Top Ten Morrissey Moments 2018

I don’t mind New Year’s Eve as a holiday. It’s certainly not up there with Morrissey’s birthday, or Halloween, but it has its own charm. Perhaps I like it because it’s an excuse to drink lots of champagne (or maybe Fernet, a drink I discovered recently in Buenos Aires) and stay up extra late (a plus if you’re nocturnally inclined, like me) but I often do these things anyway. To be truthful, I probably also like it because it means I’ve somehow survived the tinsel tinged social awkwardness and forced joviality of obligatory Christmas gatherings and I don’t have to think of that for nearly another year. Phew!

What Will The Top Morrissey moments of 2018 be?

On the other hand, the passing of time and all of its crimes can be overwhelming, and it strikes me that years become shorter and shorter segments of time as decades pile onto my life. Not to mention, I find the fact I am hurdling towards 40 increasingly daunting – but don’t get me started on that. Anyway, New Years can be a time to reflect on the good parts of a year and hopefully, metaphorically at least, to close the door on some negative parts... or perhaps it’s simply another day bemarked as a holiday. However, since the concept of resolutions is ingrained into many of us, I thought I’d ask my Twitter followers, once again, if they bother with New Year’s Resolutions. It seems like not much has changed since last year, with 44% of 59 voters replying, “What’s the Bloody Point?”

Well, bring on the champagne.

Now, let’s get started on the true purpose of this blog post, which is to list the top ten Morrissey moments of 2018:

Every year someone freaks out about the order, and every year I make a point to say that there is no order and I’m just listing the top ten moments as they come to me... so keep that in mind... here we go:

Top Ten Morrissey Moments of 2018:

1. Latin American Tour

Morrissey played a 9-date tour of South America, including electrifying back-to-back shows in Mexico City and Chile. South Americans and Mexicans showered Moz with love, and after gigs in Peru and Mexico, he referred to the 2 ardent Moz-loving countries as his “heart’s lighthouse.” From footage, and the concert I attended in Buenos Aires, I can attest the fans are passionate, devoted, and full of vigour, and the rush of attending a Morrissey concert in South America is something I will remember for the rest of my life.

Morrissey singing Jack The Ripper in Buenos Aires

2. US Tour

This year, Morrissey played four dazzling sold out shows in Southern California, plus TV and radio tapings, starting with a Halloween date in picturesque seaside town Ventura. Each concert featured a versatile setlist and massive energy from Moz, the band, and the crowd. Tropicalia Festival was a long, hot day, but fans were fresh with excitement for headliner Morrissey, and some were even able to scale the barrier and towering festival stage for coveted hugs from Moz (no easy feat at a festival!) For the TV taping on The Late Late Show with James Corden, Morrissey and his band played new single Back On The Chain Gang. Hooray for Hollywood!

Morrissey at Tropicalia Festival

3. UK and Ireland Tour

Morrissey kicked off 2018 with an 11-date UK and Ireland tour starting in Aberdeen and wrapping up with 3 sold-out London dates in March. With Moz playing a good mix of intimate theatres and large arenas, fans got a chance to see him in a variety of venues, and many queued for hours in ice and snow, as a massive cold front struck the UK (the experience of queuing in below freezing temperatures in Brixton – with my friend from Indonesia who had never seen snow before - is something I’ll never forget!) The grandest jewel in the cap was March 10th’s gig at London Palladium: the packed theatre audience was beaming with love, and Morrissey wore an exquisite black jacket embroidered with a sparkling peacock, singing a 21-song setlist including November Spawned A Monster (for its first live outing since 2013). By the end of the gig, some of the seats in the pit had been ripped out of their hinges! Pure, unbridled, otherworldly ecstasy.

Morrissey in Newcastle

4. Glorious Setlists

2018 featured breathtaking setlists, with a great mix of classics and newer songs. In Aberdeen, there were some first (and only, at the time of writing) appearances of Low In High School tracks Israel and The Girl From Tel Aviv Who Wouldn’t Kneel, as well as powerfully poetic I Bury The Living, which became a setlist staple for many of the remaining UK dates. Classic live rarities such as Hairdresser On Fire (not played live since 2004), Sunny (last played live in 1999), and Break Up The Family (last played 2000) delighted in California, including the emotional live debut of Dial A Cliche. Years of Refusal’s All You Need Is Me and Something Is Squeezing My Skull were also tempo charging highlights.

On a personal note, a high point for me was seeing Life Is A Pigsty back on the setlist. I have longed to see Pigsty live since I first discovered Morrissey, and I got my chance for the first time in San Diego this year. It was one of the most moving experiences of my life.

