Morrissey Travel Review and Concert Blog Part 3: Dallas

I’m lounging in my hotel room bathed in post-gig glow. Nursing a warm, flat can of Tecate, I still have tons of packing to do as I look around at the cosmetics and clothes tornado I typically turn my room into, always in record time. The last two concerts are back-to-back, so we leave for Dallas early in the morning.

But - the show happened and it was divine  – so I need a moment!

The build-up to such happiness carries me over months back at home - planning, booking, hoping against a backdrop of smaller-town dreariness - and then suddenly, in a flash of jet fuel and luck, I'm in a new city with Morrissey right in front of me - it's so surreal. Tour time passes in a flash: it's a lot to absorb. I have so many precious memories, and only over a few short years. My mind becomes a sprawling diary; yes, my mundane daily life feels like a desert, but it's dotted with these magnificent mirages. My memories, like my emotions, tend to run at extremes. 

I have so much energy right now ... and my haphazard sleep(lessness) pattern seems to have fixed itself. 

Goodbye creepy hotel mannequin. The sun rises and we're off. Our loaded up rental car represents: Canada, Germany, NY, California, and ages spanning 2 decades. This is only a fraction of the diversity seen amongst Morrissey fans. I've met everyone from stylish middle school kids to hip 60-somethings  (all with spectacular hair, naturally) in line before a concert; Moz-lovers of the world unite.

Our first pit stop is at buck-toothed beaver Texas truck stop chain Buc-ee's and 3 of us are wearing black variations of the "Be Kind Or I'll Kill You" t's.  I've never heard of Buc-ee's but inside its more blinding than the brilliant Texan morning sun: throwback 90's neon lights, growling slushee machines, and a menagerie of tacky merchandise attack the senses. It appears to be the trucker-speed-addled love child of Wal-Mart and 7/11. The best find in our quick stop is a 'Ya'll Need Jesus' cup holder.

Y'all Need Jesus

The rest of the drive glides by and it begins to sink in that tonight is the last night of tour.  As no new dates have been announced yet, none of us know when we'll see Moz again. I try to refocus my attention back to the present moment, which at times passes as quickly as zooming cars on the freeway. It is uncontrollable; time cannot be captured. Happy moments always fly through your fingertips, and sad times will inevitably lag and drag.

For lunch we stop at Spiral Cafe and Bakery, a 1950's style vegan diner with snazzy spindly-legged tables and key-lime green walls. Indulgent vegan junk food is my favourite - and I loom around a glass display case stacked with pretty little amaretto cupcakes. The food is so good we have to queue, and queuing for food is something I am not often willing to do. In fact, on concert days I rarely eat a thing: jitters overwhelm me. Still, all I can think of is tonight.

Last hotel check-in of the tour after a drive past suffocating skyscrapers and the grassy knoll. I begin the ritual of getting ready one more time, and also prepare some surprises. Lying on fresh hotel linens doing my makeup is my one pause in a packed day, although my phone is already buzzing with panic on the streets of Dallas about the fact the pit has been made General Admission and our front row tickets are now no longer necessarily front row.  We decide to get down to the theatre a bit early.

Outside the Majestic Theatre a mini-queue has formed. Winds tear through the air and frazzle my hair; to preserve my bangs I find a safety haven in the form of a doorway and sit on the pavement. My heart and stomach flip-flop through the past week – and I simultaneously relive past lives and imagine that moment when Morrissey walks on stage, now only hours away. Everyday life haunts in the background, and I never, never want to go home.

Can you please stop time?

The Majestic is a vaudevillian-era venue with a vivacious history of hosting acts like Mae West and Bob Hope. Sandwiched between brick buildings, from the outside it seems quite small, but inside it magically expands to towering Corinthian columns and Baroque balustrades. I couldn’t tell you what the lobby looks like, because as usual I am too nervous to notice. At doors our lines split into two, and predictably I choose the wrong line, ending up at the mercy of an elderly usher scanning tickets at tortoise-level speedlessness. My eyes widen and my veins churn as - again - bodies fly in front of me down to the pit line up.

Mae West

I seem to have lost at least a dozen spaces, and wait to be wristbanded. By some awesome chance, being further back actually pays off and Gustavo comes out to say hi to those of us who are still in line. I’m delighted he remembers me, and similar luck will follow later as we end up running into Boz at a pub after the concert. I find my place in the pit just in time to snag a front row spot. Behind us rows of crimson velvet seats cascade along orchestra level, framed by intricate vaults of gold leaf, restored but reviving the glamorous 1920’s feel of the place. Dots of golden lights dance in the darkness and I’m surrounded by friends, yet deliciously absorbed in my own thoughts and anticipation. My eyes have adjusted to the dimness and all I can do is hug the heavy black metal of the rail and wait.

