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| Morrissey in Strasbourg All photos my own |
It’s been nearly 24 hours since I left Canada, and I’m at Heathrow waiting to board my 3rd and final flight to Paris. Somewhat cocooned by the blurred sleeplessness of long haul travel, I have completely lost track of time zones, or even which day of the week it is. Eerie lights glow over Duty-Free bottles: giant-sized Beefeater gin and Christian Dior perfume stacked neatly beside Paddington Bears to trigger come-buy-me impulses, and the Costa across the way bustles with apparently miniature people dragging luggage. Jetlaggy loopiness clearly plays with my perception, which in combination with the artificial airport lighting makes everything feel other-dimensional, and I get that strange, pulling, gut sensation of deja-vu, or maybe that just means this is where I’m meant to be.
Perhaps... because I was meant to come to France for the first time over 3 years sooner. Morrissey was scheduled to play at Salle Pleyel in Paris back in 2020, but then... the world fell apart. I try to push the direct thoughts from my mind, but nearly every time I travel, see a concert, or reunite with a friend from afar, I feel lingering tinges of lockdown era attempting to nip at the edges of my experience. So many things I loved to do, things even tied to my own sanity, so abruptly taken away by global chaos and overbearing politicians with far too much power. Framing many of life’s joys is now a sense of trepidation and fragility: how do we know the world won’t slip through our fingers, once more? However, I am careful to make sure this disquiet doesn’t seep into the brushstrokes of my memories, which are my own, and I feel constantly grateful for every opportunity I get to do the things I love.
And I’m tied to life in the skies and on the road, which may be a side effect of still living on the same island, and virtually in the same town I was born in, way back in the 1980’s. I like moving around, and feel ready to make up for lost time in France. As soon as we board the flight, we are in another country and everything feels decidedly sophisticated: the flight attendants have chignons and impeccably made up faces and I fall into a forgetful stupor when they say “bonjour” and offer fancy-wrapped biscuits. Less than an hour and we’ll be there. Light turbulence rattles the plane down through shredded clouds as we hurtle towards Charles de Gaulle.
I absorb Paris in glimpses. An ongoing joke with many Morrissey fans is how we sightsee; by design, all planning revolves around show travel, gig times, and queuing, and touristing is a mere afterthought. Having never been one for the vast majority of tourist traps, this is fine by me, as I’ve always preferred traipsing side streets and hanging out in cafes to overwhelming attractions and excursions. The venue and our hotel is near the Arc de Triumph, and a rush hour dash enables us to take in the jetting, intricate steel of the Eiffel Tower. Vivacious laughter and cigarette smoke spill from outdoor cafes, and even though so many Parisians seem to smoke, they exude healthfulness rarely seen in North America, where such a habit is considered taboo. We seldom go far, and worker strikes make getting around challenging, and the day we mean to visit Oscar at Pere Lachaise, the cemetery is oddly closed to due “high winds.”
Vegan food is also perplexingly difficult to come by, particularly for a larger city, and even as we are kindly armed with restaurant recommendations from locals, plant-based options are rare, and most of us joke that we are living almost entirely off baguettes. I happily skip towards boulangeries, only to realize I have no idea how to order anything and my tongue flounders and flops over the unfamiliar sounds, with Spanish words preferring to escape. On the pavement outside the venue, we munch the ragged golden crust of still-warm baguettes, remarking in peak North-American cringe: “the baguettes really do taste better here.”
In the midst of protests against the French government, travel plans grow increasingly precarious. Friends begin to fret, and with train services dramatically reduced, cancellations ensue, and every email alert triggers anxiety. Parisian streets embody initial unrest, as garbage piles in alleyways beside hotels, bulging in black bags on cobbled streets, and fashionable Frenchwomen carry their shivering lapdogs over the trash to protect them from the grubbiness. At corner shops, fiery protest photos are plastered across newsstands amongst “I heart Paris” tourist trinkets. This could be my own bias as an observer, but there is something captivating about French resilience: a defiant reluctance to comply with ‘rules.’ For how often are we made to part with so many things because others, usually from positions of authority, tell us we must.
“Bonjour,
Votre train... au depart de LYON a destination de STRASBOURG GARE est supprime en raison d’un movement social interprofessional”
Panic ... we are automatically rebooked onto another train with hopelessly short connections. For clueless North Americans carrying far too much baggage, the task feels impossible. It dawns on me that Europeans drive on the same side of the road as us Canadians... perhaps renting a car is an option? Within minutes of booking, we have a rental car full of passengers: worldwide Morrissey fans representing the UK, Serbia, Germany, and Canada.