Morrissey singing I Bury The Living in Dublin

5. A Big Year For Cardigans!

2018 was one of the biggest cardigan years for Morrissey ever, as he donned the dashing knitwear item at the majority of his shows on the Californian and South American tours. Be still my heart! Cardigans are my favourite Morrissey fashion look and he is very handsome devil every time he steps out in one. Other notable cardigan years include 2002 and 2009, the Grado cardigan of 2012, the Sparkly Bergen cardi of 2016, and 2017 – where Moz wore a navy and white number at some of his US dates and a peacock-feathered one on French TV. I keep track of these important details! There’s nothing like a good-looking man about town in a cardigan!

Charming cardigan Moz in Ventura

6. Chain Gang Single and Video

Since its debut at Maida Vale in 2017, Morrissey’s cover of Pretender’s song Back On The Chain Gang has been a fan favourite. This fall, Morrissey released the seven inch single version, including a reggae intro, and it debuted at #1 on the official vinyl charts, with terrific radio airplay in North and South America. The single was accompanied by a music video, aesthetically inspired by 60’s flavoured Everlasting Love by Love Affair, complete with pouty cat-eyed backup dancers and a swoon-worthy Morrissey strumming guitar.

7. Low In High School Deluxe Album

On December 7^th, Morrissey released Low In High School’s “edition extreme de luxe” (excuse my lack of french accents) on vinyl. Released on Morrissey’s label Etienne, the deluxe edition features teenage (or early 20’s) Morrissey on the sleeve, and is dedicated to Dick Gregory. It includes all 12 tracks from the original Low In High School album, plus an entire bonus record, which features three previously unreleased songs, a bevy of of live covers, and new single Back On The Chain Gang. Lover-to-Be has a 60’s feel, with flirty vocals and groovy organ riffs and This Song Doesn’t End When It’s Over is haunting high drama. My personal favourite is Never Again Will I Be A Twin, a bass-driven deep, dark piece with reverberant cascading guitars. The lyrics are Morrissey at his cynically romantic best, with lines like: “...the plastic art of falling in love, what a joke that was.” For the covers, Moz shows his prowess for dynamic vocal versatility, covering styles ranging from punk (The Ramones) to country classics (Waylon Jennings), while still making each song absolutely his own.

8. Covers Album Announcement

It’s great to have something to look forward to in the coming year, and Morrissey gave us an early Christmas gift by announcing the release of a new covers album, California Son, set for release March 2019. According to Morrissey Central, the album will include an eclectic variety of tracks from artists such as Jobriath, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Bob Dylan, and Dionne Warwick. I’m particularly excited to hear Moz cover fellow crooner Roy Orbison, and judging by the cover work spanning his career since the Smiths days, the album should be a gem.

Morrissey and Buffy Sainte-Marie - photo via TTY

9. Morrissey Announces He Is Returning To Canada

When I awoke on September 20^th, my phone was buzzing and blazing with notifications that Morrissey would be returning to Canada – as he had announced on Central that he had lifted his ban on touring the country. Due to the barbaric seal hunt, Morrissey banned touring Canada back in the mid-2000’s, and I've always understood and supported his reasoning, but thought I would never have the opportunity to see him appear live in my home country. This announcement felt like a dream come true, and what’s absolutely wonderful is Morrissey will be making donations to Animal protection groups, such as Toronto Pig Save and Vancouver Chicken Save, in each city he will play in. The last time Morrissey played in Canada was Toronto during the You Are The Quarry tour in 2004, and he hasn’t played the West coast, where I’m from, since a Vancouver date for 1997’s Maladjusted tour.

Morrissey with Canadian Pam Anderson

10. Morrissey Wears His Own Merch

2018 was definitely a dashing fashion year for Moz, as he rocked everything from tailored shirts and jackets to divine cardigans. In fact, Morrissey proved he can make casual wear look impeccable too, wearing his own merch tees with incredible style. He even customized his tees, cutting the necks and sleeves, giving them a 70’s feel – and also probably making them easier to tear off for the shirt toss! Vegan life is certainly treating him well, as he looks extra fit and youthful. The tees also pair oh so charmingly with cardigans.

T-shirt Moz photo by basia_ana via Instagram

This seamlessly leads us to our yearly favourite merch item, and no doubt, for me this year, it was the Morrissey Sugar Skull tee, worn by the man himself!

Happy New Year and thanks for reading!

Review: Morrissey in Buenos Aires

As the plane descends after 11 airborne hours, the land below appears surreal, a puzzle of earthy greens and clay reds. Flat for miles, with no discernible end, Argentina stretches massively and, from 25,000 feet above, looks nothing like any other place I’ve ever travelled to. With its vast spread of dust and rust, the landscape is reminiscent of scratchy Van Gogh brushstrokes; or, is this visual poetry derived from 29 hours of sleeplessness? Nico, 1988 plays in the corners of my mind; I watched the film in the sky somewhere between icy Toronto and central America, and Christa Paffgen’s low, warbling voice is my landing soundtrack.

