Morrissey at Hammersmith - Diary/Journal Style Review of Both Nights

I don't really know what else to call this, and you don't have to sneak into my room to read my diary, so here is my review. It is VERY long!

Timing is everything. It sounds glaringly simple; it sounds terrifically clichéd. But everyone in the queue for a Morrissey concert knows this.  When did you arrive? When doors open, how fast can you run in? Will you find your spot at the barrier quickly enough? What number are you on the list? We wonder these things as we all wait in line, our breath also held with anticipation for another “list,” Morrissey’s first novel, List of the Lost¸ which comes out this week.

Queuing is a tremendous experience, if not also, for a newcomer, a somewhat intimidating one.  I should know, for I’m quite new to all of this.  Living over in Canada, I didn’t discover Morrissey until about a year and a half ago.  There… I tore the bandage off… I’ve admitted it.  I find it nearly an embarrassing thing to admit when I talk with those I meet from all over the world, those who have been to literally hundreds of concerts, or those who have loved him since his Smiths days.  But this is my reality, and something I can’t help, as much as I would like to go back in time and somehow find him sooner, I can’t. Timing. I can’t change it. For my entire life, I had always felt like a bit of an outsider, and not understood in any way, but then I found Morrissey and suddenly, things made sense.  Or perhaps, more precisely, it suddenly made sense that I thought many things in life don’t make any sense, and thank goodness someone was finally pointing that out.

When I first discovered Morrissey, I bought every album or book about him that I could get my hands on.  I read every interview I could find.  It was 2014, and he unfortunately had recently been forced to cancel a number of tour dates due to illness.  I wondered if I would ever get the chance to see him sing live.  The worry of that ate at me, aching me, as I again chastised myself for everything that never quite seemed to come true for me, whether it be my fault or not. I was going through a rough time with depression, and he was the only person in the world who seemed to be able to get through to me. No one else could. Not many tried, anyway. But that was okay, because I had found something and someone that meant more to me than anything.

When tour dates were announced near me for the summer of 2015, I actually initially thought I had dreamt it – and those of you who have followed me on twitter or the blob know that I went to Seattle and Troutdale in July, followed by the two shows in San Diego on August 20th and August 21st. In Troutdale he took my letter, something that meant more to me than anything in the world ever has; it was and probably will always be the best moment of my life; it felt like he had saved me from drowning.

I was suddenly out travelling, seeing the world, making new friends, feeling something I was not at all used to, perhaps actually it was that elusive emotion we refer to as happiness.  This was a vast departure from the person who had spent nearly the entire past year hiding indoors, avoiding people.  So: two shows in London and a show in Hull over less than a week?  Why not?  And I went.

I’ve already posted a Hull review, so let’s get to the two days in London. The day after the show in Hull, the lovely Boozelette and her now-twitterandblob-famous husband, Dave, were kind enough to take me with them on their drive down to London.  We were all a tad hungover (such a shock, isn't it?) from the previous night’s alcohol-saturated antics at an after party in Hull, and we had a good time on our journey, listening to Morrissey, sampling an assortment of British crisps, sharing stories from past concerts and twitter, and bringing along in spirit or in finger décor any friends who weren’t able to come along for the ride.

I briefly explored Hammersmith that evening, enjoying a veggie burger and vodka with a touch of citron before retiring to bed. Then the DMs started to arrive:  “Queue already at 28 at10 pm.”  I considered going to queue then, but I was exhausted, and decided to chance the early morning instead, setting my alarm for around 6. No bother! Just before 3 a.m., a pounding, fierce, wailing siren rampaged itself through my eardrums, jarring me from the shreds of slumber I had finally found. Darkness and fumbling hands blindly searched for the light switch, what a horrendous sounding alarm clock in this hotel! But it kept going… and what was that smell? Faint… barely there… but burning… smoke? Pounding feet drummed down the hallway. It hit me – that was no alarm clock; that was a fire alarm.  I began trembling like a leaf, my fingers barely working as I grabbed the things I would need, pacing the room, not really knowing what to do.  My first concern was not even my passport, but to grab my concert tickets.  Passport and concert tickets in hand, and wearing my pyjamas, with self-consciousness still absurdly somewhat prevalent in spite of the situation, I opened my door to see people chaotically bounding down the hallway.  This looked real.  I could feel my heart thumping, moving up my chest to my throat and into my ears, and I began to walk down the hallway. Thankfully, thankfully, thankfully, as I was nearing the fire escape, we found out it was a false alarm.  I was awake now, and sleep was definitely not happening, my hands were still shaking fiercely. Why not get ready to go queue?

