Morrissey Prints for Paws

 Moz Prints 4 Paws

Los Angeles is a big Morrissey town; in fact, many fans fondly refer to it as Moz Angeles. It’s one of those rare cities that is alive: full of vibrant people, music, culture, and life. Over the past week, as wildfires have devastated much of the Los Angeles area, seeing footage of people and animals displaced and in such distress has left a hole in my heart. Having just returned from attending a Morrissey gig in LA the previous week, it’s hard to believe how quickly life can be turned completely upside down. I can’t even imagine how frightening and devastating this is for those who live there.

My heart goes out to everyone affected.

Like many, I feel helpless watching from afar and would like to try to do something. I have never really thought about selling my Morrissey concert photos as I’m not a photographer or anything, but I’ve had some fans ask in the past about purchasing prints. So now is the time, I think, with 100% of profits going to Pasadena Humane Society. Since the wildfires began, Pasadena Humane has taken in over 400 animals, including wildlife, from the Eaton fire emergency. These animals need varying levels of care due to injuries such as smoke inhalation and burns.

So let’s do this! Here’s how it works: I have selected 3 prints* from recent Morrissey concerts, which are available in 8x10’s, in either glossy or satin matte finishes.

Print A: Moz Sydney 1

Print A

Print B: Moz Sydney 2

Print B

Print C: Moz Strasbourg 1

Print C

The price for an 8x10 + shipping is $25 US, with each additional print costing $15.

(outside of North America please add $3 for shipping)

For each order, please specify

1. a) Print name(s)

b) quantity

c) finish: glossy or satin matte (defaults to glossy if not selected)

2. Mailing address for shipping cost.

I will then reply with the total cost, which is payable through Paypal (sorry, CashApp and Venmo are not available in my country).

The best ways to reach me for orders or inquiries are:

sadglamourphotos@gmail.com

or message me on

Instagram

Twitter (X)

Bluesky

Please remember 100% of Profits will be going to the Pasadena Humane Society. That means once the cost of the print, packaging, and shipping is covered, the rest goes to the animals! If you purchase photography, you will be kept up to date on donation information!

You can also donate directly to Pasadena Humane Society here.

*custom prints may be available upon request for a small additional fee

Update:

As of January 20th, 2025, we have raised $161.08 US for Pasadena Humane. This fundraiser is ongoing so if you would like to order prints, please let me know! Thank you to everyone for their donations and social media support.

Australia Review Part 1: Intro and Brisbane: A Rare Kind of Electricity

 

I’ve decided to post this unedited version. I kind of tackle some existential thoughts I’ve been having – which feels slightly unwise but I am just so tired of feeling I should censor or bend myself for other people whose opinions I shouldn’t really care about. Enjoy it.

The five-hour flight from Sydney to Perth is simply a glimpse of time once you’ve crossed the Pacific ocean from North America all the way to Australia. Everything is relative, I suppose, and that applies to time and distance: two seemingly impossible factors to ever fully control, as much as we’d like to. Nothing frightens me about flying itself except the people, and people have confused and frightened me for my whole life. Being in the sky and looking out at the sprawling landscape below, cracked beiges and olive greens, makes everything feel huge and endless. It’s not until you arrive in Australia, so unfathomable from across the globe, that you realize how big the country actually is.

The terrain looks unknowable, wild, and vast, and I wonder what kinds of, if any, animals live down on that dry, scaly land. I’m so happy to be away, if only for a few weeks, from my hometown where being an alien is painful. My own sense of inadequacy for not fitting into such a life of boxed stores, boxed houses, and boxed lives never really leaves: a birthmark of guilt and confusion. However, when I’m away, none of that really matters and feeling alien morphs into a sort of delicious freedom. And now I’m on a plane, the closest I’ll ever be to becoming a migratory bird, nestless and restless, and Australia waits below.