While far in distance travelled, my journey itself has not felt long; it never does when you are on your way somewhere you want to go. Returning home is, of course, another story. This is my first time crossing the equator, and again, I have Morrissey to thank for yet another first. It strikes me as odd I am nearly 40 and have never been to the other end of the planet, but then again, some people never even leave their own hometown.

Morrissey in Buenos Aires

We are supposed to have a hired car waiting for us at Ezeiza International Airport, as alarmist posts on internet travel forums warn “taxis are corrupt!” all over South America. However, if one were to follow tips posted on most travel advisories, one would never even leave the safety net of bed. As we finally clear customs, it appears everyone else got the same memo, and there must be at least 3 dozen drivers standing with last name placards. Through a Kafkaesque procession of rickety luggage carts, business dads, screaming babies, and shivering lapdogs, my name is nowhere to be found – taxi it is.

My rudimentary Spanish is put to the test early, as our driver no habla ingles. I feel ashamed of how broken my once far more fluent tongue has become over the passing ... decades (yikes). We race along the highway towards downtown Buenos Aires, and the city’s looming police presence becomes obvious early. Flashing blue lights and bold text “Policia” blaze on white cars parked haphazardly across lush green islands, and bulletproof vests and gun holsters – are everywhere. It is a slight culture shock, and predictably, extra security generally serves to make one feel more insecure. However, nothing seems to be happening and I drink in the scenery.

High rise living complexes line the roads and motorcycles weave in and out of lanes, kicking up balmy late Spring air. The buildings are etched with time’s grime, but look well-loved and lived-in, complete with clothelines sagging with colourful laundry and balconies hosting requisite air conditioners. The cab driver murmurs something in Spanish... it is hard to make out while the radio is playing, or perhaps I am that inept, so I assume he wonders where we are from: “Somos canadienses,” I reply, slightly anxious someone will assume I’m American and bring up the orange president. As we near Palermo, familiar notes hug my ears, and like magic, by chance, The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get comes on the radio. I can’t help but beam a little; South America loves Morrissey.

“I’m going to see the one I love... so please don’t stand in my way.”

Buenos Aires Street Art

Resisting the jet-lag fuelled temptation to crawl into bed for an afternoon nap, I decide to tackle the business of acquiring some Argentinian pesos and my concert tickets. However, it is Saturday and nothing appears to be open. The streets bustle with people speaking singsong Spanish and I catch myself devouring snippets of words and sentences like a guilty eavesdropper, trying to re-familiarize with the language. Tiendas and street stalls pour with bananas, frutas, and colourful beads and mirrored hearts. Stalls sell everything from plastic wrapped computer magazines to prayer candles, and the delicate scent of incense wafts everywhere. People, even in the heart of downtown, are incredibly friendly and helpful. While it is a busy jungle of concrete and bricks, Buenos Aires has no shortage of trees and greenery, unlike many large US cities, which stand entirely grey and manmade. Buildings are painted with roaring jaguars and psychedelic cats, and colour is an integral part of life. On the main street stands a massive billboard of Morrissey, crooning in all-white. Yes, South America loves you.

Billboard in Buenos Aires

Having been unable to obtain a Brazilian visa in time for the Sao Paulo gig on Sunday, our first concert stop is Paraguay, and we fly there Monday evening. The venue is nearer the airport than downtown, and we stay in the lone hotel adjacent to it. I feel anxious about picking up my will call tickets for the concert, as there seems to be absolutely no information about where the tickets can be found on my order printout. I have heard panic-drenched tales of GA shows where people have queued all day long only to discover the box office doesn’t open until doors, and as any seasoned Morrissey concertgoer knows, those extra minutes will absolutely spell disaster for making the barrier.

We traipse over to the venue, beside the football museum, outside of which stands a massive 30 foot tall football. Mostly deserted like the hotel itself, no one seems to be around except a man wearing a black and white uniform, sitting in a hut down the road. Metal gates surround everything... but I really want my tickets, so I shrug and push on one gingerly – is it unlocked?- and it creaks open. Perplexed, I scan the area for the venue entrance, but it seems sterile and signless, with no box office in sight. I’m so concerned with trying to find my tickets that I don’t notice the uniformed officer making his way towards me, scowling with military sternness. Uh-oh.

“Documentos” he demands brusquely, his eyes shielded by mirrored aviators. I fumble for my passport and try, in creaky Spanish, to ask if the box office is open because I would like to pick up some concert tickets. He speaks quickly, and I can feel my bogus veneer of calmness cracking, as he doesn’t seem terrifically thrilled we are opening gates and wandering around on his turf. I understand enough words to piece together that today will not be our day for ticket acquisition, and slink off like a rejected alley cat longing for treats.

Hmmm how on earth am I supposed to get my concert tickets?