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| Lyon was gorgeous |
Basking in the afterglow of a beautiful show in Lyon, we meet outside the hotel the morning of the Strasbourg gig, and after painstakingly puzzling together how to fit so much luggage into a European-sized boot, set off around 9 a.m. in our kindly upgraded Mercedes rental - quel luxe! Even in morning, the sun blazes, conjuring spring; it is uncharacteristically warm for mid-March, and we zoom down smooth broad highways, reminiscing over the previous night. Hills dotted with grazing fluffy white sheep and long-maned horses speed by, and the green sprawling landscape, home to crumbling once-grand villas, is punctuated by pale gothic steeples, blindingly reflective against the virgin sun. Rest stops beg souvenir snapshots, and we take pics outside our car, decked out in Morrissey gear.
As dusk injects violets and greys into the skies, we line up outside the venue, Salle Erasme. I am buzzing with happy nerves, and by chance, my eyes fix on a friend’s ticket while she speaks to venue security. Strangely ... her ticket number looks very familiar. I shrug it off at first, but an unsettling feeling washes over me, and I take another glance at hers, and then pull my own ticket out of my tiny gig purse for inspection. Oh. No. I realize that I have somehow printed the wrong copy for myself after selling her my spare. I scroll frantically through emails on my phone, trying to find my other order, my hands shaking and eyes searching. There is less than an hour til doors. What do we do? My boyfriend races back to the hotel front desk, asking them to print the correct tickets for us. If my friend hadn’t had her ticket out, and I hadn’t noticed... the thought is far too stressful to ponder upon.
Winds pick up and low rumbles taunt an incoming storm. Relieved, and now with the correct tickets in hand, we huddle by doors. “Caw”... I’d know that voice anywhere... a crow catches my attention, circling in wide loops overhead. “Caw... caw...” more crows fly in, dive bombing and winding in and out behind the black gnarled, skeletal trees surrounding the venue’s entrance. Increasing rumbles and rushing clouds signal the arrival of more crows, swooping and flying in what looks like a carefully choreographed yet chaotic volta. Their chatter echos through the trees; “they’re warning of the storm,” someone comments. Nearly subliminal lightning flashes across the velvet sky, throwing more crows into a frenzy. They caw and careen with drunken elegance, fanning their tails, and this has to be the largest murder I have ever witnessed! As a big corvid nerd, I can no longer contain my excitement, and gleefully run over to film; “they’re here for you Marianne!” a friend exclaims. “I feel like the crows are telling us tonight is going to be extra special,” another adds. Personally, I couldn’t ask for a better opening act.
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| Crows |
Doors open, and we race into the hexagonal theatre to our seats. Darting past rows of velvet-red, I grab my spot, near front row centre. My eyes widen with disbelief as I observe the stage in front of me. Breathe... but I half-giggle in surprised awe: the stage is barely knee high. “Umm... how is this going to work? Won’t everyone rush the stage?” The venue staff warns us we must remain seated. I keep giggling: I’m sure I will wake up from this dream soon. In less than 90 minutes, Morrissey will be singing, virtually eye-level with us. The theatre darkens for pre-show videos, and my eyes survey the audience: still, no one is standing up. I wait. As the New York Dolls fill the backdrop, most fans in the front row stand, and many initially nearly topple over; there is nowhere to hold onto if one is pushed. Suddenly, a lovely, warm calmness seems to take over, and the pushing stops as quickly as it began.
Morrissey and his band: Jesse Tobias, Gustavo Manzur, Alain Whyte, Brendan Buckley, and Juan Galeano emerge from backstage. It feels entirely surreal... already. Cheers and screams of adoration light up the venue, and Morrissey bows. Tonight he wears a black blazer, a dark blue v-neck shirt, a rosary, and dark flared jeans, and leans into the microphone to say “Strasboug, Strasbourg... the sanest days are mad!” Poet Anne Sexton appears on the backdrop, and with the opening notes of Alma Matters, Morrissey tilts his head back, and begins to sing, his beautiful baritone voice imparting everything from divine bliss to cathartic comfort. He moves across the stage, dressed in rich, dark elegant colours, like the dusk sky alive with black birds, flicking the microphone cord in time with the music.