Koala street art

And yet, on landing in Perth, my body can’t quite keep up with the excitement, or the intensity of my mind. I realize I still need rest from jetlag, and I inwardly curse the aches, pains, and lines that separate me, with layers of dust and rust, from the youthful sparks I know somehow still course underneath. And I realize some wonderful people will obviously comb my writing to find out my insecurities so they can then write about me anonymously, but I will continue to say what I think and feel because I don’t believe I should censor myself simply because of other people’s issues. So there you go. Three paragraphs in. Of course people confuse and frighten me, why wouldn’t they?

Lounging by the hotel pool, we receive the news the Perth show is unfortunately cancelled, and I am oddly calm, remaining confident the other shows will work out. This is unusual for me, as I’m typically stereotypically a pessimist, but something feels different, and I know it’s gonna happen someday, so I make my way to Melbourne. In the ubers connecting to airports, a different world rushes by, complete with fancy exotic birds I can’t name and gnarly, flat-topped trees.

The day of the first concert in St. Kilda, we walk down the Yarra River and from afar I notice a black swan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a black swan in person before, so we cross the bridge over the river to get a closer look. The swan is dark and thoughtful as he elegantly, almost coyly tilts his head while paddling, making little ripples of water circle away from him. He’s alone and beautiful, the only swan amongst silver gulls and ducks, and I take his picture and begin to wonder if he’s sad. There’s a beer can floating in the water nearby. People. Sometimes I think too much.

Black swan in Melbourne

The two Melbourne shows race by, more blurs in my receding memory, and I’m further invigorated, at least temporarily divorced from regular life. There are drinks with friends I haven’t seen in years, December’s summer blazes on, the street art is awesome, Morrissey’s voice is spectacular and soul-elevating, I catch one of Jesse’s guitar picks, I cry and laugh and sing at the gigs. It’s going “well” if I could maybe just turn my phone off... but the messages come in: “Do you know you’re being written about?” “On that site...” Actually, yes, just don’t remind me. People. The ones telling me, of course mean well, I think?... should I know? Probably. Does it matter? I’m not sure. To hide away seems like giving in: posting photos and writing are some small things I enjoy. I vacillate between the quiet power of ignoring it, and the emotionally-driven one of reacting. I’m euphoric one moment, then desperately sad the next, but... to be fair, I’ve always been like that, so I don’t think anything has changed, and maybe that’s just me, background noise or not. I’ll take the euphoria for now and forget about the rest, for the euphoric bits don’t come as often.

Melbourne

We fly to Brisbane. On the plane, I finish reading a book for our somewhat defunct Australian book club: Candy, by Luke Davies. I love it: the writing style, the darkness, and aching romance of the broken characters. It’s a book about heroin addiction. Reading about perfect people with perfect lives is, of course, tedious, and shattered souls reflect multifaceted reflections and rejections, which is strangely always far more beautiful. I enjoy walking through Brisbane, and in my travels I see everything from kangaroos to “bin chickens,” and I wear a sundress and drink red wine out of a massive glass.

The next morning we wake early to learn the queue has started for the only General Admission gig of the Australian tour. The list begins and is mostly regulars, save for a couple locals. By 8 am the heat already swelters and swells, and I feel so Canadian, and so pale, moving wherever I can find a gasp of shade from the sun. In my bag I have a small present for Morrissey, and I want to write him a letter, but I feel uncharacteristically wordless, perhaps from the travel, perhaps from being more overwhelmed than usual. I decide tonight is not the night for that, and I get ready with a friend in my hotel room. Queuing in the heat has made me feel ragged, and I take time to curl my hair and moisturize, and for once I dress in something more colourful and floral, but everything I do is with shaking hands. Some friends and I agree: shots are in order, and we rush into a bar across the street from the venue: Hey Chica!, as vibrant pink flamingo murals watch on.