Paraguay

An internet search leads us to believe our best chance might be to go to a nearby shopping centre to see if someone there will print them. A taxi ride takes us past orchards, street vendors, and stalls, and we zoom past waving palm trees. Class division is unbridled here, and the mall, with its designer shops and overpriced boutiques stands in gaudy contrast to the weather beaten shacks on the town’s outskirts. The rich must profit and get richer, and the poor must stay poor.

Americanization also haunts everywhere, as noxious KFC fumes steam the air, and gluttonous whopper Murder King posters line the shopping mall’s walls. Ugh. I try to stay focused on task, and luckily find the ticket kiosco and fumble my way through the order – success! Snagging tickets and a bottle of Malbec, we make our way back outside to hail a cab. This particular cab has no back windows, its seat belts are merely dangling ornamental straps, and as I sit on the sun-bleached back seat, I consider my fate of possibly dying in a taxi in Asuncion. I shrug carelessly, but notice the driver pulls his seatbelt on as we accelerate to over 100 km/hr on the blustery highway, as my hair flies into my mouth.

Later that night, while sipping the Malbec, a message from a friend in Mexico appears on my phone. The Spanish stands starkly before my eyes; no translation necessary. Tomorrow’s show in Paraguay is cancelled due to food poisoning. Is Morrissey okay? What is happening? Concern and sadness knife me, erupting through the wine’s fog, and I crumble into tears.

36 hours later...

We land again in Argentina – I’m a bundle of nerves, but thanks to some friends I am nurturing a little thread of hope that Friday’s gig in Buenos Aires will happen. I am, of course, a serial pessimist by nature, but I try to keep focusing on that magical moment Morrissey walks on stage, and that it will happen Friday, rather than the looming black cloud of ending up crying in bed. Distraction is a must when you are an emotionally messy person trying to cling to optimism, so I am pleased to learn of a beautiful cemetery nearby: La Recoleta. I spent many younger years terrified of cemeteries, but now I find them calming for the soul; there is a peacefulness about walking in silence amongst decades-old tombstones and mausoleums, devotions to lives once lived, air one breathed. There is also an undeniable sadness to them, but one thing I’ve learned in my 38 years is that attempts to avoid confronting that emotion only drag one below the surface, further into despondency.

La Recoleta

La Recoleta is an urban cemetery, with very little foliage, stone built on stone. Eva Peron is buried there, and to this day people come in long lines to pay their respects, looping colourful rosaries and flowers through the tomb’s wrought iron facade. Evita helped bring the women’s suffrage to Argentina, and was tirelessly active politically, helping working classes gain rights. One can’t help but consider how vastly different she is from American first lady Melania Trump, and again it seems modern times fall hopelessly backwards. Tragically, Evita died in her early 30’s from cancer, but achieved so much in her short life, it is said she is an everlasting part of Argentinian collective consciousness.

La Recoleta

Towering white stone dazzles against Argentina’s blue skies in the form of delicately weeping angels, and as you walk from tomb to tomb, you can often see within. Some mausoleums seem like afterlife parlours, complete with family portraits, candelabras, and chandeliers; many are in a state of crumbling decay, and cobwebs frame their bars like intricate lace. La Recoleta is like no place I have ever been, and time spent there passes swiftly, to the point of entrancement. Sadly, tourists with selfie sticks occasionally make unwanted appearances, but other live creatures are far more appealing, and I am happy to meet a sunbathing cemetery cat.

The day of the concert arrives, and we are scanned into DirectTV arena’s huge property, which lies somewhat out of town. My overwhelmed heart flits in my chest like a startled bird, and all I can do is picture Morrissey’s blue eyes and hope that in a few hours I will be looking into them. I am happy to meet some new friends in the queue, and beaming-with-energy Argentine fans are decked out ultra cool in black Morrissey t-shirts, while others wear dapper tailored floral shirts in the style of their hero.

Is it real that I am at the barrier, looking up at Germaine Greer’s beads and curls once again? I wrap my elbows around the cool, bruising metal as more and more fans rush into the massive 15,000 capacity arena. The show is sold out, and fans have come from all ends of the earth: the US, Japan, the UK, Belgium, and other South American countries like Chile and Uruguay. Adrenalin isn’t everyone’s best friend: some fall running in to the pit, and fights break out early; it might be a rough one tonight.

Pre show videos and then... curtain drops ... and I wait breathlessly for the little flashlight beam which means Morrissey is coming... my eyes dance and dart through the darkness... and then... he appears, wearing a midnight blue cardigan, dark jeans, and a James Dean tshirt that is cut at the neck into a v. Silver flecks in his hair and colourful chains around his neck catch diamond glimpses of light. In this moment, every mile travelled and second waited feels so, so worth it: my love, I’d do anything for you. Soon, my lovestruck joy is thrown into another turbulent mix, and I am reacquainted with anxiety’s pangs as there seems to be a technical issue, and “will the show go on?” creeps into my consciousness. However, the issue is taken care of, and time regains its flow, and the band launches into the first song of the night, William, It Was Really Nothing.

