Morrissey Tour Diary and Concert Review Pt. 2: Manchester

Again I begin this story with my travelling experiences, you can again skip down to the "Day of the Concert" section if you would only like to read about the concert:


August 17th, 2016

Strips of sun dazzle streaking through black-out hotel drapes and consciousness fades in. I awake next to a bedside table with a few empty glasses - remnants of last night's indulgences. The time! My groggy hands clumsily grope towards that perplexing travel alarm clock, its failed alarm never wailing, and my eyes momentarily struggle to focus on flashing digits :10:30 a.m! I am awake in time for my flight back to Manchester - although my room still appears to have been struck by a violent tornado of clothing and makeup.

A disheveled packing job, which involves lying on top of my bulging suitcase to zip it up - then I check out and I'm on my way. I secretly and silently kiss goodbye to the only European streets I've ever visited. Will we ever meet again?

Disordered order of winding airport line-ups and wails of screaming babies remind me I may have more than a little bit of last night's champagne, or at least its stale remnants, coursing through my veins.  I check myself with a chrome powder compact (which security perpetually mistakes for a cigarette case) and my outer appearance reflects my inward state; I tuck a few messy strands of my fringe under and a frantic woman behind me mutters something in German to me about the line. Eye roll; what can I do? In my purse an unused sharpie aches; I carried it all around Berlin, because you never know how fate or timing might line up. I would love Morrissey's signature tattooed on my inner arm. Well, surely I can't be the only Moz disciple that fantasizes over such possibilities whilst travelling.

Morrissey in Manchester, photo by Nick Barber

I'm off into the air and time has blazed by. Enchanted by memories, what-ifs, time passed, the past - as I always am - I struggle to stay in the moment. My lurking depressive thought patterns remind me my trip is nearly half over, but I shush them as I realize the hope of excitement lies ahead - I still have another show and I hardly got to look at Manchester on Sunday. I stare at the German landscape from above - all little puzzle-pieces of land and winding rivers - through tufted clouds. Can you please stop time? Can you stop this pain? I relax a bit and allow myself to stay in the moment - but then a wave of hot and cold pricks my skin as my hangover waves hello.

My layover in Frankfurt allows me to catch up on social media with some friends I'll see in Manchester. I'm particularly excited to see my "queue sis." As I scroll through Twitter I see that it is #BlackCatAppreciationDay and I post some photos of my old friend. I feel like he's been on this trip with me through every moment. Does the spirit follow? Is he somehow in Germany with me? Does he know I am here? Something tells me he does.

The flight from Frankfurt to Manchester drags and lags as I am seated next to a businessman with the sharpest elbows in recorded history. I curl myself into a ball against the window to avoid him but he's nearly like a magnet to my ribs as he dawdles through stats charts on his laptop. It barely matters - I see pockets of English soil peeking through the clouds and I can't wait to touch down.

My boyfriend is meeting me at the airport and I'm interested to see how his first queuing experience goes, as the only shows he's ever been to have been seated. Our cab drives us past the edge of the vast cemetery and tombstones glisten against the dying sun, showing that at least to the eyes of the living, there is some dazzling monument to our memories after death. As we blaze past the highway into city centre, we turn down streets upon streets upon streets into the rusted-orange brick buildings of Northern England. I live for visiting places other than home. Even more than that, I live for traveling to see Moz.

Manchester has a vibrancy I don't actually expect, which may be due to the fact I'm mostly used to reading accounts from how it existed years ago. Or, perhaps from my end this is just touristy fascination, but I'm entranced by the cafés, pubs, street art, and the swirling mosaic of different people dressed different ways. There are landmarks and creations that breathe Mozzer everywhere - including Moz-aics where little chips of brightly coloured stone combine to create his handsome-devil face. Streets are busy, but not overwhelmingly so, even to my timid self. I'm totally untroubled by the clutching agoraphobia that claws at me in my own city.

Mozaic

For the first time since I started travelling to see Moz I have a few spare days between shows, which gives me the opportunity to check out the city. I don't have to go far - there happens to be a Cat Café across the street from my hotel! Time is again meaningless as rather than languishing in my 30's I feel like a kid catapulted into ecstasy as I snap photos of the café cats through large floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitties are lounging happily, grooming, exploring and I can hardly wait to visit them. At the same time, I plummet a bit as I'm pummelled by bittersweet jabs as I realize it will be my first time interacting with cats since the loss of mine last month.

Refusing booze and choosing an early evening, I am refreshed the next morning and rush to city centre to check out some record shops.  It's heavenly, because in Canada Morrissey albums are much harder to come by, yet our shelves are stuffed with the likes of Pitbull and Bublé. The walls and floors of the record store are practically throbbing with excitement, yet my wallet is shaking in its boots - and Wilde chides yet commiserates with "I can resist everything except temptation" wisdom. I try not to overindulge as I still have to visit Salford Lads Club's pop up shop.