The Majestic Theatre

During pre-show videos, Warhol’s Flesh drives a couple of Texan dudes out of sorts and their reactions amuse. Their distress at Dallesandro’s undress seems partially feigned or exaggerated (O-M-G Male Nudity!). We can’t help but share a giggle as the pair slide into their seats and cover their eyes as naked male buttocks thrust across the screen.

As each video counts down to Morrissey’s arrival on stage, I want to capture every second so I can relive it; sadly my memory is not photographic, and I have to let time come and go. While Marlene Dietrich’s faux lashes and rhinestones waver on screen, I know the moment is fast approaching and I gulp my heart back down from the top of my throat.

It's time.

Morrissey appears on stage in a midnight blue shirt and ultra-cool distressed denim and bows in front of us. The band is once again decked out in “Fuck Trump” shirts and Suedehead’s opening notes ring through the gilded air. Moz whips the microphone cord in time with the beat. It continually enthralls me how perfect the phrasing of his lyrics is, in balance with sound and silence; each note, syllable and rest captivates. The pit is tiny but bustling with energetic excitement as we try to reach up at Moz to touch him or savour a coveted moment of eye contact.

My 19^th show still feels like my first show and I’m enchanted.

The lyrics of every song say something to me about my life... and isn’t this all any of us could ask for? To find Earth can be at least a slightly less lonely planet?

It’s my life to destroy my own way

And when you try to break my spirit, it won’t work, because there’s nothing left to break... anymore

I’ve hammered a smile across this pasty face of mine... since the day I was born in (insert year here...)

After stylish and glum Istanbul's gritty guitars, climactic string crescendos, and vicious street gang slang, Morrissey addresses the audience:

"The Beverly Hillbillies, All in The Family, Maude, Rhoda, Roseanne, 3rd Rock From The Sun, Sean Spicer, Kellyann Conway, Betsy DeVos, Jeff Sessions: you just can't beat American comedy."

... and into World Peace Is None Of Your Business...

Matt's drumrolls rumble... there's a build up to something... and a brilliant white spotlight envelops Morrissey as he walks up to the microphone stand. Anticipation folds into the ethereal swirling minor chords of Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loves Me: one of my favourite Smiths songs; I've never seen it live before. I mouth the lyrics and look up at Moz... every head turn and facial expression of his so precious as shadows and light interplay across the stage. We drink the moment in.

No hope no harm... just another false alarm. 

Setlist (Via Setlist FM): 

1. Suedehead
2. Alma Matters
3. Speedway
4. When Last I Spoke To Carol
5. Istanbul
6. World Peace Is None Of Your Business
7. Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
8. Everyday Is Like Sunday
9. Ouija Board, Ouija Board
10. The Bullfighter Dies
11. I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris
12. Ganglord
13. Meat Is Murder
14. Let Me Kiss You
15. Jack The Ripper
16. The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores
17. How Soon Is Now?
18. First Of The Gang To Die
19. Shoplifters Of The World Unite

Encore

Judy Is A Punk

Time is poetic. At one point during the show some brave injured soul in the pit stretches their crutch out to Moz and he blesses it in a crutch-shake. Oh hear my voice... Ouija Board weaves healing protection around my heart. Let Me Kiss You's shirt toss entices me but this time I'm nowhere near in range to grasp the incense-scented flailing fabric. 

Ripper crashes into Crashing Bores and two of my favourite songs are back-to-back. Before Bores, Moz again addresses the audience:

"As the world knows, you-know-who is gonna kill us all. North Korea... he'll find somebody. He's gonna kill you, he's gonna kill me. So, I have loved knowing what bits of you I know - and - when I am ashes please remember it was me who said... 'The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores."

And how could we ever forget he said that? The first moment I heard those lyrics they hit my arid, bored-with-the-world mind like a long-awaited rainfall... a downpour of "YES! The world is full of crashing bores!" Someone pointing out the disenchanting truths of life is a lifeline in the midst of a dreary world... it makes us feel less alone.  And that internal tug-of-war "and I must be one...I am not one... you don't understand" as our own insecurities and persistent, ever-resistant self doubts are rolled out before us in brilliant lyrical catharsis. "I'll be your mirror."

Morrissey, you are no crashing bore and this is why my tour notebooks are never, ever "consequently, blank."

