I have a theory about Morrissey. Most people don't grow more gray matter as they get smarter, but Morrissey may be a biological oddity. It seems the more books he reads, the larger his noggin becomes. Or it could be that Morrissey may have read only four books, but read those four books really well.

The former Smiths frontman and his big head appeared at the Orpheum Theater Tuesday night in support of his latest album, You are the Quarry.

After the second song of his set, the Smiths classic "Bigmouth Strikes Again," Mozz noted that Oscar Wilde once stood in his place on the Orpheum stage, and proceeded to quote him. Channeling his idol and warming those shy monster vocals, Morrissey was undoubtedly where he belonged: the stage.

Appearing in front of huge iconic letters spelling out "Morrissey," backed by his youthful band who were all draped in kilts, Morrissey began the construction of his own monument.

This is Morrissey's greatest gift to humanity- his own hugely ironic sense of self-adulation. Every word that pops out of Morrissey's mouth is about himself or insulting to someone else. Read the first lines of the first track on You Are The Quarry, "America Is Not The World,"

"Oh America, your head's too big/ because America, your belly's too big..."

It is this playful humor and smug self-satisfaction that oozes from Morrissey's performance. He waltzes with the elegant command of self-possession as he motions with his arms in conjunction with the lyrics.

The concert began with a less distinct, weightless roar, but Morrissey's voice was especially strong and clear once he gained control of his crooning. The singer gained energy and intensity reciprocating genuine awe and participation from the vigilant audience. The earlier part of the set was weighed down by Mozz's reaction to a distasteful comment about his recent car crash in Philadelphia, but increased as the set had time to build.

Highlights included an unrelenting "I Have Forgiven Jesus," and the sublime, humorous, and melancholy closer, "You Know I Wouldn't Last."

The monument that is Morrissey, while monolithic, is in a state of decline. Mozz may not look like he used to, or have the same focus as in his youth, but his humor and wit is just as strong. He has aged quickly, though, and at some points of the set exuded laziness as he caught his breath waddling around the stage.

In addition, his intentionally unintelligible between-song blather ("Rumsfield, Dumbsfield, you crashing bore...") was disorienting. None, however, is more aware of this decline in fitness than Mozz himself, making his own self-awareness and image even more complex, grave and hilarious.

Mozz buoys his aging Adonis complex with his talentless, disposable band of young ones. While Morrissey's music has always been forgettable and secondary to the theatricality of his voice, surrounding himself with a band of youthful ogling former fans is especially funny, and as if his self-conscious aging wasn't enough to worry fans, Mozz teases the masses with premonitions of possible retirement. As he stated before his final song, "sometimes when you say goodbye, you mean farewell."

Still, everyone wants a piece of Morrissey. Older fans and new recruits alike held back their tears to enjoy Morrissey's delicious set. The audience seemed sparse as the show began, but filled to acceptable Mozz numbers immediately. And while the audience seemed pretty tame, even indifferent, for the majority of the set, no one can hold back those floodgates for long. They grasped for a touch of the Mozz as he waltzed around stage and teased the front rows. Further ego-boosting came in the form of massive letters either hurled at Morrissey or handed to him with a tight grasp. The spectacle reminds one of the climax of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, with thousands of letters heaped at the feet of the exasperated Jimmy Stewart. By the last three songs, fans were toughing the lax security to rush onstage and touch Mozz. He smiled with a big teddy bear grin as if he thought nothing of it. And when Morrissey burst into an abrupt and flaccid encore of "There is a Light That Never Goes Out," all hell broke loose as the masses stampeded onstage. Still, it seemed part of the script, as Morrissey kept his cool and stayed in character. He must have been in hog heaven.