The crowd cheers, “We love you Morrissey” and Moz takes the hand of a young woman teetering on her friend’s shoulders. Fans build towers with their own bodies to get a better view of the man who wrote the songs that saved their lives. They also undoubtedly want a treasured moment where their idol sees them – a precious acknowledgement of mutual existence. Outpourings of love come from both the verbal and physical, with outstretched arms, “I love yous,” and “marry mes” springing from the crowd. Joy, catharsis, bliss. A rush and a push from behind forces me into the rail, but it is not painful, and strangely offers athletic exhilaration.

“It’s my life to destroy my own way,” Morrissey sings during Alma Matters, flicking the microphone cord with whip-like precision. These words continue to soothe even at this time in life, as my parents continue to judge my very existence. Fans sing along, loudly, and mostly out of key, but warmly with love and excitement. Many hold letters, presents, flags, flowers, and at one point a stuffed animal of some kind tumbles plumply onto the stage from the depths of the crowd.

Moz dedicates I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris to the people of Paris, as the city is currently burning in the midst of riots and protests against Macron’s government. A towering back drop photo displays a masked, yellow vested protester waving the French flag with clouds of heavy black smoke framing the Triumphal arch. Morrissey reaches for our hands, singing, “in the absence of human touch” and I’m again part of a tower of people, as second and third row fans climb towards the stage, on top of one another, filled with dreamlike admiration and unbridled devotion.

The air wavers in my ears as a wall of sound - cheers, chants – welcomes the first notes of How Soon Is Now? Guitars crunch with delicious force, and strobe lights flash. It’s nothing short of pure rapture. Morrissey softly sings My Life Is An Endless Succession Of People Saying Goodbye over the instrumental, his voice haunting and smooth, in near-whisper merging two songs, decades apart, into one. As How Soon Is Now fires into denouement, Morrissey kneels in front of the drumset while the band plays with furious on point passion, and Matt thrashes a giant golden gong. The floor vibrates, part with musical rhythm, and part with excited arena feet. Morrissey, South America luffs you so.

First Of The Gang opens with its strumming guitar chords, and the audience claps in time with the rhythm, cheering as Morrissey croons, “we are the pretty, petty thieves, and you’re standing on our streets...” The lights engulf him like moonlight and rosaries looped around his pants sway enchantingly as he moves. One lucky girl is pulled on stage for a hug and a burst of intensity from rows of people heaves forward once again. If You Don’t Like Me, Then Don’t Look At Me is a strong middle finger to talentless tabloidists incapable of writing anything beyond boring, soulless slander pieces and to the complainer ‘fans’ who never seem to go away. But - right now the arena beams and throbs with supportive love, and there is no better place to be in the world than at a Morrissey show.

Ripper in Buenos Aires

The tempo slows and lights drop, then pour fiery red for Jack The Ripper, and Morrissey ties his cardigan around his waist revealing his toned upper arms. I cannot even still my heart as he toys with his cardigan sleeves whilst singing, each note phrased with emotional force. He stretches his arms, singing “crash into my arms,” and at other times points with passionate, punctuating gesture, “I know you.” Jesse's guitar solo soars as Morrissey falls back into the fog, laugh-singing rhythmically: is he perhaps momentarily transported into Ripper himself? It is mesmerizing madness. 

Then... those chords... so dark, and deep... Life Is A Pigsty. “It’s the same old S.O.S... but with brand new broken fortunes... and once again I turn to you...” Morrissey sings, his voice smooth and strong... and I do turn to his words, his lyrics, his spirit, when times are hard: lifeguard save me from life. Percussive tears drive like raindrops, lights dance, and at times Morrissey holds his hand to his head. I wish there were some way to return the help he has given me in life – and, even in this room full of people climbing over me, pushing into me with urgency - in this moment - I feel completely safe and serene in his presence.

Life Is A Pigsty in Buenos Aires

It is getting near the time to say goodbye, my love, as Everyday Is Like Sunday’s chords stretch and dance in the air; we have reached the encore. Last chance for now limbs clamour for his hands and fans sing along ardently. During the last verse, Morrissey moves the microphone stand over to our side of the stage, and I am again devoured by a sea of bodies, but my eyes won’t leave him even under the hurricane force of countless other humans – when will I see him again? He tears his shirt off, dabs it on his torso, and throws it into the air, and we pounce with catlike dexterity to claim a coveted piece. The battle is rough, sweaty, and semi-savage, and my finger gets twisted into the fabric and nearly snaps. But ... then the reward, a beautiful, slightly damp incense-scented cuff, complete with two little buttons. I hold it close to my heart as I return into the darkness of a warm December night, 11,000 km away from the question mark of home.