In order to see the cats at the café, we must queue, which I find adorable. We are asked if we don't mind waiting an hour, which in queuing time to me seems nonexistent. The room is sparkling white and everything is glisteningly clean; we must even wear terrycloth slide slippers and go through numerous gates to approach our fur friends in order to prevent anyone running wild into the streets. On entrance into the actual café, my eyes light up immediately as sleek seal points, puff-ball Persians, Russian blues, and glossy leopard print kittens slink around and bat at feather dusters. Some are gloriously aloof to our mews and kissy-faces, and we are instructed not to pick the cats up, as they must come to us. Flash photography is also prohibited. Many cats weave by unimpressed, but some whisk whiskers past our legs; I'm enchanted and entranced. One particular crimson-collared kitten takes a liking to me - we play and I fall slightly in love. Deep down I feel I'm not quite healed enough to have a cat yet - but this is a grand step in remembering how embraced I feel by their company. I've missed cats. This entire trip is feeling more and more cathartic.

Around noon the next day I decide to venture over to the venue - not really expecting to find a queue. Slashes of rain slant through slate grey Mancunian skies and gusts of wind that are not very August-like whip my umbrella. My hair doesn't love it but the rest of me hardly cares at all. There appears to be no one around any entrance to the arena, but then movement catches my eye as I pass the entrance to the train station. Is that a sleeping bag - and... a Morrissey t-shirt? The queue has already started - and I nab my place at number 17. A little jolt kickstarts my bloodstream as I realize this will be my longest time ever queuing - 30 hours. We race back to the hotel to grab sleeping bags, blankets, ipods, and my necessary grey cardigan. I also pack my currently blank tour notebook, hoping to use this time to get started on jotting down my experiences.

I'm bubbling with excitement to see my friend Olivia, who is like a younger sister to me. She arrives not long after I do, and it feels like a sensational underground slumber party - the giddy gritty fumes from cars roll into the train station and impart a slight light-headedness I quite enjoy (or is it because it's Moz-eve and my friends are here?) We catch eyes of passerby under florescent subway lights, our bed the concrete. I'm strangely enjoying the spectacle of it all in spite of my typical intense introversion. Later, glow-in-the-dark pacifier-sucking, e-strung rave kids and Man United football fans are supposed to stumble and weave their way past, but the night turns out to be rather uneventful.  We settle in, stretch out, and wait.

The Day Of The Concert

Early Saturday morning we are allowed to queue by the box office in the arena. Again there are multiple doors to the venue but security assures us the queue list will be allowed in after guest list. Soon I'm going back to the hotel to shower as I feel slightly train-stationy. I clasp a red sparkly flower in my hair and douse myself in spritzes of hairspray but on the walk back I'm heavily wind-blasted. Not long after my return, the merch table is set up. A group of us go over to watch - and my eye is immediately caught by the glint of a sleek, beautiful silver cat pendant with 'Morrissey' engraved across it. My eyes almost well up and my heart thumps with joy - as again - the worlds of Morrissey and cats intertwine for me - and this piece so perfectly symbolizes what this trip has been: a healing step for me, in searching for some balance between hope and despair - as despair so often tugs at me the strongest. The passing of time rules us in a sense - as we must all say goodbye at some point - but memories endure. Memories are, of course, not a solution, (in life there are few solutions) - but they are what we have - and we need to cling to something. I ask when the merch table will open and I'm so pleased to hear I will be able to buy the necklace - and wear it - before the show begins. As soon as it touches my skin... it seems to hold me in another step of healing.

We line up at doors and aside from some jitter-inducing mishaps with a remarkably drunk woman wearing fear-and-loathing aviator sunglasses, it's perhaps the most seamless venue entry I have yet to experience. Security is amazingly respectful of our order and wristbands us and walks us in. When you enter Manchester Arena you realize how absolutely massive it is. We walk in pairs down steep stairs to the floor - and the height is well beyond what I expect - the sheer size is comparable to some of the largest arenas we have in hockey-crazed Canada.

I rush to the barrier again - locking my arms with the welcoming kiss of hard steel that's become increasingly comforting. We are in the venue for what seems like ten minutes before everyone else is allowed entry, and bask in the afterglow of our achieved positions. A hazy mix of darkness and light circles us and the ceiling stretches endlessly high as I again look up at the Passion of Joan of Arc backdrop with looping crown. Faint and smokey-lush wafts of Incense Avignon envelop, that familiar invisible mist rises and wraps itself around the air.  Finally the others are guided in through all entrances, yet I don't dare turn around for fear a crafty elbow will loop over mine and nudge me out of place.  One security guard approaches and asks "Have you ever been in a wall of death?" Well, no - or come to think of it, perhaps, I muse. He is nearly deadpan save for a quivering corner at the edge of his mouth. I can't say I feel tremendously intimidated; thrilled, more like it.

Damien Dempsey comes on stage and draws us in with Irish folk guitar and thoughtful lyricism, bit through with emotionally sincere delivery. I'm impressed to see he's accompanied by a female bassist, and spend a good portion of my time watching her, as I used to 'attempt' to play bass (sort of). Perhaps one day I'll pick it up again. Pre-show videos then blaze up immediately, as road crew clears the stage and the jet-black haired Ramones blast off with seventies steam.