Did I mention the rail at the Majestic Theatre is high? It seems at least a few crucial inches higher than many other barriers and my friend and I are feeling hopelessly vertically challenged. At some concerts I'm able to teeter my torso on the edge to stretch out for a handshake, but this mammoth chunk of black steel is unforgiving and we keep gracelessly falling back every time we attempt to prop ourselves up. Our efforts are so clumsy we end up laughing each time we fall backwards, and my ribs and arms become a tender puzzle of purple and beige bruises.

Perhaps noticing our efforts, Moz brings the microphone stand over in front of us and gives our side of the stage a serenade during First Of The Gang To Die.  He leans into the microphone stand, and it almost becomes part of his body; in fact, when he's singing, the microphone always seems to be an extension of his body, rather than a separate element. The midnight blue shirt since torn off, he's now wearing a white shirt with tufted ruffled patches along the front. He looks one part angelic/one part handsome devil.

I never want the night to end.

But time of course does pass, and the encore arrives... Soaring eardrum-spinning cheers and claps can't fully convey our love and devotion, and we drink in a finale bow from Moz, Matt, Mando, Boz, Jesse, and Gustavo.

"So, be good to yourself,

Be good to your mother,

Stop Trump

And may all the gods in the world bless you."

- Morrissey

Photo by James Villa

I hope it won't be too long before I see you all again in far-off places.

*With the exception of Ms. West, all photos by me unless otherwise specified

Morrissey Concert Review and Travel Blog Part 2: San Antonio and Houston

The beginning part of this article describes my travels through San Antonio to Houston - for the concert review of Morrissey in Sugar Land, please scroll down.

Photo by mischievousnose on Instagram

San Antonio

The air in San Antonio is humid and sticks to my skin as soon as I leave air conditioning’s reprieve. While not exactly rain, a delicate mist dances in the air. I haul my overstuffed suitcase up the stairs to our hotel, which is a Cuba-meets-Goth kitschy space adjacent to the venue. Our room has a massive 50’s style refrigerator, which is basically an overpriced “maxi” bar, overlooked by a print from brothel shock flick Zona Roja.

We are still worried the following night's show might not happen, but decide to make the best of San Antonio and go to a nearby Mexican vegan restaurant. The walls are adorned with a mish-mash of knick-knacks that range from vintage photographs to plastic flowers and animals to Christmas light strands; yet somehow all components fit together like a dream. I'm particularly drawn towards an ornate devotional shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe, with its gilded candles, calaveras, and tiny mirrors. Over black bean empanadas and jalapeño-infused tequila, it's hard to hear anyone speak because a local thrash metal band is performing at the other end of the joint. Although that's not exactly my first choice for music, I like it here.

La Botanica

We make it an early night because I want to queue first thing in the morning. I am number 5 on the list, and even though it's all still uncertain... typical pessimistic me is, for once, taking a back seat. Having a chance to see Morrissey keeps me hopeful, and I'm having a good time with friends from all over the world. 

Near the venue there's a river walk lined with emerald weeping palms and broad-leafed banana plants. However, I'm more fascinated by a massive Texas mallard that has taken up residence on a rock next to a tiny sunbathing turtle; if there is a duck pond I will find it. Also while queuing I meet a couple of Texan artists who have sketched and painted Morrissey, one of whom has been a fan since Smiths days. Just as the afternoon sun is burning high overhead, the news arrives that the show tonight is cancelled. Morrissey's health is the most important thing, and I hope he is starting to feel better.

I shed a few tears into my travel hairdryer that evening, but my inner cheerleader reminds me there are still two more dates ahead, and they just might still happen. Sorrows have learned to swim, but that doesn't stop me from indulging in a few too many Mojitos downstairs at the impossibly dark Havana-style bar, lit only by electric candelabras and blood red tea lights. The place looks more like a velvety Vampiric funeral home than anything else.

There's not a chance I can get an early night this time. Hotel room neighbours blast horrendous Chris Brown dance remixes and shriek, squeal, and click their high heels. I let a few glasses of red wine and a vegan cupcake distract from such unpleasant stimuli - and THEN...

I'm suddenly very glad I'm still awake. There has been a last minute venue change to the The Smart Financial Centre in Sugar Land - and we can upgrade our tickets. Frantically, with my clouded fingers and mind competing for sloppiness, I somehow clumsily thumb through my wallet, grab a credit card, and fill out my info on the browser. I snag second row seats.

Now I'm the one shrieking and squealing - and - snapped somewhat out of the lulling blur of the evening's drinks, my eyes widen as I realize my other friends staying in the hotel are fast asleep and will probably miss getting tickets by the time they wake up. Drunkenly, I stumble across the hall wearing pajama bottoms and a tank top and knock on the heavy mahogany door - "TOUR NEWS" ... I add, "It's not bad." I have to do this a second time, and end up clacking down the hotel's hardwood stairs and having to apologetically beg a looming security guard to help me find out my friend's room number.

