Morrissey Tour Diary and Concert Review Pt. 1: Berlin

I begin this story with my travelling experiences - so feel free to skip down to the "Day of the Concert" section if you would only like to read about the concert day:

August 13th, 2016:

Time is a strange thing, and some days you think will never arrive. It all comes down to perspective: days, hours, and minutes follow structure - yet to the heart and mind it doesn't always feel that way.  Modern life sets us rigidly in schedules,with precision-to-the-second planning, and these things are apparently, objectively set in concrete. Throw your heart into anything though and you'll find there's fluidity to time that winds well beyond this standard.  There's something to be said for subjectivity.

When my alarm clock shakes me awake with crackling untuned noise at 5:30 a.m. the Saturday of my flight, it seems surreal because I never believed the day would actually come. Multiple alarms, of course, were set because my ineptitude for the technological is frightening (I was hopeless at figuring out my travel alarm clock). All of this organization for a disorganized spirit such as mine: alarms, travel itineraries, flight times, time zones, currency conversions, and schedules can be daunting - numbers are always a lesson for someone so scattered. But, focused on my goal, I jump out of bed with heady anticipation for the first time in 8 months. 8 months measured, but months that dragged and lulled like years. In this moment though, I finally have something - nearly graspable - so close - to look forward to: I will soon be on my way to see Morrissey.

A flash drive down to the airport with cool etherally early mist rising off the horizon. Ticketing, baggage (emotional and literal - both barely zipped up), passports, line-ups, (in)security all a blur. Travellers such as I are untrusted suspects, as anyone not fitting the expected description of a 4-piece-sprawling family with children crawling on conveyor belts is searched and scanned.  But oh - in the midst of all that structure and stringent bustle and hustle - a celebratory fist-pump from a bearded tattooed airport security employee due to my t-shirt: "The Smiths! Right on!"

Flight 1: The boarding - and anticipation - reminds me that even at 8 a.m. in the morning - I'm alive. We take off and I'm up in the air - and free - from the tedium of my yawningly hostile hometown. I'm off to Calgary now and I marvel at my own excitement. Is that my heart beating in my chest? I look out the pill-capsule plane window at snow-capped mountains, never quite touched by summer, their jagged back claws cutting the sky. The world looks entirely otherworldly from 30,000 feet. Lakes like glistening blue pools remind me of his eyes; eyes that, as anyone who has been close enough knows, are even bluer in person (how?).

Next up: flight 2 to Toronto and an evening layover.

Little signs of my excitement trickle through everywhere. Why does my body feel different - and as surely as they rule one another - my spirit does too. I sparkle.  Photos flow in through social media from Helsinki Finland's Flow Festival. Morrissey is still an ocean away. I (predictably) find a bar and settle in for a few hours. Vodka and cranberry (diluted and overpriced -surely to prevent Gallagher-brothersesque drunken in-flight antics) is ordered and the paper coaster catches my eye: it features a 1960's-era black-and-white photo of a stunning smokey-eyed Italian girl sipping a beer - its classic film vibe is reminiscent of a Morrissey backdrop. He is everywhere.

My flight is delayed. The 5 hour layover will be at least 8. Horror stories trickle through about a 50-hour delay on this same route a few weeks back.  Frantically, I peruse flight-hub just in case. The shackles of money, with its unwanted limitations, will have to be overlooked if such a fate awaits me. Maxed out if I have to be, I need to get myself to Manchester; I've come this far. I debate trying to arrange a flight straight into Berlin. Another delay and we are 'rewarded' with a free food voucher (absolutely not to be spent on booze!) - redeemable only for what appears to be picked-over sandwiches slathered with mayo and slaughtered beings. Sigh.