Then - the moment - that feels like the first time every time - and Moz walks on stage after Matt roars on the gong. He's wearing a dark suit jacket with a large silver cross, and a ring with a large stone in it. The audience lunges and plunges - and Moz has returned to the stage in his very own Manchester. I catch a passing glint from his eye, under his dark, expressive brows as he surveys the audience, and consider how less than two years ago I bought the M in Manchester DVD, wondering if I would ever see him sing in person  - and now, here I was - at my twelfth show - at the barrier - on sacred Manchester soil.

The gap between stage and barrier is slightly further than usual - and more than that - the stage is very high. I can't imagine it is possible to get a handshake - unless one either manages to hurl oneself on stage - or is incredibly tall. Amazingly, some of my tallest queue friends get handshakes, including my boyfriend. Some bodies fling over and make it for a handshake, others are dragged off in varying shades of consciousness. The emotion is palpable. The heartbeats of Mando's bass and Matt's drums are pulsating, guitars are rupturing rhythmically, and intertwining lines of music and poetry roll through our souls. This is a homecoming.

With thanks to photographer

Morrissey is expressive with his hands tonight, and he whips the microphone cord with surging impassioned vigor; it flings black against the backdrop as his head and body turn with the beat of the music. Before Gustavo's digeridoo intro to World Peace Is None Of Your Business, Moz waits for the throbbing energetic crowd to settle, then unleashes the truth of world politics with simple efficacy:

"Sportswomen do not start wars
Sportsmen do not start wars
Hairdressers do not start wars
COWS do not start wars
Badgers do not start wars
POLITICIANS - start wars.
AND
They LOVE it."

Next comes Meat is Murder, but before that, Morrissey addresses the audience again - with a powerful image of brutality - speaking of the innocent, trusting nature of animals - and how humans relentlessly, heartlessly, needlessly, and greedily exploit them:

"The lamb looks to the farmer
The lamb loves the farmer
The farmer feeds the lamb
And so, the lamb trusts the farmer.
The lamb follows the farmer and the farmer slyly leads the lamb to slaughter.
The farmer gets the money.
The lamb is on a hook.
and this is why we say "FUCK the farmers!"

Later into the setlist comes It's Hard To Walk Tall When You're Small, a song I had never seen live before. The clarity and beauty of Morrissey's timeless voice seems to momentarily stall the vigorous pushing and hurling of bodies as we simply listen. As the whirling harpsichord of Ouija Board rolls through the air once more, I look at Moz's face as he looks down at the microphone before singing. I feel tears form in my eyes before the first words are even sung - again the healing continues, as I feel the metal of my cat necklace, once cold, now warmed against my chest. I'm caught in the tug-of-war between pure tears over the pain of loss - and the comfort of memories I'm so lucky to have. The answer doesn't matter - neither feeling is right or wrong - because the embrace of song at least guides you or supports you through it somehow. Still, I wonder where we go... or why we go...Time sprawls forward so I simply immerse myself in the moment.

Photo by Paul Husband

As Everyday Is Like Sunday casts over us, another luxuriously brutal surge comes from the audience. The two tiny girls who were previously behind me seem to have vanished. I lock myself over and around the barrier as a massively tall tattooed bald man decides to use my right shoulder as an armrest. I'm surprisingly cool with it, as he doesn't try to push me out of my coveted barrier slot. Orchestral peaks whisk through my ears in the climax towards chorus. I think of the coastal town I must return to - and come Armageddon, come... but again remind myself of the all-important moment. Morrissey is right in front of me - in Manchester!

Jack The Ripper this night is one of the most exquisite moments I've ever experienced live. I think of how I love that song on the M in Manchester DVD perhaps most of all... but tonight somehow it's even more powerful - and the stage is shrouded in fog.  It's nearly chokingly thick smoke, but Morrissey's silhouette emerges, dark against the clouds which seem to envelop him. He leans his head back, and moves with the music, but even more than that, with intense emotion which stretches beyond. Again, people are crowded against me - but no one else is really there except Moz and I. Crash into my arms.

Photo by @plainchant_w

As the encore approaches and Moz walks out in a red shirt to be embraced by his hometown for one more song, I realize the night - as always - must come to an end.  Irish Blood, English Heart and the shirt is flung into centre audience after a tease towards both sides. I realize we have migrated farther towards the side of the stage somehow, as the dazzling lights turn up and the crowd begins to separate. My back is drenched with what I'm certain is not my own sweat, but I'm blissful. I never want to say goodbye, and I clutch my stunningly wonderful memories, and my Morrissey cat necklace - to my heart.

Perhaps I can find my place in this world, even if I do feel so horribly lonely a lot of the time.

I don't want to go home - and I miss Moz already. But... before I jet out of town, I have a tour of Manchester I need to do...

Morrissey Tour Diary and Concert Review Pt. 1: Berlin

I begin this story with my travelling experiences - so feel free to skip down to the "Day of the Concert" section if you would only like to read about the concert day:

August 13th, 2016:

Time is a strange thing, and some days you think will never arrive. It all comes down to perspective: days, hours, and minutes follow structure - yet to the heart and mind it doesn't always feel that way.  Modern life sets us rigidly in schedules,with precision-to-the-second planning, and these things are apparently, objectively set in concrete. Throw your heart into anything though and you'll find there's fluidity to time that winds well beyond this standard.  There's something to be said for subjectivity.