***

It's time to drive to Houston...

We make a quick stop at the Alamo, but I am mostly interested in visiting a painted church in the tiny town of Praha. Located somewhere between San Antonio and Houston, Praha was settled by Czech immigrants in the 19th century and holds the hapless distinction of being the US town with the highest ratio of deaths to population in World War II.

Our detour off the sprawling highway takes us through a couple of small towns, and I am struck by the binary class division afflicting certain parts of the United States. The poor are very poor, and some houses appear not much larger than garden sheds, with peeling boards and sunken, decaying porches.  At times the sole sign of life is a musty air conditioner attached to a dusty bedroom window. Often, the only pristine item in any given yard is a gently waving American flag. Having already passed a number of billboards advertising local gun shows and bible verses, I can't help but wonder how many of these people may have voted for the current president, a man that runs beauty pageants and failed casinos, and lives in a golden penthouse. The only thing that makes sense is that nothing makes sense. The rich must profit and get richer...and the poor...?

Waves of heat slam like hazy walls as I climb out of our air conditioned car. Sadly, St. Mary's Church of the Assumption is closed for Easter, so we are unable to view its sky blue muralled interior. Instead, we walk towards the cemetery; its spindly wrought iron gates are lettered in Czech and howl a rusty creak as we open them.

Cemetry Gates

Recent graves, to those from well over a century ago are covered with fresh flowers. On one baby's grave a little white ceramic lamb sits with folded limbs. There is a slight wind and a few loosened flowers wander through the tombstones in the breeze. It's calming here, which would have confused me as a child because graveyards used to freak me out - but now I understand the peacefulness of such places. I am drawn to some statues posed around a crucifix in the middle of the cemetery, and as I walk in their direction, past a certain plot, I feel a strange sensation along my right ankle and lower leg. It's not dissimilar to the warm wind that wraps around my limbs and I assume I'm probably just being a little insane. However, something about it is different; I'm curious because it almost feels like a gentle magnetic tug. I decide to walk back and forth again - and I feel the same sensation a second time; it's like a soothing caress down to my bone. My friends think I'm crazy - and maybe I am... but the feeling sticks with me and I wonder what could have caused it.

On the drive back towards the highway, there is a group of chocolate and caramel-coloured cows grazing in a lush field smattered with daisies, and we stop and take pictures. I run across the road with my camera to take photos, but unfortunately for me, the cows are far more interested in one of my friends and walk away from me: I'm being cow-snubbed. Funnily enough, there is a lone donkey chilling out with the cows. When we pile back into the car, the cows line up along the fence and watch us curiously. Perhaps they don't get many visitors.

We finally arrive at our hotel, situated right on the outskirts of Houston. The day keeps getting stranger, as the view from our hotel room is nothing short of bizarre, at least to me. The 3rd floor room overlooks a house with a small yard, in the centre of which stands a bald mannequin. Lording blankly over the garden, the mannequin is about the height of a 10 year old child, and is wearing denim overalls. Presumably it's a scarecrow, but it's also pretty darn creepy.

Creepy Houston Mannequin

***

Sugar Land Concert



The day of the concert I'm invited out for drinks at a Tiki Bar before the show. It is completely out of character for me to drink before a concert (I usually save that for after) but I can't resist checking this place out. The Tiki Bar is located in an unimpressive and rather run-down, spray-paint tagged strip mall not far from our hotel.

Inside, the place is far more impressive, and as my eyes adjust from the late-afternoon Texan sun to the lowered lights of the bar, I am greeted by a deliciously tacky Elvis-chic atmosphere. I can't tell if it's all actually 1950's vintage Hawaiian decor or if it's replicated, but it's cool: a shaggy grass hut hangs over rum bottles at the bar, and the walls are covered with busty mermaids, velvet paintings, and Polynesian artifacts.

I order a menacingly tall blue Hawaii topped with a pineapple wedge and a fuchsia orchid. I half-worry that it will give me a blue tongue for the concert, which might be a tad embarrassing as I sing along. I plunge into my drink and risk it anyway.  I do, however, pass on the Great White shark attack drink, which includes pomegranate "blood", complete with a cigar-smoking banana dolphin. One drink is enough for now - and makes me just the right amount of giggly.

Arriving in Sugar Land a couple of hours before doors, a long line is already visible, coiling all the way around the side of the brand-new venue. Uh oh. I am not used to showing up so late... and we still must pick up our upgraded tickets at the will call booth.