I made it to the queue around 5 a.m. and was 41^stplace. That is a considerably long list for 5 a.m., from what I’ve seen anyway in my limited queuing experience (it was my THIRD time queuing).  Most people had sleeping bags, except for myself and a friend I’d met in Hull who had travelled from Japan.  She had arrived just before me (also awoken by the fire alarm, apparently).  Throughout the day there was talk that some people would be going straight out after the first show was over to queue for the second concert. I began wondering if I would do the same, but I also knew I would have to gauge this on how I felt after the concert.  Orange kept everyone following the blob up to date with my updates from the queue and Boozey’s updates from the pub where she met Monsieur Rat with Dave and BBN.  I must commend Orange on a wonderful job, it was so interesting to see the concert day experience from various perspectives.

Emotions in the queue vary considerably throughout the day: excitement, anticipation, nervousness, tiredness, jitters - I could go on. Some people drink in the queue, which I can’t/won’t do before a show for various reasons (this may come as a surprise to some of you who know I love my wine) so I tend to feel it all full force.  By the time 5 pm rolls around, I can really feel the pre-concert jitters becoming intense.  Around this time are placed in our order on the list. Not long until doors.

When doors swing open, the true chaos begins. Everyone is almost running up the steps in pairs, tickets are scanned, then they run (in spite of security’s “Don’t run!” shouts) through another ticket checking set of bouncers, and beyond into the concert area of the venue. When I get up to the man scanning my ticket, the ticket won’t scan. No beep for mine. He tells me to wait. My heart sinks. He lets in another person who was after me in the lineup.  Timing is everything. He attempts to scan my ticket again, and again: no beep. Another person is let in.  My sinking heart stops. Still no beep. And another… and finally he just says it “must have worked, and [he] missed it,” and gestures at me to go in. I run in, my eyes scanning the barrier hungrily, desperately. No, it won’t be front row this time, and I didn’t necessarily expect it to be considering my number. I find a nice place in the second row on Jesse’s side.  More people are pouring in, however, and it predictably gets tight. It wasn’t until I looked up and behind me that I realized how gorgeous the Hammersmith Apollo really is inside.

  

But then something strange started to happen. I have no problem with the pushing and shoving and elbows that happen when you are in the front.  A little bit of it makes you feel alive in an unusual way, and even quite a lot of it is definitely bearable; you often forget the thumps and pushing as soon as Morrissey’s on stage anyway.  These things happen at the front and everyone knows this.  Hull wasn’t exactly gentle, and at least one of my nights in San Diego wasn’t either, but this time I could sense something different was happening. Before even the videos started, I noticed a heavy pressure down my spine: I turned around and was faced with a woman deliberately standing sideways and pushing into me, clutching a book.  This continued on as we stood there, into the videos, even though I asked her if she could step back a bit (there was room).  I wouldn’t give up my second row spot though, so I decided to just deal with it. However, when Moz appeared on stage, the opening chords of Suedehead ringing through the venue, she bulldozed herself behind me, pinning me to the person in front of me.  Some girls are bigger than others, and this was certainly starting to hurt (a lot!) I sensed she was literally crushing me – where she thought I would go, I don’t know, but I could feel my breathing start to become very, very tight. I looked up; Moz was whipping his microphone cord, his head turning in rhythm with the music, his silhouette against the dancing lights surrounding him. No, I refused to move.  She pushed harder and security stormed up, glaring at her over my head.  As soon as security moved away, she relentlessly pushed me so hard I was almost gasping for air, my ribs and chest feeling tighter than before. I yelled something out at security to come over, swear words escaping my lips… I noticed Morrissey look over in our direction.  Security told her she’d be out if she didn’t stop, and I believe she retreated slightly, yet continued pushing into me and now also Boozelette, who had somehow edged her way up near the front.  By the second or third song, she manically flung the now dog-eared book she was holding onto the stage, fainted, and was carried off by security.  Thank goodness she was gone. 

However, two more women showed up behind me. A bit of hair pulling, okay, a lot of hair pulling began, although I do believe that was accidental; however, it was possible I could end up with a hairstyle not dissimilar to Phil Collins’ by the encore if this kept up. One woman began to dig her elbow into my mid back really hard while the other tried to kick my feet out from under me – did they work in teams? This was insane! But, it was my fate at this concert; I spent a lot of time trying to ignore the pain or push back a bit to get some space. I also asked them to stop: one said no, her eyes chilled over; it was clearly intentional. Sigh. I don’t like most people, to be honest. I tried to make the best of the situation, I had flown all this way to see Morrissey, and even if I had to endure some pain, it was worth it.  The setlist was fantastic again, and included a song I didn’t recognize, and I wondered for a moment (with hope!) if it was a new song and perhaps he had found a record deal?  It turned out to be a cover of an Elvis song I had never heard of called “You’ll Be Gone.” Exquisite.