When my alarm clock shakes me awake with crackling untuned noise at 5:30 a.m. the Saturday of my flight, it seems surreal because I never believed the day would actually come. Multiple alarms, of course, were set because my ineptitude for the technological is frightening (I was hopeless at figuring out my travel alarm clock). All of this organization for a disorganized spirit such as mine: alarms, travel itineraries, flight times, time zones, currency conversions, and schedules can be daunting - numbers are always a lesson for someone so scattered. But, focused on my goal, I jump out of bed with heady anticipation for the first time in 8 months. 8 months measured, but months that dragged and lulled like years. In this moment though, I finally have something - nearly graspable - so close - to look forward to: I will soon be on my way to see Morrissey.

A flash drive down to the airport with cool etherally early mist rising off the horizon. Ticketing, baggage (emotional and literal - both barely zipped up), passports, line-ups, (in)security all a blur. Travellers such as I are untrusted suspects, as anyone not fitting the expected description of a 4-piece-sprawling family with children crawling on conveyor belts is searched and scanned.  But oh - in the midst of all that structure and stringent bustle and hustle - a celebratory fist-pump from a bearded tattooed airport security employee due to my t-shirt: "The Smiths! Right on!"

Flight 1: The boarding - and anticipation - reminds me that even at 8 a.m. in the morning - I'm alive. We take off and I'm up in the air - and free - from the tedium of my yawningly hostile hometown. I'm off to Calgary now and I marvel at my own excitement. Is that my heart beating in my chest? I look out the pill-capsule plane window at snow-capped mountains, never quite touched by summer, their jagged back claws cutting the sky. The world looks entirely otherworldly from 30,000 feet. Lakes like glistening blue pools remind me of his eyes; eyes that, as anyone who has been close enough knows, are even bluer in person (how?).

Next up: flight 2 to Toronto and an evening layover.

Little signs of my excitement trickle through everywhere. Why does my body feel different - and as surely as they rule one another - my spirit does too. I sparkle.  Photos flow in through social media from Helsinki Finland's Flow Festival. Morrissey is still an ocean away. I (predictably) find a bar and settle in for a few hours. Vodka and cranberry (diluted and overpriced -surely to prevent Gallagher-brothersesque drunken in-flight antics) is ordered and the paper coaster catches my eye: it features a 1960's-era black-and-white photo of a stunning smokey-eyed Italian girl sipping a beer - its classic film vibe is reminiscent of a Morrissey backdrop. He is everywhere.

My flight is delayed. The 5 hour layover will be at least 8. Horror stories trickle through about a 50-hour delay on this same route a few weeks back.  Frantically, I peruse flight-hub just in case. The shackles of money, with its unwanted limitations, will have to be overlooked if such a fate awaits me. Maxed out if I have to be, I need to get myself to Manchester; I've come this far. I debate trying to arrange a flight straight into Berlin. Another delay and we are 'rewarded' with a free food voucher (absolutely not to be spent on booze!) - redeemable only for what appears to be picked-over sandwiches slathered with mayo and slaughtered beings. Sigh.

Finally, finally, finally, they 'think' we can board the plane, although it is 'somewhat' broken and the air conditioning and elements of the power are 'not-quite-right.' Stepping into the plane, my face is met with a wall of stifling-hot air and I seem to have entered what feels like a tanning-bed capsule for hundreds. For some this is a little disconcerting but not for me - I just want it to take off and to arrive in my destination. I have little to no fear of plane crashes - the depressive suicidalist in me nearly finds the possibility comforting - BUT - can this wait until after my two shows? I want to make it there.

Hours later we touch down on Manchester tarmac. Even the windswept shrubbery seems magical. This is Moz-land - his birthplace - and I have arrived. In spite of my jet-lag from nearly 30 hours of travel, I am awestruck and excited. This is ULTRA emotional. But... exhaustion is setting in and I am stumbling to even drag my suitcase around - and due to the fact I must look a fright, the cabbie seems to want no part in even helping me load my luggage. I check in at my hotel, shower (my hairsprays made it!), and then a quick room change is in order due to the screaming sobs of babies-with-rabies across the hall. I pass out in time to get a good rest before awaking at 3:30 a.m. the next morning for my flight to Berlin via Frankfurt.

Early morning flight to Frankfurt

Flight 4: It's early but I feel refreshed and am beaming (how unrecognizable!) I wear a World Peace Is None Of Your Business t-shirt and after talking setlists with a Lufthansa ticketing agent who also happens to be a huge Moz fan, I excitedly take photos of the first plane to ever land me on continental European soil in all my 35 years. The Manchester sky flings hues of blue into sunrise pinks as nature touches the man-made and I cannot wait to be up in that sky and on my way.  Frankfurt - here I come - with shaky app-learned German and a tired heart that has miraculously been restored to boundless youth. In the air I snap more photos of German landscape like an energized child.