The tickets are still not ready, and there are multiple security line-ups we must pass before even entering to the second line for our tickets. Strangely, some of us in the golden circle end up in the wrong line up, and only a portion of concertgoers are allowed past security to the box office, with moments to go before doors. My eyes scan through the sea of cool quiffed kids in World Peace t's, pin curled girls in cardigans, and yellow-vested venue security staff. The sea of people becomes a blur as I realize at least a few hundred people must be in front of me... my hopes of a spot on barrier start to dissolve, and I worry if I will even make it to my second row seat as masses of people bust through the stories-high glass venue doors.

Oh sh*t.

The box office is a harried, frazzled stress-out, as there is only one line-up and several of the people in front of me seem to have bought their tickets from scalpers, or have the wrong id, or credit card... or something. When I finally make it to the front of the line - I snatch my tickets and dash through the lobby in my houndstooth ballet flats and skirt, past the beer drinkers and merch buyers, and weave my way to the line-up headed down to orchestra level.

An elderly security guard manning the entrance places his palm up and says he must first re-secure the door jam, and my eyes nearly burst out of my head. He fiddles with the little yellow rubber triangle for what seems like hours, and then I'm finally wristbanded to go down to my seat. I walk steadily down the carpeted stairs to the floor, and then, as I make the last panic dash to the barrier, I bail over a leaning row of chairs, short skirt and all. I'm embarrassed, but I can take it, because I've attained a front row spot - phew!

I realize I'm shaking a bit and am half giggling, half teary as I chat with a friend beside me. I lean on the rail - my favourite place on earth - and await the pre-show videos.

L.U.V.

Morrissey appears on stage wearing a navy blue shirt, intricately embroidered with beige and brown thread, and the band is wearing "Fuck Trump" shirts.  Moz holds an index finger in the air, as if to test the atmosphere, and as the audience rumbles and roars, the first guitar chords of How Soon Is Now? resound in a rhythmic dance with flashing white strobe lights.

Photo by Marco Torres

Morrissey seems to be in really great spirits and chats with us a lot between songs. At one point during the show, he explains that in Tucson, his voice "finally broke, which happens to all adolescents." This elicits giggles and shouts, and one thing is for sure: his voice definitely isn't broken tonight: he looks and sounds fantastic.

I'm giddy and can't stop cheering - somehow through the previous cancellations, the last minute venue change, the frantic panic at doors - this is happening! I can't imagine that towering Blue Hawaii is still in my system, but I'm positively euphoric. I'm essentially front row centre - and, in between songs -slipping into a rare sliver of silence, I feel bold: I look up at Moz, and yell out... "I LOVE YOU!" ... and - he hears me!

He scrunches up his nose and eyebrows in a playful way... and, looking out into the audience, he says, "What?"

I can't help but giggle even more.

Jack the Ripper's opening guitars helicopter-chop dramatically through the venue, and heady fog pours into the pit; we swat at the clouds like playful cats. Morrissey's iconic quiffed silhouette emerges, and rosaries dangle and sway from his torso to the flow of the music. We stretch our arms out in response to his outstretched arms - oh, how we'd love to crash into them.

Boz and Jesse move forward through the smoky clouds for a dual guitar solo, and notes descend scales to create a wailing tension, underneath which lies the driving bass and drums of the rhythm section. The scales ascend towards the main riff of the song, and the guitarists move back into the foggy depths of the stage.

Photo by mischievousnose on Instagram

Setlist (Via Setlist FM):

1. How Soon Is Now?
2. Suedehead
3. Alma Matters
4. Speedway
5. Everyday Is Like Sunday
6. Istanbul
7. World Peace Is None Of Your Business
8. Jack The Ripper
9. Ouija Board, Ouija Board
10. The Bullfighter Dies
11. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
12. First Of The Gang To Die
13. Ganglord
14. Kiss Me A Lot
15. You're The One For Me, Fatty
16. Shoplifters of The World Unite
17. When Last I Spoke To Carol
18. Let Me Kiss You

Encore:

Judy Is A Punk

Photo by mischievousnose on Instagram

My heart soars as I get to see There Is A Light That Never Goes Out live for the first time - a song that lyrically captures love's layers of sadness, beauty, and even a dash of humour simultaneously. Morrissey takes such complex emotions, and words them in such a way everything makes sense.Time can be merely an instant - and yet time somehow also fuses us together for eternity.

At another point during the concert, my friend, who wrote of her adventures during 2015's South American tour in her book, I Will See You In Far Off Places, is given the microphone. She is standing beside me, front row centre. Moz looks down and says, "Do you have something you'd like to say?" and stretches the microphone down towards the pit. For a brief moment, I think he might be asking me: my heart lurches, my eyes widen - and I wonder what to say - when I want to say so many things about how much I love him and his music...
Shyness...
He passes the mic to my friend.
I hug her after she speaks to him - it's the first time Morrissey has handed her the microphone - and we can hardly contain our excitement.