Finally, finally, finally, they 'think' we can board the plane, although it is 'somewhat' broken and the air conditioning and elements of the power are 'not-quite-right.' Stepping into the plane, my face is met with a wall of stifling-hot air and I seem to have entered what feels like a tanning-bed capsule for hundreds. For some this is a little disconcerting but not for me - I just want it to take off and to arrive in my destination. I have little to no fear of plane crashes - the depressive suicidalist in me nearly finds the possibility comforting - BUT - can this wait until after my two shows? I want to make it there.

Hours later we touch down on Manchester tarmac. Even the windswept shrubbery seems magical. This is Moz-land - his birthplace - and I have arrived. In spite of my jet-lag from nearly 30 hours of travel, I am awestruck and excited. This is ULTRA emotional. But... exhaustion is setting in and I am stumbling to even drag my suitcase around - and due to the fact I must look a fright, the cabbie seems to want no part in even helping me load my luggage. I check in at my hotel, shower (my hairsprays made it!), and then a quick room change is in order due to the screaming sobs of babies-with-rabies across the hall. I pass out in time to get a good rest before awaking at 3:30 a.m. the next morning for my flight to Berlin via Frankfurt.

Early morning flight to Frankfurt

Flight 4: It's early but I feel refreshed and am beaming (how unrecognizable!) I wear a World Peace Is None Of Your Business t-shirt and after talking setlists with a Lufthansa ticketing agent who also happens to be a huge Moz fan, I excitedly take photos of the first plane to ever land me on continental European soil in all my 35 years. The Manchester sky flings hues of blue into sunrise pinks as nature touches the man-made and I cannot wait to be up in that sky and on my way.  Frankfurt - here I come - with shaky app-learned German and a tired heart that has miraculously been restored to boundless youth. In the air I snap more photos of German landscape like an energized child.

A layover in Frankfurt, where white-capped airport security officials pace with semi-automatic rifles strapped across their chests (something you just don't see in Canada!) and I arrive by noon in Berlin. The city, bustling with street cafes and interesting old buildings (such history cannot be found in North America) has a charm palpable even during my taxi journey.  My hotel is across the street from the venue and I am granted with early check-in. The rooms have disco ball contraptions in them and beds are plush; I squeal like a teenager. Moz atmosphere embraces the city: outside the hotel, tour posters grace lampposts and street signs - and these posters are soon-to-be stolen by those who are gutsier than I.

Around 5 p.m. I cross the street to check out the Tempodrom and see some familiar faces, sunning and drinking German beer. We start the list on a pad of paper from my hotel and I have earned my highest queue place ever - fourth. The Tempodrom itself has a unique appearance not unlike that of an iceberg and across the way stands the majestic facade of what was once one of the largest railway stations in Europe, blitz-blasted into ruins through WWII.

Berlin train station ruins

More people arrive - some just to socialize - others lock themselves in for the night with sleeping bags in hand. My friend Aine, whose book I reviewed, arrives and we discuss the personality enneagram again - discussing how some types solve problems through action and others through speaking about their emotions. My "but of course, nothing is ever really solved" sends us into ripples of laughter as we realize we are about as "four" as we could possibly get. Full of energy, a group of us poses with a pinched poster before nightfall.

As night starts to fall we sit around an iPad watching clips of Hollywood Bowl as if surrounding a campfire, yet this is far more mesmerizing. Like precious reels of film we share snippets of our interactions with Morrissey. Some passers-by ask us what we are doing - our dedication fascinates - but to us, it's the most natural thing in the world. One man tells another queuer and I (ever-devoted, and both only discovering Moz over the last 5 years) of how he has loved Morrissey since the 1980s, while I was sadly still steeped in sparkly pink Barbies and Heaven Is A Place On Earth radio-pop.  His story of how he has been affected by the man who wrote the songs who saved his life is simultaneously moving, amusing, and heart-wrenching; we want him to write it to Mozza in a letter, but he retreats into the night. One day, perhaps.

Cocooned in my sleeping bag I finally I slip into the light kind of sleep where the body relaxes but the mind simply drifts.  I do not succumb to deep-sleep oblivion but it hardly matters to me. Any rest is good.

