August 17th, 2016
Strips of sun dazzle streaking through black-out hotel drapes and consciousness fades in. I awake next to a bedside table with a few empty glasses - remnants of last night's indulgences. The time! My groggy hands clumsily grope towards that perplexing travel alarm clock, its failed alarm never wailing, and my eyes momentarily struggle to focus on flashing digits :10:30 a.m! I am awake in time for my flight back to Manchester - although my room still appears to have been struck by a violent tornado of clothing and makeup.
A disheveled packing job, which involves lying on top of my bulging suitcase to zip it up - then I check out and I'm on my way. I secretly and silently kiss goodbye to the only European streets I've ever visited. Will we ever meet again?
Disordered order of winding airport line-ups and wails of screaming babies remind me I may have more than a little bit of last night's champagne, or at least its stale remnants, coursing through my veins. I check myself with a chrome powder compact (which security perpetually mistakes for a cigarette case) and my outer appearance reflects my inward state; I tuck a few messy strands of my fringe under and a frantic woman behind me mutters something in German to me about the line. Eye roll; what can I do? In my purse an unused sharpie aches; I carried it all around Berlin, because you never know how fate or timing might line up. I would love Morrissey's signature tattooed on my inner arm. Well, surely I can't be the only Moz disciple that fantasizes over such possibilities whilst travelling.
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| Morrissey in Manchester, photo by Nick Barber |
I'm off into the air and time has blazed by. Enchanted by memories, what-ifs, time passed, the past - as I always am - I struggle to stay in the moment. My lurking depressive thought patterns remind me my trip is nearly half over, but I shush them as I realize the hope of excitement lies ahead - I still have another show and I hardly got to look at Manchester on Sunday. I stare at the German landscape from above - all little puzzle-pieces of land and winding rivers - through tufted clouds. Can you please stop time? Can you stop this pain? I relax a bit and allow myself to stay in the moment - but then a wave of hot and cold pricks my skin as my hangover waves hello.
My layover in Frankfurt allows me to catch up on social media with some friends I'll see in Manchester. I'm particularly excited to see my "queue sis." As I scroll through Twitter I see that it is #BlackCatAppreciationDay and I post some photos of my old friend. I feel like he's been on this trip with me through every moment. Does the spirit follow? Is he somehow in Germany with me? Does he know I am here? Something tells me he does.
The flight from Frankfurt to Manchester drags and lags as I am seated next to a businessman with the sharpest elbows in recorded history. I curl myself into a ball against the window to avoid him but he's nearly like a magnet to my ribs as he dawdles through stats charts on his laptop. It barely matters - I see pockets of English soil peeking through the clouds and I can't wait to touch down.
My boyfriend is meeting me at the airport and I'm interested to see how his first queuing experience goes, as the only shows he's ever been to have been seated. Our cab drives us past the edge of the vast cemetery and tombstones glisten against the dying sun, showing that at least to the eyes of the living, there is some dazzling monument to our memories after death. As we blaze past the highway into city centre, we turn down streets upon streets upon streets into the rusted-orange brick buildings of Northern England. I live for visiting places other than home. Even more than that, I live for traveling to see Moz.
Manchester has a vibrancy I don't actually expect, which may be due to the fact I'm mostly used to reading accounts from how it existed years ago. Or, perhaps from my end this is just touristy fascination, but I'm entranced by the cafés, pubs, street art, and the swirling mosaic of different people dressed different ways. There are landmarks and creations that breathe Mozzer everywhere - including Moz-aics where little chips of brightly coloured stone combine to create his handsome-devil face. Streets are busy, but not overwhelmingly so, even to my timid self. I'm totally untroubled by the clutching agoraphobia that claws at me in my own city.
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| Mozaic |
For the first time since I started travelling to see Moz I have a few spare days between shows, which gives me the opportunity to check out the city. I don't have to go far - there happens to be a Cat Café across the street from my hotel! Time is again meaningless as rather than languishing in my 30's I feel like a kid catapulted into ecstasy as I snap photos of the café cats through large floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitties are lounging happily, grooming, exploring and I can hardly wait to visit them. At the same time, I plummet a bit as I'm pummelled by bittersweet jabs as I realize it will be my first time interacting with cats since the loss of mine last month.
Refusing booze and choosing an early evening, I am refreshed the next morning and rush to city centre to check out some record shops. It's heavenly, because in Canada Morrissey albums are much harder to come by, yet our shelves are stuffed with the likes of Pitbull and Bublé. The walls and floors of the record store are practically throbbing with excitement, yet my wallet is shaking in its boots - and Wilde chides yet commiserates with "I can resist everything except temptation" wisdom. I try not to overindulge as I still have to visit Salford Lads Club's pop up shop.