A layover in Frankfurt, where white-capped airport security officials pace with semi-automatic rifles strapped across their chests (something you just don't see in Canada!) and I arrive by noon in Berlin. The city, bustling with street cafes and interesting old buildings (such history cannot be found in North America) has a charm palpable even during my taxi journey.  My hotel is across the street from the venue and I am granted with early check-in. The rooms have disco ball contraptions in them and beds are plush; I squeal like a teenager. Moz atmosphere embraces the city: outside the hotel, tour posters grace lampposts and street signs - and these posters are soon-to-be stolen by those who are gutsier than I.

Around 5 p.m. I cross the street to check out the Tempodrom and see some familiar faces, sunning and drinking German beer. We start the list on a pad of paper from my hotel and I have earned my highest queue place ever - fourth. The Tempodrom itself has a unique appearance not unlike that of an iceberg and across the way stands the majestic facade of what was once one of the largest railway stations in Europe, blitz-blasted into ruins through WWII.

Berlin train station ruins

More people arrive - some just to socialize - others lock themselves in for the night with sleeping bags in hand. My friend Aine, whose book I reviewed, arrives and we discuss the personality enneagram again - discussing how some types solve problems through action and others through speaking about their emotions. My "but of course, nothing is ever really solved" sends us into ripples of laughter as we realize we are about as "four" as we could possibly get. Full of energy, a group of us poses with a pinched poster before nightfall.

As night starts to fall we sit around an iPad watching clips of Hollywood Bowl as if surrounding a campfire, yet this is far more mesmerizing. Like precious reels of film we share snippets of our interactions with Morrissey. Some passers-by ask us what we are doing - our dedication fascinates - but to us, it's the most natural thing in the world. One man tells another queuer and I (ever-devoted, and both only discovering Moz over the last 5 years) of how he has loved Morrissey since the 1980s, while I was sadly still steeped in sparkly pink Barbies and Heaven Is A Place On Earth radio-pop.  His story of how he has been affected by the man who wrote the songs who saved his life is simultaneously moving, amusing, and heart-wrenching; we want him to write it to Mozza in a letter, but he retreats into the night. One day, perhaps.

Cocooned in my sleeping bag I finally I slip into the light kind of sleep where the body relaxes but the mind simply drifts.  I do not succumb to deep-sleep oblivion but it hardly matters to me. Any rest is good.

The Day of the Concert

Moz day arrives. We realize there are 4 entrances to the Tempodrom.  One statement a queuing Morrissey fan doesn't like to hear is "there are multiple doors to the venue." It's decided that we will line up before doors at each silver barrier in front of each of the four doors, numbered off.  Like List of the Lost racers we are lined-up and laned-up, and striped finish-line ribbons stretch across the metal barriers. Ooh the energy is palpable. I stand at the front of my line, meaning, for my sake, and everyone behind me - I better know where it is I am running to once inside. This is the time when emotions become even more pronounced, even more intense. Pulses race and eyes dart as security take their places, scanners in hand. I think back to a few hours earlier in my hotel room, which has so far functioned more as a semi-luxurious storage locker.  It has a tornado-esque appearance of disheveled piles of clothing and crisp pouches and cosmetics flung and slung everywhere! Cumbersome purses are of course ditched prior, as anything that could be searched could eat up precious seconds in the race to barrier. In my room, as I applied black eyeliner my eyes continually welled-up as emotions could not be contained. I had not felt as emotional - or jittery - as this perhaps since my first-ever show in Seattle last year.

As we await the go-ahead towards inside, the sky pulls in as rumbling charcoal clouds boom and thrusts of wind hammer us - and the venue.  I momentarily fear the power might go out - is that possible?  Please, no. Security gestures us forward and I am scanned on the first try - which always feels like a tremendous relief after my ticket refused to scan until about the third go in Hammersmith.  I run blindly down the stairs into the concert area, not daring to turn around as the sound of feet drumming behind me tells my ears there are many others, and close behind. I race into the darkened venue - opera music wraps around the air and I look ahead, only ahead. For the first time ever - I see an entirely clear barrier (save for guest list and one other queuer who runs faster than I). It inspires amazement but I dare not pause, and run ahead, locking my elbows around the welcoming steel of the barrier on Boz's side of the stage. I look up and a larger-than-life 1920's Joan of Arc with a single tear rolling down her cheek stares back. Right now I am in the only place on earth I would want to be.

My heart soars, but I am also reflective. I thank my cat - and Morrissey - for keeping me alive for this moment. My cat. I keep picturing him and my memory holds him through each milestone I reach in his absence. Of course, cats do not live as long as human animals, but that doesn't stop you from thinking goodbye will never come. He was my best friend for over 10 years: I am forever him - he is forever me.

Pre-show videos erupt and there are a few new ones including Alice Cooper's Elected featuring white top hats and presidential monkeys in office eating money (yet somehow convincingly more adept than the majority of actual politicians) and The Sex Pistol's raw and raucous God Save The Queen. The energy mounts. A rush and a push from the crowd as the glamorously coarse Dolls L.U.V on the screen. My eyes and ears are hungry - I know what time it is.