At then end of the show, Morrissey said something like, “You’ve survived World War I, tomorrow night is World War II.”  I felt a strange combination of emotions after the encore: after seeing Morrissey live I always feel like I’m glowing, yet this time I felt a little sad, perhaps a little defeated, a little deflated.  He had sounded and looked glorious, the setlist was filled with many of my favourites, but I knew I had missed some of it because of some of the people around me. There was a time when I would have left after the show, feeling wilted, walked into my hotel room, crumpled into a ball, and cried; my resiliency has all but eroded over the years (I’m not sure I had any to begin with!), so this is a rather typical response for me.  But no, not this time. It was clear what I had to do.

I wove between the crowds of people slowly stumbling out of the venue. I had to be fast; some people gave me funny looks as I wound myself through every narrow gap I could find, zig-zagging between bodies. Dishevelled, a little teary, legs nearly giving out, mascara under my eyes, hair that had been straightened earlier now wildly sticking up around my head, I decided to get back in the line. I needed to do everything I could to make sure that the next night would be amazing. Minutes after the show, I was already 19^thon the list; but that is a very good spot to be in. 

I chatted with some queuers and drank a beer after the crowd dissipated.  A slight chill bit into the air, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. I went back to my hotel to retrieve some things for the night – a couple of fleece tasselled blankets and a copy of Autobiography for something to read and to double as a pillow, my earbuds, an umbrella and some water.  Sleep was not in the cards for me that night, although I occasionally dozed for a few moments. Around 5 a.m. I was shivering considerably, but I knew it was going to warm up soon. This is as close to camping as I ever get.  I’m sure I looked a bit of a fright; any glamour I was deluded enough to think I had before had to be thrown aside, because some things matter more.

As the day went on, I felt especially excited for that night. Yet there was also a bittersweet atmosphere in the air: would this be Morrissey’s last show in the UK? And further, would he come around and tour in the US a bit more? And even more soul-wrenchingly: would this be the last night I ever see him? It had seemed as though not long ago I was scared I would never get the chance to see him, and now I was scared I might not see him again. It started raining as I walked back to my hotel to change my clothes for the concert; good thing I brought my umbrella, it also hid the couple of tears I let spill as I walked down the streets of Hammersmith.

Around 5 pm the List of the Queued was called again.  I’d moved up to 17^th.  Very nice, very nice, very nice!  Again, Fruit kept everyone up to date with live updates. The rain was starting to pour now.  Luckily, in a delightfully un-bitter gesture, BBN had kindly leant me his jacket the previous night for something warm to wear in the queue, and I still had my umbrella.  However, it was obvious my hair would not be looking too fantastic that evening.  7 pm crept up, and doors again. My ticket scans on the first attempt this time – first hurdle checked off, and I begin running towards the doors to the stage. A security woman pulls me aside, “Check your purse madam!”  And I see loads of people, yet again, running past me. “Please,” I plead, my heart sinking. Timing.

She says I’m free to go and I run into the theatre – the barrier appears entirely full, black silhouettes of bodies entirely taking up the length of it. Suddenly, however, I see a white slit of light glowing – it’s a very narrow gap, at CENTRE barrier, slightly towards Jesse’s side. I run, fast. A large security man holds his hands up and repeats the fruitless “No running” mantra, and my feet suddenly become very, very nimble as I run sideways and around him. He steps over to block me and I laterally run around him, my feet crossing over one another, my eyes darting from him to gap at the barrier. After all of my tweets lamenting how my boyfriend is always watching those boring American football games, it appears I’ve picked up some of these skills by osmosis; these were some fancy football moves.  I made it: it was tight, I squished one elbow onto the metal bar of the barrier, and then the other in.  I anchored my arms there. I had made centre barrier to see Morrissey at the Hammersmith Apollo. 

I would have loved to have gotten photos once the show started but there was no way these determined elbows were moving off the barrier.  The man behind me said I had probably the best place in the venue; I agreed. He was about 6’5” tall at least and it was like having my own personal bouncer for the whole show.  The pre-show videos began… the excitement mounted, and by the time the Dolls came on my heart was soaring.  Morrissey walked on stage and bowed, wearing the black/dark brown shirt with the orange lining; the night felt surreal and my eyes drank everything in that they could, as that delicate mist that seems to emanate from the bright stage lights danced across my vision.  The crowd surged forward – the barrier slammed tight against my ribs.  But this was a nice pain; the energy was perfect.