For Let Me Kiss You, Morrissey walks out wearing a canary yellow shirt I recognize from photos of the Mexican tour. From the pictures I couldn't exactly discern the pattern, was it floral?... But now I'm here in person, and can see it's speckled with tiny green palm trees, which reminds me of our trip to the Tiki Bar a few hours earlier.  I love this shirt and part of me really wants it, and another part hopes it doesn't get all shredded to bits because it's so awesome. That said, if it comes my way, I'm going to pounce for a piece.

"But then... you open your eyes, and you see someone that you physically despise..." Morrissey tears the shirt open and the buttons fling off like pearls from a strand. He wipes the shirt across his glistening torso and face and flings it into the audience - all yellow sleeves and fluttering fabric. Momentarily, it seems to hang mid-air directly over my head - but alas, it flies too far back - and lands in about 3rd row. There's a scuffle, but miraculously, I find out later that one guy gets the entire shirt.

Then, for one last song, the band launches into a smashing cover of Ramone's Judy, and then, it's all over.

.... Or.... at least until tomorrow.


*all photos are my own unless otherwise specified

Morrissey Concert Review and Travel Blog Part 1: Tucson

Maybe I can snag just a little sleep. Alarm clock numbers glow out of inky darkness like neon signs in a red-light district because everything is intensified. It's 2:30 a.m. and I've been trying to sleep for hours. Lately I've been clinging to sleep the way an insecure child clings to a security blanket: it's my escape from reality so I've grown very attached.  But tonight isn't like any other night, and I'm too excited to fall asleep because I have a flight to Arizona in the morning to see Morrissey.

I end up vaguely drifting off for about 30 minutes.

The waiting cab pumps clouds of milky exhaust into the hazy dawn air and I am pleased the doorknob didn’t break off the front door upon leaving like it did last time I went away. Our ride to the airport makes me feel as if I’m in a getaway car from a city I clearly need to move away from for my own sanity, or whatever is left of it. Like Miss Scarlett, I’ll think about that tomorrow, or more precisely, next week – because I’m out of here and strange memories and landmarks of not-so-great decades disperse with the morning mist. Buh-bye.

The first layover is in Calgary and we meet a woman who has never heard of Morrissey. I tell her I've been to 16 shows in less than 2 years and she is amazed. I inwardly chuckle and let her know that I have friends who have been to well over a hundred. No matter the number, every time feels like a precious gift. Our new friend is genuinely interested in the culture of Moz and those of us who travel all over the world to see him.  She asks me to describe what Morrissey's music is like and if I can compare him to any other artist. Well, no, he's Morrissey - he's unique - and I love him!  As pre-caffeinated words flounder and fail, I come up with something like "punk crooning" and add, "look him up, you'll probably love him too."

I'm a little nervous about going through customs. I've heard at some airports and border crossings they are asking travelers what they think of Thump - and even scrolling through their social media. I attempted to avoid tweeting anything about him in the weeks leading up to my travels, just in case (am I that paranoid?).  The fact I couldn't joke about Thump's meeting with Merkel nearly killed me. Ugh. As if on cue, when we are standing in line, our new friend asks what we thought of the election results last November... "Surprising, certainly," I half-scowl. It isn't hard to read between the lines.

I feel like a poor little fool.

On the flight from Calgary to Phoenix a middle-aged man seated behind me has a toddleresque temper tantrum. He's wearing a duck hunting hat (shudder) and filthy sandals (shudder pt. 2). He repeatedly slams his tray table and punches the back of my seat so that a woman a few seats down, who is totally uninvolved, feels the need to apologize to me. It's a long couple of hours but I try to escape into my ipod and the surrounding billows of cloud. When I was a little girl I used to worry the plane might run into angels sitting in the clouds; now, as an adult, I'm not wise enough to consider such questions.

We land in Phoenix and I perk up with excitement as I realize I'm in the same state as Morrissey. Since I live in Canada, I'm rarely even in the same country as Morrissey. More awe follows as I realize Arizona has massive cacti. On the drive to Tucson they tower over us, with prickly arms stretched out, as we zoom across desert miles and I become a nuisance as I want to take photos of them all.

Cacti 

Yet, life's pigsty comes into view as we pass a truck towing a tarnished trailer. The trailer is open to the road, and is crammed and jammed with cows. The cows have no room to sit down or rest, and at the back two babies gaze out through rusted prison-cell bars at the passing traffic, their eyes nearly lifeless with despair. I mouth to them "I'm sorry," and I notice their long beautiful black eyelashes are fluttering in the wind. I don't know where they are going but I know they don't belong where they are. Cows don't belong on trucks. Humans are not really very humane.

