7 times weaving past
far too many people. And
then, on
that final left turn onto
46th,
the air around that corner always rushes
like the silk of the finish line, and
my heart stutters
a bit, as I am met
with 4 Morrisseys looking out from the facade of the Lunt-Fontanne
theatre. Suddenly, everything else
disappears.
This
is
my first real trip to
New York. Sure, I had been there for 2 nights in 2017, but this time
it will be
2 weeks. I will even
learn how to semi-navigate the subways, and strangely,
for this claustrophic germophobic nearly
everything phobic, I begin
to like them: cooing
at fat grey rats on the tracks from the grime of the platform, and, as for
the ride – my favourite part is
when the train turns a
bit, squawking metal on metal, and sparks fly. I can’t pretend to
be, in any capacity, a “New Yorker,” but I’m
not entirely useless.
My
first night in Manhattan I meet
a guy selling records at a street stall, mostly weird rare jazz stuff
in silky filthy plastic sleeves ... I would
linger, but people, yet again,
overwhelm. I get
a lot of, “you’re not from around here, are you”s and soon
end up back in my friends apartment, looking out at a skyline that
previously existed only in
movies. I am alone,
the only sounds incessant honking and Imagine playing
on a distant piano ... a little too surreal. New Yorkers, or those
who can face driving in the city, seem to express their
angst through their car
horns: not just one long honk, but in
triplets and quintuplets.
The
next day, I walk into a cafe and New York, New York
starts
playing, and I really
began to wonder if I am in
a movie. Yellow taxis crawl up streets bumper-to-bumper, and black
fire escapes snake up the sides of decaying buildings like spider’s
legs. That night, we go to
a Patti Smith gig and a diner that looks
like something
out of Seinfeld.
And
then... May 2nd
arrives: Morrissey’s opening
night on Broadway.
What will it be like? When I
think Broadway, I think a chorus of girls with Carol Channing lips
dancing in glittering top hats, but surely not... and maybe
a lot of rich people. Will
they make us stay in our seats... at a Morrissey concert?
We
line up early, along with
international playboygirls
from Japan, the UK, Mexico, Belgium. New Yorkers are there too, of course. The atmosphere buzzes. Built in 1910, the
Lunt-Fontanne Theatre
features Beaux-Arts stylings: gargoyles and arched windows, and most certainly, lashings of glamorous golden lights. Tickets
scanned in, we are then herded into the lobby, impatiently
waiting on jewel-toned carpets to race down
to the orchestra. The
Broadway merch is classy and cool, mostly black, but I try
to keep my purse-strings
tightened because everything in Manhattan costs a small fortune, and
I’m already languishing under the dismal Canadian exchange rate.
There’s a drink called Hairdresser On Fireball
that tastes like cinnamon candy hearts, and a few shows in, when I’m
the right amount of
nervous, I’ll get one. But tonight, I’m 100% present, in the
moment, and relishing that pre-gig mix
of excitement and jitters that feels like a combination of first date
and final game of the playoffs, and
yet somehow, far beyond this
or any other description.
7
times we rush down stairs into the orchestra pit at Lunt-Fontanne,
and wait, under the glowing teardrops of chandeliers, for Morrissey to
take the stage. The theatre’s stage is closest to the audience at
the sides, with centre barrier stretching a half-moon ocean to
Morrissey’s microphone. Such a far gap makes stage-climbing seem
unlikely, and towards the centre, handshakes would also require extra
agility, or extremely long arms. Between the stage and front row
there is no existing solid floor, only a black ropy net stretched
over beams, underneath which lies a possibly 15-foot drop. I gingerly
press my foot through the black fabric of the barrier and see it
gives way, and the area below is soon littered with drinks, a purse,
and a likely ill-fated iphone. Freaky.
I
find this all a bit of a thrill, and clutch my Playbill, my eyes
dancing from pre show video to pre show video. And then... after
Rebel Rebel, the moment arrives... and we meet again. No one
is in their seats, well at least no one around me, and the audience
cheers, as Morrissey walks up to the microphone, wearing a black
sequined peacock jacket, a Morrissey merch tee (cut at the neck), and
dark wash jeans.
“There is a
light that never goes out... on Broadway”
he croons.
The
first song of opening night pours through the theatre like liquid
gold, and That Joke
Isn’t Funny Anymore brings
cathartic sparkle, soothing
the soul and captivating the heart. The healing
opener draws us in lovingly, followed by uptempo Suedehead,
which whips us, with a
microphone cord, into a frenzy. Set design exudes
vintage Hollywood, featuring
massive 1940’s-style camera flash bulbs shining
various colours (unversed in
such
matters,
I initially think these are giant metal parasols, but
awe-inspiring, nonetheless).
At times, trios of lights
spread like fans, basking Morrissey in ethereal blue.
“The roar of
the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd,” he
quips.
Setlists
span remarkable decades, yet always embrace in-the-moment themes,
indicating the timelessness of Morrissey’s art. Alma Matters is
an ode to living life on your own terms, If You Don’t Like Me,
Don’t Look At Me is a succinct “get lost” to the haters,
and I Wish You Lonely muses on existential bleakness. And...
as if our emotions aren’t already overpouring, unrequited love
pummels us to the core for the encore, with the painful, earnest longing of Let
Me Kiss You. My heart is open to you...