"No pisar el cesped"

Review: Morrissey and Starcrawler in San Diego - and a 2018 Tour Fashion Poll

I’ve had Blue Dreamers Eyes stuck in my head for days. Two lines especially stand out and my innermost thoughts are yet again revealed to me with much more clarity through someone else’s words: “I wanna go somewhere, where nobody knows me” and - “I’m scum and I’ve always been scum.” It’s a relief to hear these thoughts outside of my own head ... and I feel less lonely, less confused. I admittedly feel trapped by my daily life right now, and long to escape from the streets of the town where I grew up, and its looming suburban checklist where any divergence from the ‘norm’ simply blacklists one as a “loser.” Meanwhile, I drown in pessimistic snags and insecurity – shouldn’t I have life sorted out by 38? My soul feels 80; my soul feels 18.

Morrissey in San Diego

The strange streets of LA are the perfect place to forget about my hometown. There’s an anonymity to city life that strips away layers of judgment; part of me wants to disappear forever into this concrete jungle. As I walk around Hollywood, I'm enamoured by the glam trash atmosphere of vintage shops pouring with 70’s tassels and corduroys, and the vinyl shops where you can actually buy tangible records. Lingere-clad mannequins pout on street corners and the tinted-out windows of psychics lure you to find out your fate (I’m too afraid to ask). Scum and glitter taint pink-starred sidewalks, and I happen upon blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield’s star and snap a pic. Men wear hot pants and women have beards and all the 'basics' back home evaporate from my memory as every intersection screeches “there is no such thing in life as normal.”

Hollywood

Morrissey albums at Amoeba Music

I’m in Hollywood for the James Corden show, where Morrissey will sing Back On The Chain Gang. Prior to the taping we are sent a detailed dress code, best followed by wearing something black and sophisticated. We wait to be seated by TV staff, and it feels unnerving - like waiting to be selected for a pageant, as seating seems neither random nor based on arrival time. In the same holding area congregates a gaggle of garish extroverts, waiting for the Price Is Right taping; most are dressed in atrocious Christmas sweaters. Clearly, they were given a different memo for dress code.

After Corden, I’m on to San Diego for the last concert of the California tour, and I realize these two weeks have raced by with such brevity that my memory grasps desperately to hang onto every detail, and I feel completely unprepared to say goodbye. The concert, at Copley Symphony Hall, is seated, and I have managed to snag a front row ticket at the last minute. Oddly, seated shows offer a panic dimension all of their own, as venue security can be very strict about the audience remaining in their seats until the moment the band hits the stage, and things can get rather messy. Further, rather than focusing on the queue list or racing to and from your hotel to get ready, for most of the day you are left to your own devices, meaning you might just end up being eaten alive by nervous butterflies until the rush of doors.

Copley Symphony Hall

The Symphony Hall is located directly below our hotel, and we take a few jitter-fueled jaunts past the venue, trying to make sense of where the entrance is, amongst pink marble and gold donor plaques. My hunch is this venue is far more familiar with french horns and orchestras than electric guitars and rock concerts, and I can’t help but wonder if they will be unprepared for a passionate flood of bequiffed Morrissey fans. While trying to find a sense of order externally by scoping such things out, internally I am a churning mess of moods: the inevitable post-tour crash is starting to haunt me. I am already missing Morrissey and my friends before the night even begins, and all I can do is stare at the ticking clock and feel increasingly overcome by the strange mix of emotions tugging at my spirit.

We wait with tense excitement, across four rows at theatre doors. More international playboys have arrived for this final date of the US tour, with Belgium, Mexico, and Texas marking the map. While politely smiling, I slowly wilt and die inside as a lovely elderly usher with fluffy white hair tears my ticket stub, seemingly in slow motion. “It’s a seated gig,” I remind myself – but tranquility is futile as I skip down stage steps and already find a number of people standing against the stage. However, there is a little gap of light where I’m meant to stand, directly in front of my assigned seat – and I am safe. Tonight’s stage is extremely low, hitting waist level for me, and there is no barrier. I rest my elbows on the lacquered wood of the stage, ready to settle in for the evening, but venue security has other plans, as they begin a policing prowl in which they demand we sit down in our assigned seats. Sigh... clearly they aren’t used to Morrissey fans, and I feel in no rush to let go of my coveted spot. Yet again, I’m convinced seated shows pose a unique kind of stress.

San Diego Barrier

Finally, venue staff is successful in ordering us back to our numbered seats like unruly schoolchildren. I perch on the very edge of mine, anticipating a jump back to the stage at any instant. Inside I’m a churning storm of highs and lows, but on the outside I’m a leaping cat ready to pounce. Again, my scattered and tattered heart is no match for this external sense of ‘order’ and structured seating plans feel hopelessly impossible, artificial. But ... before I can succumb to overthinking, opening act Starcrawler takes the stage. Time to pounce.