The shots help, and we reorganize ourselves in line, this time with little sharpied numbers on our hands, which somehow always makes things feel far more secure, even though it probably doesn’t do much. At 7pm, we speed walk into the theatre, in order, and I grab the perfect spot on the barrier. Every time is the first time, and relief washes over me to be standing on the rail, waiting for pre-show videos to begin. Morrissey has added some new songs to the playlist this time: and perhaps my favourite new entry (since he added Why Can’t We Be Friends by War) is Birthday Party by French punk band Stinky Toys (that name!) Frontwoman Eli Medeiros’ delivery is so deadpan and awkward it’s sublimely sexy as she shimmies in a tiny metallic red tube dress. A gold snake necklace wraps around her neck, identical to a belt my mother once owned in the early 80’s. Like many things from my childhood, I had forgotten about the snake belt/necklace, and I suddenly remember playing dress-up with it. All I wanted was to feel pretty and important and glamorous, and the gold snake achieved just that. Birthday Party is raw and catchy, and I once again lament not having been around to witness the coolness of the 1970’s.

Source: YouTube

Brisbane erupts as Morrissey enters the stage under James Baldwin’s watch. There’s a different energy to GA shows, and the audience feels more singular: a nebulous breathing, heaving being. Australian audiences, like Canadian ones, are not as rough and wild as those in the UK or LA, but they still exude a tangible, joyous gratitude, and fans sing along and reach across the barrier’s gap, which is too far from the stage for any handshakes with Moz tonight. Like magic, I am immediately freed from the cage of my own head because thoughts so similar to my own are expressed through song: “so... the life I have made may seem wrong to you...” I am revived. I Wish You Lonely remains one of my top-ever songs: it dances with poetic pessimism, it’s rhythmic with biting syllables, and like a vivid half-dream, it’s almost too keenly aware. “Tombs are full of fools who gave their life upon command/Of romance gone wrong/The same old glue and never coming true, never coming true/Tombs are full of fools who gave their life upon command/Of heroin, heroin, heroin, heroin, heroin/And never coming back, never coming back.” No wonder I live for such escape.

Alma Matters

Morrissey sways and turns his head to the music, thrashing the microphone cord, as How Soon Is Now? swells upon us, infatuating like thunder, building walls of cascading, fierce notes. I much prefer the 2023 version of the song to the original Smiths version: for in 2023 it captures a lifetime of longing, and it’s edgier, and darker. With Morrissey, the song has matured into something far more powerful and defiant, and I adore that. He stands at the microphone, wearing a dark blue dress shirt, which he fiddles with and wears open at the neck to expose a large intricate turquoise necklace. “See I’ve already waited too long, and all my hope is gone...” My heart is open and wounded. Yes.

Morrissey and Juan Galeano

Morrissey’s current band is, in my opinion, his best ever, consisting of 5 accomplished musicians and composers with a wealth of experience in the music industry. As a unit they’re tight, and their individual gifts blend to create something divine and dynamic. The rhythm section builds up a driving, pulsing foundation, with Juan Galeano on bass and Brendan Buckley on drums, blending primal rhythmic bliss with virtuosity. Camila Grey is on keyboards, looking cool in dark sunglasses, the keys and notes rolling effortlessly under her fingers. Guitarists Carmen Vandenberg and Jesse Tobias captivate and combine to weave a poetic spell of sound, while imparting depth and passion to the music. It’s art how each song ignites such a unique blend of new energy and lifelong emotion, and I love musicians that can convey so much through their instruments; it’s completely transcendent. For me, the pinnacle of music is when it’s not only technically good, but also captures pure feeling: this is it. The sound is simultaneously more self-aware, bold, and empowered, while retaining the vital energy of youthfulness, which is symbolic of Morrissey himself and what his music, over time, feels like to me. Plus, Moz and the band look so damn cool. It’s beyond exhilarating to witness in the flesh.

Carmen Vandenberg

Jesse Tobias

The setlist itself moves between super-ultra-dreamy romantic pieces like Let Me Kiss You (crooning, melancholic, impassioned) and Darling, I Hug a Pillow, which has a 60’s girl group vibe and an ethereal outro, to stinging, forceful numbers like Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings and Irish Blood, English Heart. It’s this combination, or juxtaposition, however you prefer to think of it, that makes Morrissey’s music so timeless and all-encompassing: a mixture of longing, oft-unrequited love, and bold defiance, particularly towards feeling forced to ‘fit in.’ I am two people. It’s carved into my lonely introvert’s soul as each note or lyric rescues me. We sing back to him; it’s a rare kind of electricity.