The Day of the Concert

Moz day arrives. We realize there are 4 entrances to the Tempodrom.  One statement a queuing Morrissey fan doesn't like to hear is "there are multiple doors to the venue." It's decided that we will line up before doors at each silver barrier in front of each of the four doors, numbered off.  Like List of the Lost racers we are lined-up and laned-up, and striped finish-line ribbons stretch across the metal barriers. Ooh the energy is palpable. I stand at the front of my line, meaning, for my sake, and everyone behind me - I better know where it is I am running to once inside. This is the time when emotions become even more pronounced, even more intense. Pulses race and eyes dart as security take their places, scanners in hand. I think back to a few hours earlier in my hotel room, which has so far functioned more as a semi-luxurious storage locker.  It has a tornado-esque appearance of disheveled piles of clothing and crisp pouches and cosmetics flung and slung everywhere! Cumbersome purses are of course ditched prior, as anything that could be searched could eat up precious seconds in the race to barrier. In my room, as I applied black eyeliner my eyes continually welled-up as emotions could not be contained. I had not felt as emotional - or jittery - as this perhaps since my first-ever show in Seattle last year.

As we await the go-ahead towards inside, the sky pulls in as rumbling charcoal clouds boom and thrusts of wind hammer us - and the venue.  I momentarily fear the power might go out - is that possible?  Please, no. Security gestures us forward and I am scanned on the first try - which always feels like a tremendous relief after my ticket refused to scan until about the third go in Hammersmith.  I run blindly down the stairs into the concert area, not daring to turn around as the sound of feet drumming behind me tells my ears there are many others, and close behind. I race into the darkened venue - opera music wraps around the air and I look ahead, only ahead. For the first time ever - I see an entirely clear barrier (save for guest list and one other queuer who runs faster than I). It inspires amazement but I dare not pause, and run ahead, locking my elbows around the welcoming steel of the barrier on Boz's side of the stage. I look up and a larger-than-life 1920's Joan of Arc with a single tear rolling down her cheek stares back. Right now I am in the only place on earth I would want to be.

My heart soars, but I am also reflective. I thank my cat - and Morrissey - for keeping me alive for this moment. My cat. I keep picturing him and my memory holds him through each milestone I reach in his absence. Of course, cats do not live as long as human animals, but that doesn't stop you from thinking goodbye will never come. He was my best friend for over 10 years: I am forever him - he is forever me.

Pre-show videos erupt and there are a few new ones including Alice Cooper's Elected featuring white top hats and presidential monkeys in office eating money (yet somehow convincingly more adept than the majority of actual politicians) and The Sex Pistol's raw and raucous God Save The Queen. The energy mounts. A rush and a push from the crowd as the glamorously coarse Dolls L.U.V on the screen. My eyes and ears are hungry - I know what time it is.

The entrance is new - thundering drums of the Operation roll across our ears and then Matt Walker walks out solo to rumble the shimmering gong. The moment is coming. My first time seeing Morrissey in 8 months... he emerges from the seeming darkness of backstage.  The audience surges forward and I am pressed and pinned, yet not uncomfortably so - against the barrier. Something thumps against the metal - is it my heart - is it thunderous drums or voices or what? I am alive.  My entire heart rushes up to Moz as I look up at him, dressed in a dark shirt with a large cross which sparkles against his chest. On his hand he wears a heavy silver wing ring that looks very much like a tattoo on my inner left arm. Oh how I've missed him.

Suedehead opens up and the surge from the crowd is even more forceful. I am amongst my queuing pals, and sharing this moment with them - yet - there is a strange phenomenon I've noticed about seeing Morrissey, and at least it is this way for me: no one else is in the room. Yes, there is an orgy of exuberance as 4,000 other colliding limbs, grasping hands, and heaving bodies shout and sing, but...you see...it's just me and Morrissey.  My ribs are pressed to the metal and I'm pretty sure someone else's sweat is all over me - but as I look up - he is reflecting back to me this mind and heart I've been carrying around for my entire life. Somehow he makes it all make sense. When he is on stage, I feel like it is simply he and I.

