The Smiths were curiously absent from Danny Boyle's Olympic ceremony celebration of British musical heritage. "I wasn't invited," explains their former frontman, archly. "That was because my smile was judged to be too sincere." Moments later, Morrissey moans that while he enjoys the freedom of Tel Aviv, the authorities in his hometown have given him "nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I don't know why." The audience roars appreciation, and Steven Patrick Morrissey is in his favourite position: persecuted by a cruel, uncaring world, yet master of his flock.

His gigs have become massed communal experiences uniting generations who don't seem bothered that his musical blueprint hasn't changed since Smiths days (though with that croon, Auto-Tune is not required), or that he doesn't have a record deal, and there's no sign of new songs to get one. They sing along with every lyric and spend vast sums on ever-eccentric merch (miniature Mozzer boxing gloves – £10 a pop). An idiosyncratic, unusually maudlin setlist rewards perseverence with an occasional Smiths classic.

It's hardly vintage. Yet another lineup struggles to play How Soon Is Now?, and the sound is largely dreadful. But every so often he touches places no other performer can. Everyday Is Like Sunday becomes a bleak celebration. I Know It's Over is beautifully devastated. When the entire arena rises instantaneously for Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want, the seismic outpouring of emotion may be felt in Cheshire.

Now 53 – still topless, still self-flagellating with the mic cord – and planning retirement at 55, one wonders what might have been had he embraced chatshows, modernity, and made less controversial statements (there's another here, about the "moronic diamond jubilee"). But Morrissey is Morrissey, and even below par, a world without him will be a lesser place.