The entrance is new - thundering drums of the Operation roll across our ears and then Matt Walker walks out solo to rumble the shimmering gong. The moment is coming. My first time seeing Morrissey in 8 months... he emerges from the seeming darkness of backstage.  The audience surges forward and I am pressed and pinned, yet not uncomfortably so - against the barrier. Something thumps against the metal - is it my heart - is it thunderous drums or voices or what? I am alive.  My entire heart rushes up to Moz as I look up at him, dressed in a dark shirt with a large cross which sparkles against his chest. On his hand he wears a heavy silver wing ring that looks very much like a tattoo on my inner left arm. Oh how I've missed him.

Suedehead opens up and the surge from the crowd is even more forceful. I am amongst my queuing pals, and sharing this moment with them - yet - there is a strange phenomenon I've noticed about seeing Morrissey, and at least it is this way for me: no one else is in the room. Yes, there is an orgy of exuberance as 4,000 other colliding limbs, grasping hands, and heaving bodies shout and sing, but...you see...it's just me and Morrissey.  My ribs are pressed to the metal and I'm pretty sure someone else's sweat is all over me - but as I look up - he is reflecting back to me this mind and heart I've been carrying around for my entire life. Somehow he makes it all make sense. When he is on stage, I feel like it is simply he and I.

On close look Morrissey has a very large flesh-coloured bandage stuck to his chest and neck area. I wonder if it is one like he often wears on his arms or especially his fingers.  Then I wonder if this bandage is more serious. He is a beautiful soul and the thought worries me. Looking up at him standing on stage, I realize he exudes - somehow all at once - both immortality and fragility.  I send him, with my eyes and expression, for we are in a visual conversation here, my all-encompassing hope for his well-being. I reflect on how vulnerable we are, as life is something we cannot survive. But - for now - we have this moment - and the moment heaves and clings and bursts with song.

As the opening harpsichord notes to Ouija Board dance through the concert hall, I feel slightly out of body. With no choice or control, we must say goodbye to our friends. Again I picture my cat; tears want to well up yet I feel stunned in a sense. Morrissey's words wrap around me: "I just can't find my place in this world."  I am held in a cathartic embrace...

"Oh hear my voice... oh hear my voice..."

Oh to get to the other side, wherever that side may be - just once - what would I say? What would I do? Why does time limit us so? Tears swell a bit more. It's okay to feel out of place in the world - and to say it out loud - because life isn't always understandable - in fact - it's hardly ever understandable. And death - well, we just don't know a thing. Threads of strength weave around the uncollectable pieces of my heart and I know I need to be here on this night.

Photo by Nils Witte

As Morrissey sings I see the way shadows and light play on his face, lucky to seemingly touch it - revealing even further the depth of his emotion. He stands so boldly out front on stage - so brave, so open. No wonder he doesn't like the verb "to perform." It's so much more than that. The band is tight - and I get a good look at Boz as he moves towards us, his guitar nearly aflame with his rockabilly cool-vibe - and remember how I met him in Las Vegas months ago.

Meanwhile, in the audience we are a clumsy army of sweltering emotion and bodies are being pulled out all around us. In all honesty, it's f*cking hot in the pit tonight. One friend of mine is draped across my back, nearly passed out, and we are all pushed together. Even the most devoted need to be dragged out. I pour myself over the barrier; unsure what I am doing, am I trying to prop myself up because I am dehydrated and exhausted or and I trying to get the momentum to fling myself upwards to try and get on stage? A sudden jolt of energy as I look up at Moz - I long for a handshake. I haul myself up and feel a hand coming from nowhere and everywhere pushing my foot up (I can't tell if they are trying to help or are just somehow in the right place at the right time). My ribs thrust against the metal of the barrier and my waist hangs over - it feels strange - a little like I'll tumble in half - but either I am too pinned in (likely) or am simply not strong enough (more likely) and I just can't do it. Sigh.

Jack the Ripper, Oboe Concerto, One Of Our Own, and Crashing Bores are also highlights of a night that is incredible in its entirety. As I watch Morrissey sing Oboe his face is full of feeling - the face reflects the soul - and I feel as though I would give the world to hug him. Towards the end of the concert, he says to us (thank you to one of my followers for helping me remember more closely):

"Once again you have saved me and my gratitude is boundless and I love you."

I can see my arms!

Love <3

The band bows and the encore begins. The night is nearly finished - and - tired as my body feels - my mind and heart never want it to end. Irish Blood. No shirt toss tonight. I stumble out of the venue looking for a friend I have planned to meet up with, and I am the ultimate in post-gig dishevelment.

We find one another and end up drinking a little too much German champagne on a park bench under the shadows of the crumbling Berlin train station. One thing I've noticed with a lot of Moz fans is that as soon as you meet them, you feel as though you've known them for years. We hang out til it's light out, running into some regulars in the hotel lobby on their way to the airport.

The night ends and day breaks - but there is no end - and I will see you in Manchester, which beckons...

