. At any rate, the guy who wore his Morrissey shirt to the club didn’t seem to mind.