“What I was trying to say before, God interrupted me... I don’t exactly get the best press, as you may have noticed... But occasionally, about once every thirty years, if I’m in a long corridor, I’d bump into journalists who said horrendous things about me, and they’re always like little shy school girls... And isn’t it funny how people are very harsh with one another? Well I know I am.” [source:  Celeste_2190, Instagram]

Morrissey leads into Half a Person, and in a way I think many of us remain “16, clumsy, and shy,” and perhaps there is no cure. It’s buried under the layers of rust and dust and one of the only constants unaffected by the passage of time. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want is another reflective piece, almost mystical in its beckoning: “see the life I’ve had, can make a good man turn bad.” Morrissey’s lyrics spin delicate threads of hope around the ever-imposing gloom of life and somehow they elevate despair into wishing. Even the saddest songs bring comfort. The lighting dances like moonlight, and many fans stop singing and moving simply to watch in awe as his voice embraces us with its strength and beauty. It’s all gorgeous.

With two more nights in Sydney ahead, fans roll out onto Brisbane’s streets after the gig, where mismatched partygoers, booze hounds, and club kids congregate and stumble down the street. It is a Friday night, after all. The bar won’t even serve doubles after midnight, which seems harsh but possibly logical, as even by that time people seem madly drunk... or something else... and I witness everything from pastel Harajuku girls on street corners, to drunken satin brides, to old toothless gritty punk dudes. I even see a lumbering man with a huge white beard wearing a purple sequined dress; it’s a scene. And every now and then, someone passes by in a Morrissey tour tee. Thankfully, there is no such thing in life as normal.

Up next... Sydney

Review: Morrissey in St. Petersburg

 

Following Morrissey's tours since 2015, I had zigzagged almost all over America, but had not yet travelled to the Southeastern US. Waiting for a red-eye flight from Seattle to Tampa, I sit in the corner of an airport bar with a double gin and tonic and the requisite vegan french fry basket, with still nearly 6 hours to go til boarding. Seattle is the first city in which I attended a Morrissey concert, and as such holds a certain magic for me, defined not just by its PNW piers and 90’s grunge, but by the very first moment I saw Morrissey, with my very own eyes. I remember he was awash with gold light, a different kind of being, set apart from the world’s crashing bores, and the tremendous avalanche of relief I felt as I was finally able to see him. He breathed life into me when I truly needed it. Revived and resuscitated, I was forever altered at the altar of live music, and from that moment, I wanted to try to attend as many shows as I possibly could.

On arriving in Florida, I collapse in a cool white hotel bed almost immediately and doze for most of the morning and afternoon. Slits of sun slip through the curtains and remind me there’s a city outside I’ve never visited, that I should be exploring, but exhaustion seems to make it virtually impossible. It’s a mix of jet lag from the red-eye, and the lingering depression that has been eating at me lately. It’s hard to tell at times if I’m beginning a mid-life crisis or it’s simply typical depressed me. Plus, the bed is just so damn comfortable.

In late afternoon, a friend gives me the push I need, and I’m rescued from my nap-cloud. We search for vegan food and walk along the pier. St. Petersburg is bright with pastels, pinks, whites, compared to the rainy monochrome of my Pacific Northwest home. There is a 90’s vibe I can’t quite articulate, and statues of dolphins and pelicans are everywhere. On the beaches, the sand is fine soft platinum, unlike the coarse dirt-grey of home, and palm trees spear into humid blue skies. From the pier, I snap pictures of the glittering skyline as the sun sets. After the pier, we walk back to my friend’s hotel and sit on the porch, which smells of old wood, and sip cocktails with all sorts of Southern names and ingredients I don’t recognize. Lush night winds make palms sway, and fairy lights glitter as we giggle with excitement over tomorrow’s gig. Am I alive yet?