This Beautiful Creature Must Die

Morrissey, in collaboration with Peta and This is Pop, has created a new Meat is Murder Video game. I love it because it's in the style of the 80's video games little old me still remembers. No matter what your age, it's a great game and it also delivers an extremely important social message about the unthinkable cruelty animals must face at the hands of the meat industry; as Moz has commented: “This game is the biggest social crusade of all, as we safeguard the weak and helpless from violent human aggression. You don’t get that from ‘Pokémon Go.’”
In a recent Australian interview Moz said one of his proudest legacies would be converting people to Vegetarian or Vegan lifestyles. Not long after this interview was released I decided to poll my followers and found the majority of them had made the switch to Vegetarian or Vegan lifestyles thanks to Morrissey educating them about the horrors of the meat and dairy industries.

I've already played the game a few times and I've now got the video game version of Meat is Murder stuck in my head - it's quite addictive. The rainbows and animals are very cute - although I feel terrible when they get squashed! I am going to attempt to put the code for the game on here, and if I can I'll be ultra pleased, as I can't even seem to figure out how to set my travel alarm clock. If it works, check out the game below:

For more information about Peta, visit Peta.org

Cardigans in Bergen!

Live updates are coming in from Bergen: Morrissey has appeared on stage in a glorious sparkly black cardigan. I'm in throes of exquisite delight! Here are some of the best photos I've seen so far:

Photo by Gustavo Smith

Photo via @TheRatsBack on Twitter

Now My Heart Is Full. As many of you know, cardigans are one of my greatest weaknesses. In fact, I just blogged about them last week. Can I calm down? Absolutely not - what divine levels of bliss! Some of my friends were excited too, as they know how much I love Moz in a cardigan:

There is quite a bit of new tour merch. Love the Warhol tee:

Photo via @Intl_Playboy on Twitter

It also looks like Morrissey may have a new record deal (this I have to find out more information on, as I'm not sure exactly), as World Peace Is None Of Your Business will be re-released in November with a new cover. Gustavo put the photo up yesterday evening I believe. The album artwork is a photo from the 1928 silent French film, The Passion Of Joan Of Arc:

I'll update this with more information from the show later. I'm off to enjoy further updates...

UPDATE:

Set List (thanks to @ConorMac1903):

1: Suedehead
2. Alma Matters
3. You Have Killed Me
4. Ganglord
5. Speedway
6. Staircase At The University
7. Have A Go Merchant
8. I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris
9. World Peace Is None Of Your Business
10. Kiss Me A Lot
11. Istanbul
12. Meat Is Murder
13. It's Hard To Walk Tall When You're Small
14. Everyday Is Like Sunday
15. The Bullfighter Dies
16. Scandinavia
17. All You Need Is Me
18. The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores
19. Jack The Ripper
20. I Will See You In Far Off Places
21. Oboe Concerto

Encore:
22. Let Me Kiss You
23. Irish Blood, English Heart


UPDATE:

A few more gorgeous photos:

Via bergensavisen on IG

Via gaffa_no on IG

"I Paddle My Own Canoe"

This has been an eventful week for me. I’ve managed to score tickets for the US shows I’ve had my sights set on, including Reno, Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio. Many thanks to my wonderful followers, who helped me out and made the pre-sales far less stressful, especially as one website was giving me issues as an international customer. San Antonio seemed to sell out almost immediately - what panic as the site kept freezing. I also acquired tickets for Irvine, which I’m thrilled about as I decided to add that date at the last minute. While checking the pre-sale site for a friend to see if it was crashing or not, I landed 3 tickets – well, could I resist them once they were nestled in my cart? Of course I couldn’t!

A second date has already been added for Irvine - which I wasn't able to add to my plans at the moment - but it looks like some more dates may appear. I wouldn't be surprised to see another date added to San Antonio, considering how quickly it sold out. It was difficult for many to get tickets to that show; the venue looks quite spectacular:

 

Now I look on towards Berlin and Manchester, which are coming up very soon! I’ve already started refining my packing lists, which, as always, are rather extensive. How will I get everything into my suitcase? But for now, all eyes will of course be on the shows in Norway. As Mando hinted, there may be new songs... and it’s always exciting to see what other gems will find their way onto the setlists.  What will be said between songs?  Will there be new backdrops or pre-show videos? Oooh! Palpable, delicious anticipation. Earlier in the week, Morrissey was photographed walking around Bergen (the coats in August seem to be telling me Norway must be chilly!) As always, I wonder what it must be like to be photographed everywhere - does one get used to it? At times my moony excitement over new photos makes me feel guilty, and as such produces mixed emotions: does Moz mind being photographed out in public like that? I suppose I can't really ever know, and I can't help but think it might be a strange feeling, however used to it one might become.