In order to see the cats at the café, we must queue, which I find adorable. We are asked if we don't mind waiting an hour, which in queuing time to me seems nonexistent. The room is sparkling white and everything is glisteningly clean; we must even wear terrycloth slide slippers and go through numerous gates to approach our fur friends in order to prevent anyone running wild into the streets. On entrance into the actual café, my eyes light up immediately as sleek seal points, puff-ball Persians, Russian blues, and glossy leopard print kittens slink around and bat at feather dusters. Some are gloriously aloof to our mews and kissy-faces, and we are instructed not to pick the cats up, as they must come to us. Flash photography is also prohibited. Many cats weave by unimpressed, but some whisk whiskers past our legs; I'm enchanted and entranced. One particular crimson-collared kitten takes a liking to me - we play and I fall slightly in love. Deep down I feel I'm not quite healed enough to have a cat yet - but this is a grand step in remembering how embraced I feel by their company. I've missed cats. This entire trip is feeling more and more cathartic.
Around noon the next day I decide to venture over to the venue - not really expecting to find a queue. Slashes of rain slant through slate grey Mancunian skies and gusts of wind that are not very August-like whip my umbrella. My hair doesn't love it but the rest of me hardly cares at all. There appears to be no one around any entrance to the arena, but then movement catches my eye as I pass the entrance to the train station. Is that a sleeping bag - and... a Morrissey t-shirt? The queue has already started - and I nab my place at number 17. A little jolt kickstarts my bloodstream as I realize this will be my longest time ever queuing - 30 hours. We race back to the hotel to grab sleeping bags, blankets, ipods, and my necessary grey cardigan. I also pack my currently blank tour notebook, hoping to use this time to get started on jotting down my experiences.
I'm bubbling with excitement to see my friend Olivia, who is like a younger sister to me. She arrives not long after I do, and it feels like a sensational underground slumber party - the giddy gritty fumes from cars roll into the train station and impart a slight light-headedness I quite enjoy (or is it because it's Moz-eve and my friends are here?) We catch eyes of passerby under florescent subway lights, our bed the concrete. I'm strangely enjoying the spectacle of it all in spite of my typical intense introversion. Later, glow-in-the-dark pacifier-sucking, e-strung rave kids and Man United football fans are supposed to stumble and weave their way past, but the night turns out to be rather uneventful. We settle in, stretch out, and wait.
The Day Of The Concert
Early Saturday morning we are allowed to queue by the box office in the arena. Again there are multiple doors to the venue but security assures us the queue list will be allowed in after guest list. Soon I'm going back to the hotel to shower as I feel slightly train-stationy. I clasp a red sparkly flower in my hair and douse myself in spritzes of hairspray but on the walk back I'm heavily wind-blasted. Not long after my return, the merch table is set up. A group of us go over to watch - and my eye is immediately caught by the glint of a sleek, beautiful silver cat pendant with 'Morrissey' engraved across it. My eyes almost well up and my heart thumps with joy - as again - the worlds of Morrissey and cats intertwine for me - and this piece so perfectly symbolizes what this trip has been: a healing step for me, in searching for some balance between hope and despair - as despair so often tugs at me the strongest. The passing of time rules us in a sense - as we must all say goodbye at some point - but memories endure. Memories are, of course, not a solution, (in life there are few solutions) - but they are what we have - and we need to cling to something. I ask when the merch table will open and I'm so pleased to hear I will be able to buy the necklace - and wear it - before the show begins. As soon as it touches my skin... it seems to hold me in another step of healing.
We line up at doors and aside from some jitter-inducing mishaps with a remarkably drunk woman wearing fear-and-loathing aviator sunglasses, it's perhaps the most seamless venue entry I have yet to experience. Security is amazingly respectful of our order and wristbands us and walks us in. When you enter Manchester Arena you realize how absolutely massive it is. We walk in pairs down steep stairs to the floor - and the height is well beyond what I expect - the sheer size is comparable to some of the largest arenas we have in hockey-crazed Canada.
I rush to the barrier again - locking my arms with the welcoming kiss of hard steel that's become increasingly comforting. We are in the venue for what seems like ten minutes before everyone else is allowed entry, and bask in the afterglow of our achieved positions. A hazy mix of darkness and light circles us and the ceiling stretches endlessly high as I again look up at the Passion of Joan of Arc backdrop with looping crown. Faint and smokey-lush wafts of Incense Avignon envelop, that familiar invisible mist rises and wraps itself around the air. Finally the others are guided in through all entrances, yet I don't dare turn around for fear a crafty elbow will loop over mine and nudge me out of place. One security guard approaches and asks "Have you ever been in a wall of death?" Well, no - or come to think of it, perhaps, I muse. He is nearly deadpan save for a quivering corner at the edge of his mouth. I can't say I feel tremendously intimidated; thrilled, more like it.
Damien Dempsey comes on stage and draws us in with Irish folk guitar and thoughtful lyricism, bit through with emotionally sincere delivery. I'm impressed to see he's accompanied by a female bassist, and spend a good portion of my time watching her, as I used to 'attempt' to play bass (sort of). Perhaps one day I'll pick it up again. Pre-show videos then blaze up immediately, as road crew clears the stage and the jet-black haired Ramones blast off with seventies steam.
