My Glimpses Into Morrissey and the Smiths Manchester

My original intention was to post this article nearly two weeks ago, but I didn't get around to it for a number of reasons. While this is late, I'd say that's better than not at all. I doubt my memories are as clear as when I returned, and lazy as I tend to be, I didn't manage to journal a lot of my tour of Morrissey's Manchester; however, I do have loads of photos and certain memories that have stitched themselves into my consciousness. I'm not sure I dare call this part 3 of my reviews, considering how I'm posting this so long after returning from my trip.

Morrissey in Manchester by sam_esty_rayner_photography
https://www.instagram.com/sam_esty_rayner_photography/?hl=en

Meanwhile, I've been trying to settle back into the doldrums of 'typical' daily life, which appears to be mostly centered around what time I eat toast every day (as I've not just celebrated my 75th birthday, this seems to blatantly shout 'toska' from the rooftops). In being settled, I feel, of course unsettled, which is a natural reflection of how I just don't really connect with what I'm doing or where I'm living right now. I suppose many people go through this, and it's perhaps some kind of early midlife crisis. Anyway, I'm just being tangential and droning on (as usual!)... let's get to my tour of Manchester.

As I was unable to acquire tickets for the party at the Star and Garter, which likely would have led to a head-wrenching hangover of mammoth proportions (the Moz disco in Hull last September certainly left its mark), I was fairly fresh for our tour (run by Manchester Music Tours) on Sunday morning. Even though I was already languishing under post-Moz concert blues (you know the feeling), I was more perky than usual when stumbling through such a lull, as I couldn't wait to see some of the landmarks I'd only ever previously seen in photos.

It's a surreal feeling to cover so much history in 3 hours - and there is something intense about these glorious glimpses that makes you crave more.

The bus

Our first stop was Strangeways, which, of course inspired the title for the Smith's fourth studio album. On such a misty, drizzly, silent and grey Sunday morning, Strangeways seemed to take on an extra level of haunting as it loomed and gloomed over the city. One thing I didn't realize is that a number of executions took place there, which I suppose was a little naive of me. There's definitely a disturbing quality to 19th century prison architecture; it's a little bit chilling as you wonder what has gone on inside over centuries, and what kind of anguish - not ruling out the possibility of disturbed spirits - has been held - and is still held - within the confines of brick walls and under screeching spires. Someone from the depths of inside the prison saw our bus and began pounding repeatedly on the windows - I have no idea whether this was staged or not - but I couldn't help but wonder if they were bored, amused, or imploring us for release.  After the window-thumping settled, our tour guide, Craig Gill, who is also a drummer with Inspiral Carpets, told us stories of prison riots in the early 90's.

Morrissey, when asked by Melody Maker in 1987, why the album was titled Strangeways, Here We Come replied:

"Because the way things are going, I wouldn't be surprised if I was in prison 12 months from now. Really, it's me throwing both arms up to the skies and yelling 'whatever next?' Strangeways, of course, is that hideous Victorian monstrosity of a prison operating 88 to a cell. I don't have any crimes in mind but it's so easy to be a criminal nowadays that I wouldn't have to look very far. Life is so odd that I'm sure I could manage it without too much difficulty." 

Strangeways Here We Come...

Next stop was Salford Lads' Club, which included the pop-up MPorium shop - although by the time we arrived all of the autographed vinyls and copies of Autobiography had sold out (to be expected as we didn't venture over there until the third day). I managed to pick up some pins and a pen. We ran into some fellow queuers - one of whom had managed to snag a large piece of Morrissey's crimson shirt from the previous night. Naturally, I asked him if I could smell it, which is the most normal question on earth when it comes to shredded bits of Moz-shirt. Needless to say it smelled divine!  It was awe-inspiring to see all of the notes and photos on the walls and ceiling of the Smiths room. Of course, Salford Lads' Club is the site of what is one of, if not the most, iconic photos of the Smiths, taken in 1985. According to photographer Stephen Wright, the Salford Lads' shot was Mozza's idea: "it showed that [he] had such a brilliant and realised vision."