The next night, walking to the venue, I am a strange bundle of nerves. Venue staff lets us into the lobby first, and I attempt to drown my nerves in more gin; alas, the bastards have learned to swim. I meet up with some friends from the US and Australia, and we chatter and snap pics until theatre doors open. We speed walk into the theatre’s gilded darkness (security hates running) and I grab a spot at the stage near two friends. Security begins eyeing us for not taking our seats: they are clearly not used to Morrissey fans. “You’re all standing in front of your seats, right?” they ask. “Of course we are, oh yes!” Security paces back and forth, but leaves us alone for a while. Breathe. I try to act calm and oh-so-innocent. Then, one leans down and begins to check tickets. “Everyone must sit down in their seats!” a large bald man barks. My ticket is 2^nd row, and like a dejected school kid, I solemnly return to my seat, which is directly behind two very tall men... sigh... I wonder how I'll be able to see. I’m now near the aisle on Jesse’s side of the stage, and the bald security guy looms and glowers, while I nervously play with my phone, teetering on the edge of my seat. Unfortunately, another huge man is seated beside me, blocking the aisle that I could potentially use to run to the side of the stage. Pre-show videos roll on, and everyone remains seated, as we are instructed, and I begin to wonder if they will actually make us sit during the gig.

As David Bowie appears on the screen, the huge man beside me, who has been downing pints of light beer, suddenly stands and announces he has to go to the bathroom. My brain whispers a silent “thank you” and in moments the videos end, theatre lights drop further, and I know Morrissey is about to appear on stage. I glance around with anticipation ... everyone in my section is still seated. I breathe with unfamiliar calmness, and in a surprising dash of speed and grace, jump forward and grab a spot near the end of the barrier, making sure not to block any of the front row seats. I gaze forward, terrified to make eye contact with the looming bald security guard... but he lets it go as more and more fans begin to stand.

My heart races with nerves and joy, and Morrissey walks onto the stage, wearing a dark blue jacket and shirt, and wide-legged dark wash jeans. His hair is styled into a silver quiff, which catches glitters of light and he shakes some lucky fan’s hands and bows. Laying eyes on him in person, he is even more handsome and captivating, and I feel as if I’ve levitated out of my own feet as my eyes are so indescribably blessed. Every previous ache and exhaustion falls away, and I am unchained. As every Moz disciple knows, there is a special kind of faith healing he brings to our world-wearied souls. Then, with a cord whip, he opens with We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful. I bounce up and down to the tempo, and realize I am again smiling. Next blessed are my ears, starving for the beauty of his voice, which fills the theatre, smoothly and boldly, the air so lucky to dance with it. The backdrop asks, in large capital letters, “WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T AFRAID?”

“Why do you come here... and why... do you hang around,” Morrissey sings Suedehead, thrashing the cord, and turning his head to the time of the music. He moves towards Jesse’s side of the stage and leans on the speakers, reaching to shake hands. As he walks back I reach up, and he looks into my eyes, his so blue, and grasps my hand, holding it for what was likely a few seconds, but to me it is everything – the world. Time stops, the room could be anywhere, it could be empty or full, and in that moment I wouldn’t be able to tell you where I am, because my heart is so elevated – and freed like a bird from a cage. Life and all its restrictions and pains come to a sudden halt, my wings heal, and loneliness is forgotten.

Tonight’s setlist ranges from a number of Smiths classics, including Stop Me If You Think That You’ve Heard This One Before and Girlfriend in a Coma, to Morrissey’s vast solo catalogue, with beloved songs from Vauxhall & I, You Are The Quarry, Maladjusted, and I Am Not A Dog On A Chain, just to name a few. Many of these songs speak to the sense of isolation or outsider-ness I feel, especially coming from hometown-suburbia where everyone seems to have a formulaic life and all boxes must be checked, or one faces questions of “when?” or “why?” “So the choice I have made, may seem strange to you...” we sing along, and Alma Matters weaves cathartic poetry into my veins. Energy electrifies me, and I’m extricated from the quicksand of depression naps and loneliness. I will never understand how some people find Morrissey’s music depressing; for me it is so freeing, and its truth to the feeling of not fitting in elevates the spirit of individuality, rather than demanding conformity. “The best thing you can do is be yourself.”