Moz and Damon in Bergen via demoniosenzacuore on IG

Meanwhile some new interviews have appeared, including an Australian one in anticipation of his five upcoming dates there.  Some unfortunate mindless gossips parading as ‘journalists’ have, of course, hacked this interview apart already, including an article in the Guardian which insinuated Moz is racist for being critical of Halal slaughter. Clearly speaking up against the cruel murder of innocent animals doesn’t make one racist! However, this trash-pseudo-news story claims just that, as it rips Morrissey's quotes out of context. I was incensed by such a despicable piece, which is best described as a 300 word non-effort ramble of sensationalism and mind-numbing cliches (thank goodness it wasn’t any longer, really). Predictably, it ended with the “Heaven knows we’re miserable...” line. Oh, to be so creative! Do people really get paid to write this nonsense?

To me, it’s very unfortunate that when Morrissey stands up for the rights of animals, he is attacked. This is, of course, usually due to the person’s own implicit guilt surrounding their own speciesist views, OR merely that they are attempting to gain attention towards their own dreary selves by criticizing him, because they seem incapable of attracting any legitimate attention based on their own talent, or merits. It’s highly doubtful to me that these people care about human rights either; they are just thirstily seeking for ways to pick a fight.  I also think many in this world are terrified of someone with a mind – someone who does not follow the herd – someone who isn't marketed to tacitly nod in agreement – someone who expresses themselves – I could go on. Individuality intimidates – so attack mode sets in. But enough about the world's crashing bores: let’s move on.

“There’s so much destruction, all over the world, and all you can do is complain about me.”

Some highlight quotes from the original Australian article included (with respect to the source):

"I don't know anyone who likes the Boil Family...There is no such thing as a royal person...Harry killed 34 people in Afghanistan and the UK press called him a hero. If he ate 34 poor people in Haiti the UK press would still call him a hero. It is insufferable."

"I find that if you are a genuine artist in 2016 you must look after yourself... I paddle my own canoe."

"I don't celebrate my birthday, or much else come to think of it"

The interview also includes some insightful quotes about politics, the meat industry, and the news that Morrissey was not consulted on the new biopic Steven that is being filmed. One of my personal favourite quotes was the last one:

"I've never been involved in the literary world. Or even the literal world."

"Reality is not real to me"

I genuinely hope Moz actually is working on a new novel, or some kind of literary work. I adore his way with words, and I hope the narrow-minded critics and their personal attacks didn’t put him off. He writes something different. He says something different. Amongst all the beiges of the world, that's a tremendous something. As most of you know, I am a great admirer of List of the Lost.

One very important question asked by the interviewer was if converting people to Vegetarianism and Veganism would be one of Morrissey's proudest legacies. He said yes. I know he helped me take the steps to become Vegetarian, make more Vegan choices, and say no to any products that test on animals.  This is also the case for many people I know. The footage he shows at concerts during Meat is Murder speaks for itself - you can't love animals and eat them - there is no humane way to do such a thing, despite what the farming industries and shouting big-money advertisers want you to believe. This is footage deemed too violent and disturbing for television, yet on these same television screens we are shown images of ribs and burgers repeatedly, forcefully. 

In light of this, I decided last night to make a poll seeing if my followers became Vegan through the help of Morrissey's influence.  As always with Twitter polls, it was a little difficult to formulate, because of character and option limitations (the third option, for instance, meant that someone was a Vegan or Vegetarian before discovering Morrissey - oh - how to fit that in under 20 characters...)  I also mentioned in response to my tweet that people who had at least reduced their meat-eating habits or had started to think about this could reply if they'd like, as that is the first step in change (I would have liked this as a 5th poll option if it had been possible). After I tweeted the poll, I initially felt apprehensive, did I really want to see the numbers? I know this is something so important to Morrissey, so I was a little afraid that the results wouldn't be as much of a landslide victory for the Veggie and Vegan crowd as I had hoped. 

As the numbers started rolling in, I was glowing - at one point, we had 90% of people say their eating habits had changed towards reducing animal products. Amazing! Slowly, it evened out towards about 60% of people saying they have become Vegan or Vegetarian thanks to Morrissey raising awareness about the meat industry (7 % already were).  That's huge.  The truth is, each person who moves away from a carnivorous diet is making a huge difference. According to Peta, not eating animals saves around 100 animal lives a year.  Think of the lives saved.

Photo via Peta.org

Poll results as of approx 11 a.m. PST:

Sadly, and by no fault of my well-meaning followers, the poll seemed to end up re-tweeted into the hands of some rather aggressively carnivorous tweeters (some of which I have my doubts as to whether they were even Morrissey fans) so the veggie numbers did slide slightly. Yes, yes, I know - I do realize not everyone is vegetarian, but the odd person grew rather confrontational, even rude. This begs the question why do some meat-eaters resort to abusive language when simply questioned about their eating habits? I'll let you ponder that, considering there was absolutely nothing antagonistic about my initial question. Regardless of this, the important message to extract here is that Moz has made an incredibly significant difference in the lives of many humans and countless, countless animals.

Poll results as of 2:30 pm PST:

Here was one of my absolute favourite replies of the day:

And now, we wait for reviews to come in from Bergen, followed by Stavanger.  I'm off to try to relax after all the ticket buying jitters. Wine is in order tonight, and I have a trip to plan: somehow I have to find a way to cram three cans of hairspray AND a sleeping bag into my suitcase.