On close look Morrissey has a very large flesh-coloured bandage stuck to his chest and neck area. I wonder if it is one like he often wears on his arms or especially his fingers.  Then I wonder if this bandage is more serious. He is a beautiful soul and the thought worries me. Looking up at him standing on stage, I realize he exudes - somehow all at once - both immortality and fragility.  I send him, with my eyes and expression, for we are in a visual conversation here, my all-encompassing hope for his well-being. I reflect on how vulnerable we are, as life is something we cannot survive. But - for now - we have this moment - and the moment heaves and clings and bursts with song.

As the opening harpsichord notes to Ouija Board dance through the concert hall, I feel slightly out of body. With no choice or control, we must say goodbye to our friends. Again I picture my cat; tears want to well up yet I feel stunned in a sense. Morrissey's words wrap around me: "I just can't find my place in this world."  I am held in a cathartic embrace...

"Oh hear my voice... oh hear my voice..."

Oh to get to the other side, wherever that side may be - just once - what would I say? What would I do? Why does time limit us so? Tears swell a bit more. It's okay to feel out of place in the world - and to say it out loud - because life isn't always understandable - in fact - it's hardly ever understandable. And death - well, we just don't know a thing. Threads of strength weave around the uncollectable pieces of my heart and I know I need to be here on this night.

Photo by Nils Witte

As Morrissey sings I see the way shadows and light play on his face, lucky to seemingly touch it - revealing even further the depth of his emotion. He stands so boldly out front on stage - so brave, so open. No wonder he doesn't like the verb "to perform." It's so much more than that. The band is tight - and I get a good look at Boz as he moves towards us, his guitar nearly aflame with his rockabilly cool-vibe - and remember how I met him in Las Vegas months ago.

Meanwhile, in the audience we are a clumsy army of sweltering emotion and bodies are being pulled out all around us. In all honesty, it's f*cking hot in the pit tonight. One friend of mine is draped across my back, nearly passed out, and we are all pushed together. Even the most devoted need to be dragged out. I pour myself over the barrier; unsure what I am doing, am I trying to prop myself up because I am dehydrated and exhausted or and I trying to get the momentum to fling myself upwards to try and get on stage? A sudden jolt of energy as I look up at Moz - I long for a handshake. I haul myself up and feel a hand coming from nowhere and everywhere pushing my foot up (I can't tell if they are trying to help or are just somehow in the right place at the right time). My ribs thrust against the metal of the barrier and my waist hangs over - it feels strange - a little like I'll tumble in half - but either I am too pinned in (likely) or am simply not strong enough (more likely) and I just can't do it. Sigh.

Jack the Ripper, Oboe Concerto, One Of Our Own, and Crashing Bores are also highlights of a night that is incredible in its entirety. As I watch Morrissey sing Oboe his face is full of feeling - the face reflects the soul - and I feel as though I would give the world to hug him. Towards the end of the concert, he says to us (thank you to one of my followers for helping me remember more closely):

"Once again you have saved me and my gratitude is boundless and I love you."

I can see my arms!

Love <3

The band bows and the encore begins. The night is nearly finished - and - tired as my body feels - my mind and heart never want it to end. Irish Blood. No shirt toss tonight. I stumble out of the venue looking for a friend I have planned to meet up with, and I am the ultimate in post-gig dishevelment.

We find one another and end up drinking a little too much German champagne on a park bench under the shadows of the crumbling Berlin train station. One thing I've noticed with a lot of Moz fans is that as soon as you meet them, you feel as though you've known them for years. We hang out til it's light out, running into some regulars in the hotel lobby on their way to the airport.

The night ends and day breaks - but there is no end - and I will see you in Manchester, which beckons...