Then - the moment - that feels like the first time every time - and Moz walks on stage after Matt roars on the gong. He's wearing a dark suit jacket with a large silver cross, and a ring with a large stone in it. The audience lunges and plunges - and Moz has returned to the stage in his very own Manchester. I catch a passing glint from his eye, under his dark, expressive brows as he surveys the audience, and consider how less than two years ago I bought the M in Manchester DVD, wondering if I would ever see him sing in person - and now, here I was - at my twelfth show - at the barrier - on sacred Manchester soil.
The gap between stage and barrier is slightly further than usual - and more than that - the stage is very high. I can't imagine it is possible to get a handshake - unless one either manages to hurl oneself on stage - or is incredibly tall. Amazingly, some of my tallest queue friends get handshakes, including my boyfriend. Some bodies fling over and make it for a handshake, others are dragged off in varying shades of consciousness. The emotion is palpable. The heartbeats of Mando's bass and Matt's drums are pulsating, guitars are rupturing rhythmically, and intertwining lines of music and poetry roll through our souls. This is a homecoming.
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| With thanks to photographer |
Morrissey is expressive with his hands tonight, and he whips the microphone cord with surging impassioned vigor; it flings black against the backdrop as his head and body turn with the beat of the music. Before Gustavo's digeridoo intro to World Peace Is None Of Your Business, Moz waits for the throbbing energetic crowd to settle, then unleashes the truth of world politics with simple efficacy:
"Sportswomen do not start wars
Sportsmen do not start wars
Hairdressers do not start wars
COWS do not start wars
Badgers do not start wars
POLITICIANS - start wars.
AND
They LOVE it."
Next comes Meat is Murder, but before that, Morrissey addresses the audience again - with a powerful image of brutality - speaking of the innocent, trusting nature of animals - and how humans relentlessly, heartlessly, needlessly, and greedily exploit them:
"The lamb looks to the farmer
The lamb loves the farmer
The farmer feeds the lamb
And so, the lamb trusts the farmer.
The lamb follows the farmer and the farmer slyly leads the lamb to slaughter.
The farmer gets the money.
The lamb is on a hook.
and this is why we say "FUCK the farmers!"
Later into the setlist comes It's Hard To Walk Tall When You're Small, a song I had never seen live before. The clarity and beauty of Morrissey's timeless voice seems to momentarily stall the vigorous pushing and hurling of bodies as we simply listen. As the whirling harpsichord of Ouija Board rolls through the air once more, I look at Moz's face as he looks down at the microphone before singing. I feel tears form in my eyes before the first words are even sung - again the healing continues, as I feel the metal of my cat necklace, once cold, now warmed against my chest. I'm caught in the tug-of-war between pure tears over the pain of loss - and the comfort of memories I'm so lucky to have. The answer doesn't matter - neither feeling is right or wrong - because the embrace of song at least guides you or supports you through it somehow. Still, I wonder where we go... or why we go...Time sprawls forward so I simply immerse myself in the moment.
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| Photo by Paul Husband |
As Everyday Is Like Sunday casts over us, another luxuriously brutal surge comes from the audience. The two tiny girls who were previously behind me seem to have vanished. I lock myself over and around the barrier as a massively tall tattooed bald man decides to use my right shoulder as an armrest. I'm surprisingly cool with it, as he doesn't try to push me out of my coveted barrier slot. Orchestral peaks whisk through my ears in the climax towards chorus. I think of the coastal town I must return to - and come Armageddon, come... but again remind myself of the all-important moment. Morrissey is right in front of me - in Manchester!
Jack The Ripper this night is one of the most exquisite moments I've ever experienced live. I think of how I love that song on the M in Manchester DVD perhaps most of all... but tonight somehow it's even more powerful - and the stage is shrouded in fog. It's nearly chokingly thick smoke, but Morrissey's silhouette emerges, dark against the clouds which seem to envelop him. He leans his head back, and moves with the music, but even more than that, with intense emotion which stretches beyond. Again, people are crowded against me - but no one else is really there except Moz and I. Crash into my arms.
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| Photo by @plainchant_w |
As the encore approaches and Moz walks out in a red shirt to be embraced by his hometown for one more song, I realize the night - as always - must come to an end. Irish Blood, English Heart and the shirt is flung into centre audience after a tease towards both sides. I realize we have migrated farther towards the side of the stage somehow, as the dazzling lights turn up and the crowd begins to separate. My back is drenched with what I'm certain is not my own sweat, but I'm blissful. I never want to say goodbye, and I clutch my stunningly wonderful memories, and my Morrissey cat necklace - to my heart.
Perhaps I can find my place in this world, even if I do feel so horribly lonely a lot of the time.
I don't want to go home - and I miss Moz already. But... before I jet out of town, I have a tour of Manchester I need to do...
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