Starcrawler is the best new rock band I’ve heard in ages, refreshing in a 21^st century where most new acts tend to be reality show rejects. The band members are straight out of high school, and I could easily be their mother, and I find myself momentarily fretting over stage lights highlighting any dowdy crows feet around my eyes. But... I hear a voice...“age shouldn’t affect you, you’re either marvellous or you’re boring, regardless of your age” and Morrissey’s words come to my rescue once again. Phew... and I’m able to redirect my consciousness towards gig excitement. I am forever learning and relearning how to stay in the moment and drag myself out of the murky quicksand of self consciousness.

Starcrawler

The four piece opening band is an LA-based glam punk rebirth, featuring heavy Black Sabbathesque walls of layered guitars fused with Ramones-quick tunes. Frontwoman Arrow De Wilde slinks on stage, seemingly barely alive while simultaneously being far too alive all at once, in moments creeping insect-like and barely moving, and in others shuddering in spasmic bursts of energy. An ectomorphic blonde, she wears what looks like a rhinestone jock strap and crawls on all fours, periodically spitting on the audience. During one song she chokes herself with the microphone cord as her eyes fully roll into the back of her head.

Their songs are high-speed and intensity and they play loud, as the guitarist, decked out in vintage clothes, Chuck Berry duckwalks along the edge of the stage, the soles of his shoes barely missing our faces. Their set list includes I Love LA, a love anthem for the sprawling city of misfits, and criminally vulgar raunch-fest Pussy Tower, the topic of which begs no further explanation. Another highlight is Chicken Woman, a horror-show bass driven crawl during which Arrow shakingly draws a bloodied cross on her forehead, apparently possessed by some demonic force the rest of us can’t see. The set ends as abruptly as it began, with Arrow diving headfirst into the crowd, leaving people wondering if she is “okay.” Brilliant.

Morrissey’s pre-show videos start up, and venue security begins a second assault, demanding we must sit back down, although naturally we just can’t hear them. The guards strobe flashlights into our eyes, and ignoring them becomes an act of pure will. It feels as though Lypsinka will never arrive... but then... like a miracle... she does...

Curtains drop and crumple, and now... now... I’m carrying my pounding heart in my hand. Out walks Morrissey and the band, which is donning smart black button-up shirts, suspenders, and grey trousers. My love drunk eyes drink in Morrissey, who wears a dark blue cardigan accented with pins, a cut up merch tee, and a rosary of white skull beads. This new cardigan and cut-tshirt combo is very handsome devil!

The band launches into William It Was Really Nothing, and my mess of moods melts into pure in-the-moment bliss. I want to feel like this forever: I like it here can I stay? Morrissey is timeless and ageless as he thrashes the microphone cord around the stage, his even-bluer-in-person eyes surveying the crowd. His voice fills the symphony hall, from pillared walls to gilded ceiling, and every inch of atmosphere transcends supposed reality into someplace otherworldly.

“I left the north, I travelled south,” sings Morrissey, and I remember my own journey from Canada to Southern California, two weeks earlier. I’m torn between wanting to take snapshots with my phone, and snapshots with my memory... and I realize either way, I will be living off of memories for a while after this last date of the US tour. To me, it seems strange I only discovered him 4 years ago, as I feel he has always been with me in a sense, a lifeline, anchored in my heart, and such a solid part of my foundation. In between songs I want to shout “I love you,” but only little shrieks slip through my lips, and while he is in front of me I long to jump on stage to hug him, yet my feet feel welded with shyness to the symphony floor. I don’t know why I am so shy, or trapped inside my own self consciousness in such moments, because my heart beats fierce, flooding love and gratitude through my veins. I feel overcome, and wish I had a way to convey such love to him, to thank him for all he’s done for me.

Next up on the set list is Hairdresser On Fire... “can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary and psychologically save me... I’ve got faith in you...” Fitting – as I am in dire need of such salvation myself. We sing along, and Moz playfully tugs at his cardigan, leading to excited squeals. At the end of If You Don't Like Me, Don't Look At Me, he adds a cheeky "so don't get your knickers in a twist"... and - as any Morrissey fan knows, one of the coolest things about live shows is the lyric switches. We reach towards him, a stretching sea of lovestruck limbs, as he flips the microphone cord to the rhythm of How Soon As Now? and strobe lights dazzle in time with guitar riffs. Before singing newest single Back On The Chain Gang, Morrissey brings out a 7-inch record, its cover emblazoned with feminist icon Germaine Greer, and playfully teases us with it, dangling the new release over our heads, and like kittens we reach up, til he passes it as a gift to one very lucky devoted fan.

Jesse Tobias in San Diego

Jack The Ripper’s smoke machines evoke London fog in 19^th century knife-plunging back alleys, and no matter how many times you see it live, such mystique inspires awe. As the fog erupts towards the audience in volcanic billowing clouds, Morrissey disappears, snaking into the floor of the stage with the agility of a dancer. When he re-emerges, his quiffed sihlouette stands in semi-mist, and he stretches his arms towards us, contorting, and wrapping his cardigan around the microphone, his waist, at times over his shoulders. “Crash into my arms...”