***

The next day we decide to arrive at the venue a few hours before doors, even though the concert is seated.  The desert air is extremely dry, and I'm not quite used to the heat, although it's not uncomfortable. Outside the venue we have a mini-Morrissey reunion, with friends coming from everywhere from Germany to LA.  Minutes tick down to doors, and I feel my heart pounding through my veins, down to the pavement as a blend of bliss and nervousness overtakes me. The last time I saw Morrissey was in November when he made the announcement in Boulder that Gustavo had collapsed backstage. It feels like an eternity ago, yet simultaneously it feels like yesterday.

As theatre doors open, I walk into enveloping velvety darkness lit mostly by the black-and-white image of 1920's Joan of Arc on the screen ahead. Like an athlete, I fine-tune my focus towards a coveted barrier spot, and while it's certainly less panicky than a dash to the front at a GA show, I feel my feet weaving past dawdlers with farther-back Orchestra seats. I secure a place on Jesse's side at front row and await Maya Angelou's poetry.

During pre-show videos, a venue security guard in front of me starts to get a kick out of the fact I am mouthing the words to everything from the Sex Pistols to Mrs. Shufflewick. He smiles at me, "Have you seen him before?" he asks. I tell him this will be my 17th show, and as with the woman at the airport, I must add that many people have been to hundreds.

Public Enemy's Can't Truss It booms onto the screen and I'm thrilled because I like rap, especially older stuff. Although completely sober, I must be the most annoying person ever as I yell out "Flavor Flav!" a few times, as I watch him strut on screen wearing a white top hat - paired with - in Flav style, a massive clock hung around his neck.

On a deeper note, the pre-show videos are a cultural and thought-provoking collage of drag, punk, anti-royalism, soul, racial inequality, rap, and suicide. Somehow all the pieces fit together perfectly. I could go on, but many of the social rights topics are perhaps as relevant today as they were in the 60's and 70's and before and beyond. Can we make America think again?

.... And then... the curtains fly up - or down - or somewhere - and out of the darkness and sparkling lights, Morrissey appears, with Boz, Mando, Matt, Jesse, and Gustavo - and they launch into the microphone whipping opener Suedehead. The feeling is back - I'm where I'm happiest.

Everything, at least to me, seems to be going beautifully. Alma is up next, and then for the first time ever I get to hear When Last I Spoke To Carol live, complete with blazing brass and shimmering tambourine. Morrissey is wearing a deep brown shirt and the band is decked out in Mercy For Animals' Don't Eat My Peeps t-shirts.

Setlist (Via Setlist FM):

1. Suedehead
2. Alma Matters
3. When Last I Spoke To Carol
4. Speedway
5. Staircase At The University
6. Everyday Is Like Sunday

At some point between songs, Moz says something about how he "left half of [his] mouth in Guadalajara," and then adds that he will try to stand and sing and continue.  An ache of concern stabs through me and I wonder if he is okay - his health is the most important thing. To me he still sounds beautiful, although maybe ever so slightly hoarse; Morrissey not at 100% is still miles better than anyone else singing. We move on to Staircase At The University, a song that fittingly was released not very long after I had returned to University as an.... err... 'mature student.' Gustavo's fingers fly dexterously over his acoustic and Spanish guitar notes fill the theatre. I'm still worried, but I'm also reminding myself - and my flyaway mind - to stay in the moment - I'm at the concert and it's happening.

If there's one thing traveling and seeing Moz has taught me over the last few years - it's to try to stay in - and enjoy - the moment. I've always been a shipwreck of what-ifs and why-nots, and have spent my whole life chained to the pains and fears in my head. They're still there, because it's who I am - inherently perhaps - but yet - sometimes for your own sanity, you must absorb what's around you - no matter how fleeting it may be. That's what living is... and it's easy to be distracted from that space.

Then, after Everyday Is Like Sunday, Morrissey walks towards backstage. This isn't something that typically happens. Concern strikes me, and I immediately wonder if he is okay. It's not even about whether or not the concert continues, as much as I want it to, because I feel very worried for his well-being. Before Boz and Gustavo even walk out to speak to us, I have a strong feeling the concert is over.

Many of us sink our heads into our hands against the barrier and my heart drops to the floor. I speak quickly with a few regulars and we get out of there, although part of me keeps looking back to see if Moz will somehow appear on stage again. I feel a bit stunned, and I realize I'm in shock.