Vigorous rocker I Wish You Lonely is up next: a strikingly defiant piece from 2017’s Low in High School, the song has even more bite live, and it’s fascinating to watch all the ways Morrissey switches up lyrical emphasis and inflections when singing in person. “An earthquake... couldn’t agitate, couldn’t agitate” we sing back to him, hands outstretched and fingers fluttering, with the kind of energy only he can inspire in our group of international playboygirls. “Tombs are full of fools who gave their lives upon command...” and he muses on how so many humans, perhaps in an attempt to find meaning or simply for escapism, inevitably throw their lives away for anything from state and monarchy, to love, to drugs.
What amazes me about the show early on, is the beautiful restraint shown by the audience, for Morrissey fans are known to rush the stage, and for once, with no barrier and such a low stage, it would be extremely easy to do so. However, we seem to have a mutual, silent agreement not to, as we know this may lead to an early end to the show ... and remarkably, we remain at least, on the surface, somewhat unfrenzied, and do not jump up, simply beaming as much love as possible to Moz. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt such mutual warmth and love at a gig, and I still feel I must be dreaming as I look up at his purest blue eyes, so close and magnetic to the soul. I would almost feel self-conscious about how near he is, if the entire experience weren’t so blissful, but I feel completely free and happy, unchained to anything, except the moment.
With a diverse mix of Smiths and solo songs, the set continues, including Bonfire of Teenager’s Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings. Unveiled last year, Telephone is a blazing, pessimistic jaunt: “Please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now,” and while currently unreleased - we know all the lyrics: from other gigs, by word-of-mouth, and youtube - and sing along with famished ardour. Due to the slightly rounded stage, occasionally my gaze notes familiar faces, aglow in a mix of joy and near-puzzled disbelief at our tremendous fortune to see Morrissey at such an intimate venue, as he moves and sings, at almost eye-level.
Later in the setlist, Morrissey sings an even newer piece, The Night Pop Dropped, which is from his latest album, Without Music The World Dies, recorded only 2 months earlier at La Fabrique Studios in France. Immediately pulling the listener into its groove, The Night Pop Dropped is an electric bass-driven 70’s style funk, with catchy guitar riffs and punchy lyrics. “So sad for me, for us, so sad for the universe” strike as the perfect words to the rhythm, and dance in one’s head for days after, a completely hypnotic hook. The song feels fresh and innovative, while still imparting an undeniably cool 70’s vibe. After a sparkling keyboard solo, Pop ends with the refrain: “the best thing you can do is be yourself”: important, and positive words for a crushing world that often demands otherwise; Morrissey reminds us that authenticity and individuality is the truest path.
Upright bass and maracas hint at beloved rockabilly number The Loop, and Morrissey sways to and fro with vigour as the band hops with twangy guitars and driving percussion. We dance, clap, and snap, until the last notes, when Morrissey flings the turquoise maracas above and beyond the drum set, seemingly into oblivion. “I think it’s fair to say that we all do as well as we can everyday, all the time, we do as well as we can... don’t you think that’s true?... But do you really though? It doesn’t matter if you don’t, we can just be conversational... However, we are in a Knockabout World...” and he sings, grasping our hands, and accepting gifts and letters, while some fans approach for hugs with almost poetic gentleness.
As with The Night Pop Dropped, Without Music The World Dies, the title track of Morrissey's most recently recorded album, is already known and loved by fans, who sing along word for word. Without Music is an uptempo musing on music as lifeblood, featuring galloping guitars and percussion, complete with duelling virtuoso guitar solos between Alain and Jesse. The lyrics are rich with Moz gems relating to individuality and rejection of externally-validated notions of ‘success’: “You don’t need to lead a formatted life,” “You don’t need awards, awards, awards,” and digs at the government, who can’t “even govern themselves” and “24-hour news.” Artists are here to disturb the peace, and to be present for the debut of life-changing, impactful music on some of Morrissey’s most recent tours, has been an incredibly moving experience.
And all too soon, as time passed cannot be grasped, we find ourselves waiting for Moz to return for the encore, yet never wanting the show to end. Cheering, clapping, and chanting “Morrissey-Morrissey-Morrissey”, we continue to overflow with joyous disbelief at this night in Strasbourg. It feels completely otherworldy, like being immersed in a breathing, pulsing work of art, and even after 20 songs, I can't absorb it's all really happened. Morrissey reappears in a Cilla Black tee and bows, “Strasbourg, I love you... Now, as we all disappear into the future, I would like to thank you for listening...” and the opening notes of Suedehead catapult us into blissful energy, reaching, hugging, singing, desperate to somehow crystallize these last moments of the concert.
Afterwards, we nearly collapse in happiness, flushed with half-laughter, and half-tears. As we emerge from what might just be the greatest night of many of our lives, the sky is quiet and the crows have gone to bed.