Jack The Ripper in San Diego

We are blanketed by semi-darkness as Morrissey and the band disappear backstage, and wait in thunderous anticipation, begging for their return with all the voice and applause we have in us. Encore-time is approaching, always tinged with the sadness and desperation of goodbye-for-now. On his return, Morrissey addresses the crowd, dedicating the next song to “our friends in Thousand Oaks.” The Southern California city had been through multiple tragedies over the last week, including a shooting that killed 12 people. Even with over 300 mass shootings throughout the past calendar year, many Americans claim gun ownership is a ‘right,’ blaming everything and everyone except the guns themselves for this unending rampage of senseless violence. In the same week, wildfires ravaged the Thousand Oaks area, undoubtedly afflicting numerous innocent non-human animals as well. Simply put, the increasing frequency of fires is undoubtedly linked to climate change. As we see a planet engulfed in despair, with many humans are unwilling to change behaviours based on greed and arrogance, it’s undeniable that we are the most destructive species this planet has seen.

Photo by @basia_ana

Morrissey stands before us as dark, accented piano notes fill the room – so melancholic, cathartic. Then, awe strikes, as I realize which song he is about to sing... “It’s the same old S.O.S....” he begins, and my heart clamours against the cagey walls of my chest like a startled bird... Life Is A Pigsty ... I have longed to hear this song live since I started following the Morrissey tour in 2015. My eyes tear, yet I am too entranced to fully cry – and my senses hungrily grasp onto every surreal moment of being here, in person, to see him sing the song that made me sob the first time I heard it on Ringleader Of The Tormentors, because it so completely reflected my own feelings. Pigsty has guided me through the darkest moments of my life, so many of which piled on through my 30’s: the unmoving depths of depressive episodes, the loss of my cat, the decay of relationships - and during all that pain, I felt as though Morrissey was there holding my hand, because he understood. And somehow, I could find my way out of the fog, because it was okay to admit life is a pigsty, and I didn’t owe it to other people to lie that I felt differently, because many times in life it is more painful and certainly more exhausting to feign happiness than it is to say: “Life is a pigsty... and if you don’t know this, then what do you know?” This in itself was freeing, life changing ... everything.

"Can you please stop time, can you stop the pain?"

“Every second of my life, I only live for you...” And... Morrissey tears off his tshirt, throwing it into the crowd... and disappears backstage... while I ache for more... and my memory longs to engrave each thread of this night, somehow defying the impossible and making every experienced moment tangible, accessible, forever.

And for one more song, Morrissey returns, this time in a button up shirt patterned with tiny flowers. Everyday Is Like Sunday’s opening notes sound, and the rest is a blur, as bodies tumble and rush over the stage, reaching for contact: handshakes, hugs. Will I try to hug him tonight? My heart pulsates, racing... and yet... shyness... and in split seconds I am stampeded by a fury of feet, and am pinned to the stage by another lunging, frenzied wave of bodies.  But not tonight, my love... and he is whisked away backstage... before I have a chance to say goodbye.

... and a 2018 California Tour Fashion Poll:

Now, before I start packing and preparing for a week in South America, I have some other extremely important business to attend to. With a new tour, setlists, and pre-show videos, comes new fashion. Before every tour, I’m excited to see what Morrissey will wear on stage, and he has certainly brought some dazzling and dashing looks so far this year. I decided to embark on yet another ultra-scientific run of Instagram polls, to see what your favourite look was in California. Here are the results:

For Round 1, we had

Patterned Shirt vs. Cut Tshirt

Tshirt pic by @basia_ana

and

Brown Jacket vs. Cardigan

Results were:

With a total of 74 votes, 37% were for Patterned Shirt, and 63% for Cut tshirt, with the tshirt being the clear winner.

The other poll was a true edge of your seat nail-biter: with a total of 86 votes – 48% were for brown jacket – and 52% for cardigan.

On to the final round...

Cardigan and Cut tshirt Battle

Over a total of 77 votes, cardigan won with 56%, and tshirt was pretty close behind, with 44% of the votes. There was, however, an absentee write-in vote for cut shirt, which changed the final result to 55% for cardigan and 45% cut tshirt. Such fashion drama!

Luckily, we can have both, as Morrissey often pairs the cardis with the cut tees. This has to be my favourite fashion combo of all time.




Places to visit in Ventura, LA, and San Diego:

Ventura:
Ventiki Tiki Bar

LA:
Donut Friend (vegan donuts)
Crumbs & Whiskers (cat rescue and cafe)
The Cat & Fiddle
Amoeba Music

San  Diego:
Soulshine (vegan restaurant)
Sushi2 (good vegan options)
Donut Bar (good vegan options)

Ultimate snuggle person, Kitty Purry
at Crumbs & Whiskers LA