6
more times. Wow.
I
am now staying in Brooklyn between shows, enticed by its slightly
slower pace and a pair of very cuddly cats, peaches and cream-grey
Grettel and black with pink toes Minuit. Non-stop purrs lure me to
spend the day in bed, but I do make it out around noon a few times to
explore Brooklyn’s brownstone-lined streets and even take in a
Frida Kahlo exhibit, as brushstrokes take on new, textured life in
person.
And
every time, no matter how humid or hectic, that rush hour subway ride
back to Broadway throbs with tip-of-the-tongue, almost there magic.
In fact, in a strange way, this nightly penance intensifies my joy,
as do the beaming, disjointed rides ‘home’... to Brooklyn.
Before
and after gigs, fans wait alongside Lunt-Fontanne’s stage doors for
Morrissey to arrive and depart. Some hold black markers, hoping to have
their Playbills, albums, or own skin signed. If you time it right,
you just might see him slip into the venue, and if you time it even
better, he may stop to say hello. Celebratory cheers welcome him as
he arrives, and I wonder if one ever gets used to such a thing, and
what range of emotions it inspires. I love that he is loved... the
truth exists in action, and I see it with my own eyes every night.
Meanwhile, the clickbait-mad out of tune British press continues to
be obsessively cruel to him, and I hope that the reception first in
Canada, and then on Broadway, at least somewhat eases the pain of
that.
 |
| Night 2 |
Setlists continue to sparkle, as Morrissey’s voice is stronger than
ever, at once both smooth and passionate, and the band is ultra
on-point for slow, pensive pieces and vibrant faster-paced
ones alike. California Son covers dazzle, inspiring even
headier anticipation for the album’s May 24th release,
and one night, Morrissey brings a vinyl on stage, showing the front cover, back
cover: “I’m Me, Not Meat. Go Vegan,” and inner sleeve.
I
believe the setlists are also strong because Morrissey’s music
appeals to both current events of the external world, and to the
constantly churning internal world of the human spirit: covering
everything from how to avoid the dismal clutches of the media and tedious
bosses: Spent The Day In Bed, to experiencing the impermeable,
aching loneliness of rejected love: Seasick Yet Still Docked.
And... who else has ever openly sung that all-encompassing truth:
Life Is A Pigsty... and this is one of many reasons why we
luff you, Morrissey.
 |
| Night 3 |
 |
| Night 5 |
Every
night transports us to a different dimension, and every night is unique.
Small, precious details make the live experience otherworldly, to be woven into the
fabric of your heart for life: and I wish I could remember even more
than my ever-slipping memory can grasp, to relive every facet in its
entirety, but even when memories begin to fade, the feeling
can never be lost. I cling to Morrissey’s words between songs, from
the profound to humorous, to the profoundly humorous. One night, he
changes the lyrics to How Soon Is Now? to blend with Half A
Person... six long years chasing your tail... and it is
spellbinding.
“What
Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?” asks the backdrop in stark
white font, for Dial A Cliche. The question sticks with me...
and I use the song’s lyrical wisdom to hold me through some
difficult times on my return to Canada... and I again remember, that
I’m never really alone.
 |
| What Would You Do If You Weren't Afraid? |
On
Friday, during What She Said, I prop myself up, my hips
against the barrier... the stage seems unreachably far away, as I am near the centre of front row. And then... Morrissey is looking at
me, reaching towards me for a handshake. Can I make it? I balance my
left hand onto that black netting pulled over the abyss down below,
and stretch myself to the very tips of my left toes, an ungraceful
ballerina ... and a sharp, hardening pain tells me a leg cramp is
imminent, but I look into his bluest eyes and the pain entirely
dissolves, and our hands meet. In that moment, I wouldn’t trade
places with anyone else on this earth.
Closing
night arrives and the entire theatre throbs with spectacular energy.
Opening with the swaggering riffs of The Last Of The Famous
International Playboys, we are treated to another stellar set and Broadway is on fire. I feel so jubilant but also, inside, I am
beginning to wilt, as I never wanted this time to end... and saying
goodbye til next tour is never easy. At any given moment, I could
cry, or my heart could soar... are there any borders to emotion? I
think this is what it feels like to fully live. And I’ve done it,
7 times here at the Lunt-Fontanne.
 |
| Night 7 |
“Take it from
me. Life passes by in the blink of an eye. So the question is, what
the hell are you going to do with your blink”?
Boz
and Jesse stand behind Morrissey, facing each other, intricately
weaving guitar notes...the lights glow like golden moons... and
then... Morrissey sings softly, “I won’t share you...” for the
first time ever, live.
“The press in
England say really disgusting things about me to such a degree and
such a consistency that I think they actually have a crush on me...
and they just can’t stop... but anything they say and all the
horrible things that they continue to say... you , this week have
made it all worthwhile, I’m so grateful to you”
Tears
flow.
And then... one more Broadway
encore: First Of The Gang To Die.
Morrissey rips
his shirt off, throws it into
the crowd, and disappears
into the Manhattan night.
Outside,
the rain falls hard... and for the last of 7 nights, I look up at the
sign outside the Lunt-Fontanne.
‘Til
next time.
 |
| #teamsnuggles |
A very enjoyable read - you brought New York to life.
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