I won’t go into many details about the setlist, as Boozelette has already described the entire show gorgeously in her review ; I’ll just describe some highlights. Rather than Suedehead, Morrissey opened his set that night with the Elvis cover from the previous day.  Then, “Let the Right One Slip In,” which I can’t believe I’ve seen twice now; it’s only the THIRD time he’s ever played it live, I think.  Boxers was a surprise that wasn’t a surprise for the DDD.

Then… the “O” signs started.  I think I got confused about which songs they appeared during, but the ever-sharp Boozey helped me figure out exactly where.  The first one was during WPINOYB, and Moz made it directly at me.  I have no idea how I reacted to be honest: did my jaw drop, did I cover my face and start giggling?  I haven’t a clue, but then, when the lights dropped, I noticed he was looking right at me and was chuckling away at my reaction. 

Then, Kiss Me A Lot.  After the last chorus, Moz walked over to shake the hands of some of the guest list, who were a few people over from me, then walked towards me and the fellow who was number one in the queue (who Boozey asked to “look after [me]” at least FOUR times). Moz leant over to touch his hand, then mine.  I reached forward, looking at him, with my short arm stretched out (for someone who is quite tall, my arms seem to be rather short!) and he reached out and his fingers brushed along mine on my right hand.  It was a heavenly moment and was what I had hoped for when I was waiting in the queue the night before. It meant so much to me.

Staircase was next – with all of its threes and legs.  Although I wasn’t precisely sure where Boozelette was (I knew Jesse’s side), I couldn’t help but think he sang LEGS quite pointedly in her direction. More “O” signs followed. Often when he was standing directly in front of me (About THREE of them were in front of me, perhaps?)

Many more songs followed that I adore for endless reasons. I felt more than happy.  In some moments I felt pangs though because a bittersweet atmosphere did fall over the room at times. I felt more than moved.  I just kept thinking, I could never have even dreamed of this. Here I am, in London, watching Morrissey live from centre barrier, surrounded by tons of new friends I’ve made.  I was so transfixed in the moment I didn’t obsess about my fear of it ending, which is something I am rarely able to do.  Which leads us to… the encore…

When Morrissey walked out he was wearing none other than, Boozey’s favourite shirt, and Orange’s not-so-favourite shirt. Here is a photo she captured:

He walked nearer to the front of the stage with his band members and bowed; I saw a great deal of emotion in his face; I could sense what was coming.  He came forward to the microphone and confirmed the TTY statement about this possibly being the last UK date.  And then… The Queen is Dead.  It seemed like about half of the people in the first two rows jumped the barrier, one by one.  A few used my back as a launching pad, one even used my neck (it didn’t break thank goodness!) I didn’t mind – part of me wanted to jump the barrier too, and for a moment I lifted myself onto the tips of my toes, debating how to get over the barrier myself.  But I couldn’t quite do it.  He had given me so much that night, and I am very shy and not exactly young anymore and I can’t quite imagine myself jumping over a barrier, even with my emotions running so unimaginably high.  I radiated every bit of love I could out of myself towards him.  He had given us all so much that night. 

When the song ended, I scanned the room for Boozey, Rob, and Dave. I knew they were all leaving right after the concert, and I wanted a chance to say bye before I returned home.  I searched the venue a few times, and couldn’t find them anywhere. I walked towards the doors and then, through all those thousands of people, happened to run into the very kind Japanese woman I had originally met in Hull and queued with the first night in Hammersmith. I wanted to say goodbye to her.  She held her finger up as if to stop me, that she wanted to show me something, and gestured towards a corner.  She showed me her piece of the shiny shirt she had caught, then added, “I have scissors.” Now my eyes are welling up!  How sweet of her, I still can’t believe she gave me a piece.  She cut off a good portion, about half of what she had, and then buried the rest in my palm, the turquoise fabric glittering and slightly damp with a touch of sweat, scented with the perfected smokiness of Incense Avignon. (You know I tried to be subtle so no one would try to grab it off of me, but I couldn’t resist a sniff right away!) I hugged her, and thanked her, absolutely overcome.  Out of anyone I could have run into on my way out, it was her, and she had a piece of the shirt, and she was sweet enough to do this for me.  Timing.

For the second time in just over 24 hours, I knew what I had to do. I knew I had to find Boozelette. When I walked outside of the venue, I scanned the crowds for her and then I finally saw her and Dave… She told the rest of the story so beautifully I don’t think I need to tell it again, but I was so happy to give her a piece of the shirt. And I’ll never forget the look on her face when she realized I was going to give her a piece; I could see how much it meant to her.  So many tiny factors coming together, down to perfect timing, led to us each having a piece of Moz’s shiny shirt. It felt like somehow, someway, we were meant to each have a piece. 

 

Thank you, thank you, goodnight and thank you! <3