Nay-Sayers:

A live snapshot of the Your Arsenal tour and a showcase for Mozzer's new compadres, Boz Boorer and Alain Whyte, but lumpen rockabilly and greasy quiffs do not guarantee rock'n'roll excitement. Unflattering comparisons with Smiths live shows are inevitable
Beethoven was lucky. (**)
- Stephen Dalton, Uncut, 1998

'RANK' XEROXED
Years ago, Morrissey used to talk about his deep dislike of "the regimented pop star". He used to refuse to make videos. He once insisted that one of his dozens of NME interviews was conducted by a panel of fanzine writers. And, though his band's singles often clocked in at around two minutes and he stuck the odd bit of dashed-off fluff in among the sharp-cut pieces of incisive brilliance, his listeners rarely felt he was giving them short shrift.
In essence, Steven Patrick Morrissey gave traditional pop stardom the once-over and quietly said "no". He was too pure, too conscious of his own responsibilities to go anywhere near it; so while he rode in limousines, delighted in his reputation for being an aloof, bookish intellectual and thrived on the mass adulation, he still seemed to be a deeply moral man - both in his lyrics and the conduct of his career. How we swooned.
It's all changed now, of course. He's soiled our view of him as an eloquent crusader for ethical decency by dancing with the flag-waving devils now stamping their hooves all over Europe. And he's become one of those regimented pop stars by running into needless media-phobic seclusion, appearing far more willing to satisfy his burgeoning American fan base than to reward his British admirers (like, has he ever come to your town and put on an in-person question-and-answer session in the local record shop?) and churning out a broken stream of sub-standard product that's bound to sell anyway because his fans are so devoted. Mick Jagger does things like that, doesn't he?
Yeah, 'Your Arsenal' was a surprising return to form; but think about 'Kill Uncle', an astoundingly poor album that lasted just over half an hour. Think about 'Ouija Board, Ouija Board', 'Piccadilly Palare', 'Sing Your Life' and 'Pregnant For The Last Time'. Then think about 'Beethoven Was Deaf' - a 16-track live album, replete with an FM sheen provided by a producer who's worked with Bruce Springsteen, that sticks marginally beefed-up versions of everything from 'Your Arsenal' bar 'Tomorrow' next to a handful of singles and B-sides, and Morrissey uttering a grand total of 16 words to a muted French crowd. We don't need it.
Regrettably, the next set of barbs are every bit as predictable. There are moments on this record when the hints of hideous political sympathies that have provided his detractors with new ammunition become full-frontal reminders of why Morrissey needed taking to task in the first place.
Here, "England for the English", the line from 'National Front Dsico' that began life as a non-committal slogan stolen from someone else's mouth, sounds worryingly like a sincere clarion call - and after a two-minute feedback coda Morrissey announces that he was thinking of releasing the song as a single. Very clever move.
It's not the only chilling moment, either. You listen to 'We'll Let You Know', the song that talks about bovver-booted beer lads as "the last truly British people you'll ever know", visualise Morrissey wrapping himself in the flag in front of a backdrop featuring two skinheads, and feel slightly sick.
Yeah, yeah, yeah - the quiffed-up backing band sounds swaggering and accomplished, there are great versions of 'Suedehead', 'Glamorous Glue' and 'We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful', the echo-laden bombast inherent in the sound lends matters a pleasing air of theatricality and it's a shame he didn't include his version of Suede's 'My Insatiable One'.
All of which, in the light of what this album represents, is something of an irrelevance. There is a nightmarish spectre lurking in the grooves of 'Beethoven Was Deaf': it's of a once-great man who's decided to turn up to parties dressed up as a jingoistic thug and talk to men in suits about marketing ploys. (7) for the music, (2) for the lamentable stench.
- John Harris, NME, 1993