In 1985 (with Moz in the heartigan cardigan)

In 2016

The Smiths Room 

Next up was Morrissey's house, which, along with Southern Cemetery, was possibly the most anticipated stop (for myself) on our journey.  As we pulled up across the street from the house at 384 Kings Road, I felt overcome by a cascade of unexpected emotion. I suppose that's not entirely correct, I did expect to feel emotions but not to this extent - as a surreal sensation tugged at my chest and arms. Many of my friends had been here before and I knew it would be a powerful experience - but as Craig pointed out where Morrissey's old bedroom window was - my eyes trailed up, widened, and then welled up. Wow. Morrissey wrote in that bedroom for months and weeks and years - after walking through these same streets. He lived with depression, listened to records, wrote poetry, letters, lyrics, plays... my mind tumbled through thoughts... The other people chatted with the tour guide but their conversation had suddenly become distant billowing white noise, as I (utterly mesmerized) crossed the street, and (a little shakily) snapped some more photos. It feels strangely voyeuristic to take photos of someone's old house, regardless of whether a film is currently being shot there. I can't really explain it. Not wanting to burst into tears in front of the everyone, I bit my cheek and blinked as I crossed the street, the little stones on the slightly damp pavement crunching under my feet, to return to the chatty dozen others.

384 Kings Road

If you ever happen to be in this part of Manchester, you'll see the Iron Bridge is really close to Mozza's old house, as it was part of his daily commute to school. The bridge is not what many people expect, as I think some people imagine an intricate wrought-iron monstrosity in grandiose Victorian style. Well, I already knew it was going to be a strange bluey-silver peeling thing covered in delicious graffiti - and found this far more charming - and romantic!  To put it plainly, it's really bloody neat! People have left carvings and scrawlings and drawings of Smiths lyrics and little notes about Morrissey. There's also a melancholy train track lying below "And when a train goes by it's such a sad sound..."

As I walked along the bridge, again straying from the majority of my tour group (this was an unavoidable pattern for me) I read all of the messages. My friend Olivia had told me all about these - and they really are quite beautiful and fascinating to read; you could spend hours here. Some etchings are Smiths or Morrissey lyrics, some are lovelorn or forlorn scribbles and scrawls with dates; people leave their mark. Some messages are quirky, or amusing, or flirty - still others impact you with heartfelt profundity.

It feels a little like a raw art gallery of passion and angst and music under the mediums of spray-paint, pens, and pocket knives. The thought of writing my own message suddenly struck me... but how? I wasn't sure what to use... Then... like tempting heat in my purse throbbed the black sharpie I had brought around Berlin (in hopes of running into Moz).  I suddenly had my tool. A little jolting thrill coursed through my veins... I'm in a rather large group of people, discreetly trying to fumble through my purse to pull out a pen and add graffiti (however heartfelt) to a bridge. Was this even legal?  (I was in another country getting up to this, you know...) I awkwardly leaned against the wall of the bridge as I started to write - the iron ultra-cool against my warm little nervous hands - I must think fast - and my favourite song jumped to mind.  A violet-tressed teenage girl, probably the youngest on our tour noticed right away - "MUM - I WISH I BROUGHT A PEN." I finished my piece and passed it to her "Here you go," as her mum nervously whispered, "Ummm are we breaking the law?" We were reassured we were not, and it struck me how even peaceful and lovely acts such as these fall prey to our collectively ingrained fears of police control.

Our last stop was Southern Cemetery, which I prefer to spell Cemetry, for obvious reasons.  This is the location that inspired Cemetry Gates, the song Morrissey penned about graveyard walks with his best friend Linder on dreaded sunny days. The Cemetery itself is massive, and as we were under a limited amount of time on our tour, most people stayed around the gates. I naturally strayed a bit as my eye was drawn towards a statue of a veiled woman, her knees pulled up under a weighty stone tome. I wanted to take a photo of this statue, which shone pale under even slight sunlight. I'm not sure whose grave she overlooked, as I had very little time to linger. The sheer number of graves visible even from the entrance truly makes you think of all the generations of lives gone by. One day I hope to return and walk around for a while, as one could spend hours there, I'm sure.

And, before I knew it, it was my last evening in Manchester...

Here is one more photo before a rain-soaked twilight walk down cobbled streets and a return flight to Canada: