“It’s so hot,” I mutter to myself, staring into my suitcase, which hangs open like a mouth dribbling out half-folded clothing. The air conditioner hums in the distance, a soothing wall of white noise, and I wonder if I should bother packing my rain boots; it is July after all, but forecasts suggest imminent showers. I wish I could simply blink and be halfway around the world, like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeanie, and I daydream of skipping airport queues and straight-jacket-tight economy seats. Even better, I would already be there, first seeing Morrissey in Israel, and then in Portsmouth. Lately, I find myself more prone to daydreams and fantasy than at any other point in my life, except childhood. I shake my head, return to the current moment, and pack my rain boots.
Of course, it’s impossible to think clearly: in less than 24 hours, I’ll be on my way, on a flight to Dublin. A half-world away, Dublin was once unknown to me, abstract, only available in photos, but now, thanks to Morrissey, it is a favourite city to visit, with its cobbled alleys and lively Guinness drenched pubs. In spite of my family heritage (maternal grandfather’s side), and my fascination with Oscar Wilde (since high school), it never occurred to me to travel there. Well... not until I found M...
Our overnight flight passes, blurred but never lagging, thanks to complimentary wine, and before it is even announced, I feel the plane gear down, beginning its plummet through layers of cloud, down, tearing, wisping, until smoky greys and whites part and vibrant, lush greens are borne into vision. Glowing like emeralds and velvety as moss, Irish green is like no other, and even hundreds of feet in the air, one almost longs to reach out and grab the land firmly in hand. The plane lowers again, and every moment I’ve waited up until now rushes forward; I am finally hovering over the right continent. Landing gear drops, and we touch ground, steel sparking concrete.
I awake in the hotel the next morning, lazy as a cherished chonky housecat, and reach for my phone, where messages blurt across the screen, my eyes narrow, then widen: “the queue started: get down here if you can.” Timestamp: 8 hours ago. Oh. Great. Anxiety tightens my chest and tears claw at the back of my eyes. Rumours of a short barrier apparently triggered early queuing enthusiasm: “10 people are already here.” In a hopeless haze of jetlagged drunkenness, I grab my umbrella and pull on my rain boots. Cold summer rain hammers the streets, and we race down to the Vicar Street venue to find familiar faces, soaked and huddling under the one available source of shelter: an awning peppered with holes. Riptides of rushing wind blow rain water into sleeping bags and air mattresses, and I immediately feel very much on the wrong side of 40: how on earth am I going to do this? I envision travelling through England for the next 2 weeks with a wet sleeping bag, while I stand shivering, contemplating my options, as my clothes soak through in less than an hour. In a mix of self-preservation and self-disappointment, we decide overnight camping doesn’t seem wise, and tell the remaining brave queuers to cross us off the list: we’ll come back the next morning.
Lying in bed with a slice of vegan pizza and my travel panda, Dandy, listening to the rain tap the hotel windows, I feel like I’ve let myself down, and even worse, I’ve let Morrissey down, but I decide to chance it, have an early night, and hope I can still score a decent spot in the queue the next day. In the morning, we loiter about the venue and are soon bestowed with bright orange wristbands, and shooed away until late afternoon. Back in the hotel room, with no clear idea of my number on the list, I begin getting ready. My hair, which I carefully straightened smoothly for the shows, is now rain knotted and frizzed, and I tie it into a haphazard bun and dress in a dark blue polka dot blouse, black pants, and the now oh-so-essential rain boots.
Reconvening outside Vicar Street, we learn we are numbers 28 and 29 in the queue, just squeaking in the top 30. Rain hammers on and off, and pigeons and seagulls march up the alley with darting eyes, searching for handouts, while drunken middle aged fellas stagger away from afternoon pub sessions with darting legs. I reunite with tour friends from as far away as Australia, Japan, and North America, as well as locals. Every now and then I remind myself, I wouldn’t know these now-familiar faces, or these now-beloved places, if it wasn’t for Morrissey.
 |
| Dublin birds |
“Beep!” tickets are scanned, the line begins to move, and with a rush and a push it lurches forward. Adrenaline makes me want to run (not allowed) or pass to the front (not very nice), so I wait, shuffling forward in my place, eyes darting like the pigeons’, with my ticket in trembling hand. A voice from somewhere bellows “Go right!,” and we are all herded not into the theatre, but rather into some sort of holding area, with rainbow-painted picnic benches. “Sit down!” another voice booms, my eyes widen and take in other fan’s faces, equally perplexed, like frightened, frustrated schoolchildren. “Sit down or you won’t be allowed into the theatre!” I perch on the edge of a bench, as many raise objections. In all my years of gig-going, I can’t remember ever having to do this. The once-carefully ordered queue is now randomly dispersed around the benches. With a huge and sudden creak, the theatre doors open, and in a chaotic chorus of screams, people frantically race forward. I notice a familiar Japanese fan has been pushed back, and guide her ahead of us, for she had camped overnight; then, in moments, with one final bottleneck lunge, we blindly race into the venue. I grab the nearest spot I can find, and my hand meets the metal barrier. Touch precedes thought, and I then it dawns on me, by some miracle, I have made front row, right near the speakers. My heart pounds with rapturous relief and I gaze towards the stage, which is quite close, and not too high. I blink – and once again, I’m in my favourite place on earth.
And once I’m there, at the barrier, every prior stress dissolves: the airport, the rain, the picnic tables – are no more. Even my ever-gnawing moods and antidepressant fog clear: there is a light. Hopelessness is a thing of the past, at least for now, and I blissfully absorb all I can here, in Dublin, with Morrissey about to appear on stage. I survey the instruments, cords, microphones, objects waiting to ascend to the otherworldly plane where sound meets air and creates magic. The drumhead reads: “live or die, but don’t poison everything,” an Anne Sexton quote.
The lights drop and James Baldwin appears on the backdrop. From the side of the stage, I catch glimpses of movement, and within moments, Morrissey walks across the stage, bowing, as the crowd’s screams dazzle my ears, crackling like fire. Tonight, he wears dark grey trousers, a smart, smooth black sweater, and a large, ornate Oscar Wilde pendant. His hair is styled neatly into a perfect silver quiff, and his eyes flash blue under dark, expressive brows. My heart rushes with love, and I feel a sense of comfort conveyed by his presence, this artist who helps me feel so much less alone in the strangeness of life. It is rare, and beautiful. This is where I’m meant to be.
An eruption of silver lights and sound pulses from floor to sky, as the band opens with How Soon Is Now? Morrissey sings, his voice pure and strong: “I’m the son and the heir, of a shyness that is criminally vulgar,” and some fans push towards the barrier, in an almost magnetic response. Dozens of voices raise from the crowd, “I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does,” and the stifled woes of daily life vanish, as everyone from laddish footie bros to all-in-black goth teens sing along with impassioned defiance. It is completely unifying and electrifying, as only live music can be, and as only meaningful music can be.
How Soon Is Now? keeps evolving and getting better, in my opinion. While always a classic Smiths song, the track has blossomed and evolved into its own, and Morrissey and his band’s current iteration of it is more powerful and fierce, somehow conveying a lifetime of thoughts, feelings, passion. Morrissey growls and contorts, stalking the stage like a black cat, simultaneously wild and emboldened, yet still at heart, a shy outsider. Tonight, he is surrounded by a vibrant new band, exuding equal parts coolness and awe-striking talent. Led by longtime guitarist and co-composer, Jesse Tobias, Morrissey’s band provides textured, dynamic musicality, at times restrained and intricate, at others, all-enveloping and primal. Juan Galeano huddles over his bass, his fingers gliding effortlessly with rolling millipedal fluency, and drummer Brendan Buckley, strikes the glistening gold gong with martial arts precision. Newest band members are Camila Grey and Carmen Vandenberg, and tonight is my very first time seeing them play live: Camila, on keyboards, dressed in all black, plays her solos with warmth and fluidity, marrying the soul of rock piano with classical phrasing, and guitarist Carmen is completely captivating, striking and strumming her guitar with virtuosic ease, often transforming her instrument into a vocal, living being of its own. All 5 musicians are a joy to behold, and have already gelled to create an atmospheric, tight band, brilliant in both its individual parts and as a complete whole.
 |
| From L to R: Morrissey, Carmen, Juan, Brendan, Jesse, and Camila |
“My first complaint tonight is... do you know, I’ve never been invited on Irish television ever...” Morrissey then slips into an Irish accent, “In me whole life... and all I can say is Thank God!” The venue security guard in front of me, clearly well versed in Irish television, lets out a giant laugh.
Irish Blood, English Heart’s opening notes dance through the air, building to the crescendo, “I’ve been dreaming of a time when...” Morrissey sings, lashing the microphone cord with rhythmic prowess. The Dublin audience bounces in tempo, surveyed by a towering Oscar Wilde on the backdrop, half smiling, all knowing, his hand on his chin. In this complete caress of sound, the outside world with all its ‘proper’ behaviours is entirely forgotten; we scream, reach, and sing, reborn if only for a few hours. Lost souls are suddenly found, and between songs, Morrissey chats with us, imparting wisdom, humour, his observations always enthrall:
“This country, of course, gave the world Oscar Wilde, and no one in history has ever been able to match him, to come near him, to touch him... and if you have a television set, pick up the television set, open the window, throw it out – be free!”
 |
| Notre Dame |
The venue falls into darkness, illuminated by reds and oranges, as an image of fiery skies framed by black gargoyles and gothic spires fills the backdrop. Paris. Smoke. Fire. “Notre Dame,” Morrissey sings his most recently debuted track from Without Music The World Dies. Notre Dame’s instrumentals boast wah-pedal rich bass-driven late-70s funk rock, while Morrissey’s lyrics are simple yet powerful in their directness, repeated like protest lines, at times employing poetic personification of the cathedral: “Notre dame, we know who tried to kill you.” The repetitive, near-chant of the lyrics overlaying intricate music creates a juxtaposed, layered effect which adds to the power of the piece; such an unexpected, innovative combination works well.
The setlist continues with three vibrant gems from Morrissey’s recent catalogue: Low in High School’s I Wish You Lonely, and currently unreleased, but already beloved Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings, from Bonfire of Teenagers, and Without Music The World Dies’ The Night Pop Dropped. I Wish You Lonely is an audience favourite for many of us: a ravishing avalanche of sound and biting lyrics warning of the perils people – fools – give their lives to, including “romance gone wrong.” Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings combines galloping edgy guitar riffs with pessimistic lyrics dabbed with dark humour: “please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now.” Newest song of the trio, The Night Pop Dropped is a nimble poetic jaunt alive with 70’s funk. Even though Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings and The Night Pop Dropped have not yet been released, the audience sings along, word for word, demonstrating the power of live music, and the truth of what speaks to people, for while record companies cloistered in sterile office buildings hold Bonfire hostage and Morrissey (at the time of writing) is unsigned, these new, unreleased songs have etched themselves within the fans’ consciousness, tattooed everywhere from skin to heart. Surely, if these companies were interested in the desires of actual breathing, thinking people, Bonfire and Without Music The World Dies would already be on turn tables, discs, and streaming across homes, but we live in strange times, where thoughtful, intelligent art is suppressed, and pre-packaged, pre-determined pop stars are thrust upon us by the world’s crashing bores. This begs the question, why are we being pushed down to the lowest common denominator? But likely, the question is in the answer, and we are all expected to blindly and happily lap up whatever is fed to us, for fear we actually might otherwise think for ourselves. Authentic art ultimately suffers in such a state, and for many of us, this injects an even more intense hunger for true music, to see it live in the flesh, sacred and tangible in experience. Still, it feels impossible that such powerful music remains unreleased: when will the world listen?
Ultra-trash-glam New York Dolls, leggy and brash, glower down from the backdrop, as the whirling opening notes of Half a Person grace the air. “Call me morbid, call me pale...” Morrissey sings smoothly, and voices from the audience, some low, and some high, sing back. The rapturous sea of voices grows louder, and Morrissey notices, beginning a dialogue with the audience, their arms outstretched; it’s completely magical, spur-of-the moment joy. Morrissey’s nephew, Sam, filming and watching from the side of the stage, is beaming as well, amused by the perfect poetry of the moment. Luckily, at the time, I have my phone out and also captured the moment on film.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but we really are stuck in a completely clueless world and I’m sure you’ve seen television commercials and television in general and the so-called news and so forth and it is very, very depressing and I can’t release music anymore because I’m an individual and that isn’t allowed. Everybody must be the same: sing the same song, say the same things...”
Welcome to this Knockabout World. And how isolating this world is, but I feel so grateful to have found Morrissey. I hope he feels all the love beaming up to him from the audience. I think of the months leading up to the show and how lucky I feel to be here right now. “You’re okay by me...” he sings, and near the end of the song, moves towards our side of the stage, by the speaker. I prop myself up on the barrier, reaching, and he reaches to me and grasps my fingertips, looking into my eyes. Every minute, hour, day, and month I have waited disappears and my heart swells. Every moment and mile was worth it, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else on earth.
As lights drop, an impassioned storm of cheers beckons Morrissey and the band back for the encore. Morrissey returns, wearing a yellow merch tee, bows, and addresses the crowd, “I hope you can continue to deal with the trauma of being alive, because strange as it may seem, these are still the good old days.” Sweet and Tender Hooligan roars through the venue, charging, driving, and arms and bodies flail in final frenzied attempts to grasp Morrissey’s hand. He tears off the yellow shirt, flinging it to the audience, who are rabidly ready to ravage for a piece of coveted fabric. And he is off stage, and the moments I longed for, and adored, are now a precious blink in time.
"To live is the rarest thing in the world: most people just exist."
- Oscar Wilde
No comments:
Post a Comment