Darling, I Hug a Pillow from I Am Not A Dog on A Chain, swells with otherworldly romance. A lament on the despair of longing and lack of physical love, it has a sultry 50’s feel at times, and Morrissey’s voice scales the notes dreamily. Speedway is up next, and fills the theatre with the grind of chainsaws and rolling thunderous drumbeats. For the climax, guitarists Jesse Tobias and Carmen Vandenberg, and bassist Juan Galeano move forward to the front of stage alongside Morrissey, who flings his coat over his shoulders and arms with deliciously catlike movements. “In my own strange way, I’ll always stay true to you” we sing back, reaching and impassioned with the kind of ecstasy only live music can truly conjure.

Rockabilly bouncer The Loop inspires dancing and jumping in the pit, as Morrissey thrashes to and fro with a set of turquoise maracas and Galeano masterfully plucks the upright bass. Between songs, Morrissey interacts with the fans, occasionally asking questions and handing them the microphone and even signing a hardcover copy of Autobiography. He also gives a shoutout to Florida’s beloved permed retirees the Golden Girls, while wearing a Golden Girls badge (a gift from a fan) “thank you for being a friend,” and explains how for years he misheard the 80’s sitcom theme song’s lyrics: “and the card attached would say - ‘Thank you for being a friend.’ For 32 1/2 years I thought she was singing ‘the heart attack would say thank you... and I thought what an incredible lyric. I’m an idiot’”

M signing Autobiography

Country-style twangs on guitar signify a rare cover of Waylon Jenning’s 1975 single Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way? Morrissey has only played this song live once before, in Visalia, California in 2015. I had heard Hank sound checked while queuing at the Observatory in North Park, San Diego, but missed its concert debut, which is included on the deluxe edition of Low In High School. Morrissey croons the song with the perfect balance of edge and smoothness, standing before his own five piece band with impeccable posture and tapping his foot against the microphone stand. The lyrics complain about the state of country music as it is overtaken by glitz: “rhinestone suits and big shiny cars” sans substance: “are you sure Hank done it this way?” I feel like this song is also relevant to some of today’s problems in the music industry, where true artists, with something to say, are silenced, and manufactured artists with very little substance or authenticity are constantly promoted. Image has eclipsed art, and the image itself isn’t even cultivated organically; it makes one wonder, how free is our choice in the media we listen to and watch if so much is already pre-decided for us?

Jesse Tobias on guitar and Camila Grey on keyboards

Smiths classic Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want is piercingly poignant, as Morrissey stands under silver lights, his voice at the height of its beauty, each note somehow conveying not only yearning but fine, achingly delicate threads of wistful hope. I realize that perhaps one aspect that makes me love Morrissey concerts so much is the wide range of emotions captured and released: sadness is not meant to be pushed down and hidden, and it is entirely liberating to be able to feel so freely. In regular ‘life,’ society wants us to stifle these emotions, and toxic positivity and stiff upper lips can suffocate. My soul warms with gratitude and love as I see him, standing before the microphone and singing as lights dance upon the stage. Darkness and light. He has shared this gift with us for 40 years.

For the encore, Morrissey appears before us once more: “I’ve had a fantastic night, so – thank you!” With a flash of white hot heat, the opening notes of How Soon Is Now rise through the theatre. The son and heir sways with the music, guitars weaving and haunting, and drums beckoning. “You shut your mouth, how can you say... I go about things the wrong way?” The audience lunges euphorically and sways, singing along. Grit and delicacy combine to spark the spirit, and the words feel empowering: sensitivity can be – and is - bold and brave. Towards the end of the song, a friend jumps on stage for a precious hug. In the last moments of the song’s outro, Morrissey kneels before us as Brendan Buckley hammers the drums with primal intensity. In my heart I whisper a thousand thank-yous, and I know the thank-yous will never be enough, but tonight has reminded me I’m alive, and I’m forever grateful for Morrissey and his music for helping me navigate existence.