The little inner cheerleader that sits on my shoulder some mornings when I'm so depressed that it's a struggle to heave myself out of bed pipes up: "You were able to see him front row for 6 songs - imagine before you'd ever seen him sing live what a blessing that would be." My cheerleader is right. Seeing Moz always feels like a gift. More than anything, I just want him to be okay.

I sink myself into a few doubles at the hotel bar, almost compulsively refreshing social media for some kind of news.

Gustavo's beautiful words appear not very long after: "...He tried...he would have NEVER come out if he didn't think he could have. He tried. His voice is gone. But he's not. Just a bit of rest for his voice. Please understand. He is human."

He is human. And I can't help but think some people forget that sometimes.

Relief that Morrissey seems to be okay and just needs some rest mixes with the heady buzz of my vodka and cranberry and I try to stay uncharacteristically positive. We're just going to keep moving on to the next city - and stay in the moment.

There's a flight to San Antonio we have to catch tomorrow.

Mexico, Glitter, and Devotion

I’ve been meaning to write a quick or not-so-quick blog before I leave for my trip but time seems to be sliding through my fingers. I also, yet again, regrettably missed the anniversary of Ringleader of the Tormentors, which for some reason I perpetually think is in May, rather than April. Ringleader is a masterpiece album, perhaps my favourite of all time (although it is very hard to choose) - and one day I hope to write about it. As I haven’t even started packing, which is always a mountainous, monumental task (those who know me understand I usually attempt to stuff about 5 types of hairspray and makeup palettes into my suitcase). I will, for now leave you with a short but sparkly piece before I fly to the US this weekend.

Over the past week, updates from Mexico have been pouring in – and, watching the concert footage, you can see the absolute love radiating from the audience towards Morrissey. Mexico has missed him, and they love him dearly.  Audiences have showered Moz with gifts, flowers, and even the odd...black brassiere.  Judging by photos, outside the venues there appear to have been rather a lot of... bootleg merch stands that sell everything from leopard-print Morrissey baseball caps to baby bibs. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out and When Last I Spoke To Carol have been added to the setlist, and Shoplifters remains Trumpshifters, complete with the band donning “Fuck Trump” t-shirts.

Fuck Trump: photo via @conciertosGDL on Twitter

The world is full of crashing bras: screencapped from ILOVEMORRISSEY on YT

Musicians have an outlet for expression regarding politics, animal rights, human rights, the state of the music industry or media, and through this expression we see the importance art - and the artist - hold for social progress and movement of ideas. In a sense, popular music has deteriorated into mass-produced mannequins as the 1960’s rights movements music of Dylan and Sainte-Marie has shifted into pretty vacant Spears': “we should just trust our president in every decision he makes” mindlessness. Perhaps this is an unfair comparison, as folk rock isn't dance pop - but the overall decay of meaningfulness in music is a concern.

Are people afraid to have views? Are they afraid of backlash for voicing any sort of opinion?  I don’t think it is always an easy ride if you do speak your mind – and yet – for integrity’s sake and for art’s sake – authenticity strikes much more powerful chords.

But for now, let me ease up the political discussion... and segue clumsily into the topic of fashion - because - if you were glued to concert updates and a big glass (bottle) of wine like I was on Friday, you couldn't have missed the dazzling, dashing sparkly jacket Moz wore in Mexico City. The last time we saw Morrissey on stage looking so glittery was in Bergen last year, where he wore a breathtaking sparkly cardigan (my heart skips a beat).  

Photo via @Notimex on Twitter

Of course it wasn't long until this triggered the idea of a quick yet oh-so-important fashion poll asking for your Favourite Moz jacket look. As usual, we were limited to 4 categories so I chose:

Sparkly (if you're wondering, Moz has worn a sparkly jacket at least once before)
Checkered
Denim
and -
Classic Black or Tux.

Sparkly jacket from the past

Sparkling in CDMX - photo via wantingwavestv on Instagram

Checkered - a weakness of mine!

Denim

Classic black and Tux

After a nail-biting 24 hours of polling, with 70 votes, the breakdown was: in 4th place: checkered - with 19% of the votes, in 3rd place: denim - with 20% of the votes, the rarely-occurring yet breathtaking sparkly came 2nd with 27% of the votes, and classic black or tux took first prize with 34% of votes.

Speaking of tuxes, a number of rare photos of Morrissey in Rome by Fabio Lovino were released online a few weeks back - which was pretty great timing for the anniversary of Ringleader of the Tormentors.

By Fabio Lovino

And now I'm off to continue getting ready for my travels. I'll leave you with this montage of 3 Morrissey audiences: Manchester in 2016, London in 2014, and Mexico City in 2017... and yet - no record deal for an artist that inspires such devotion?

We luff you <3