I end up vaguely drifting off for about 30 minutes.
The waiting cab pumps clouds of milky exhaust into the hazy dawn air and I am pleased the doorknob didn’t break off the front door upon leaving like it did last time I went away. Our ride to the airport makes me feel as if I’m in a getaway car from a city I clearly need to move away from for my own sanity, or whatever is left of it. Like Miss Scarlett, I’ll think about that tomorrow, or more precisely, next week – because I’m out of here and strange memories and landmarks of not-so-great decades disperse with the morning mist. Buh-bye.
The first layover is in Calgary and we meet a woman who has never heard of Morrissey. I tell her I've been to 16 shows in less than 2 years and she is amazed. I inwardly chuckle and let her know that I have friends who have been to well over a hundred. No matter the number, every time feels like a precious gift. Our new friend is genuinely interested in the culture of Moz and those of us who travel all over the world to see him. She asks me to describe what Morrissey's music is like and if I can compare him to any other artist. Well, no, he's Morrissey - he's unique - and I love him! As pre-caffeinated words flounder and fail, I come up with something like "punk crooning" and add, "look him up, you'll probably love him too."
I'm a little nervous about going through customs. I've heard at some airports and border crossings they are asking travelers what they think of Thump - and even scrolling through their social media. I attempted to avoid tweeting anything about him in the weeks leading up to my travels, just in case (am I that paranoid?). The fact I couldn't joke about Thump's meeting with Merkel nearly killed me. Ugh. As if on cue, when we are standing in line, our new friend asks what we thought of the election results last November... "Surprising, certainly," I half-scowl. It isn't hard to read between the lines.
I feel like a poor little fool.
On the flight from Calgary to Phoenix a middle-aged man seated behind me has a toddleresque temper tantrum. He's wearing a duck hunting hat (shudder) and filthy sandals (shudder pt. 2). He repeatedly slams his tray table and punches the back of my seat so that a woman a few seats down, who is totally uninvolved, feels the need to apologize to me. It's a long couple of hours but I try to escape into my ipod and the surrounding billows of cloud. When I was a little girl I used to worry the plane might run into angels sitting in the clouds; now, as an adult, I'm not wise enough to consider such questions.
We land in Phoenix and I perk up with excitement as I realize I'm in the same state as Morrissey. Since I live in Canada, I'm rarely even in the same country as Morrissey. More awe follows as I realize Arizona has massive cacti. On the drive to Tucson they tower over us, with prickly arms stretched out, as we zoom across desert miles and I become a nuisance as I want to take photos of them all.
 |
| Cacti |
Yet, life's pigsty comes into view as we pass a truck towing a tarnished trailer. The trailer is open to the road, and is crammed and jammed with cows. The cows have no room to sit down or rest, and at the back two babies gaze out through rusted prison-cell bars at the passing traffic, their eyes nearly lifeless with despair. I mouth to them "I'm sorry," and I notice their long beautiful black eyelashes are fluttering in the wind. I don't know where they are going but I know they don't belong where they are. Cows don't belong on trucks. Humans are not really very humane.
***
The next day we decide to arrive at the venue a few hours before doors, even though the concert is seated. The desert air is extremely dry, and I'm not quite used to the heat, although it's not uncomfortable. Outside the venue we have a mini-Morrissey reunion, with friends coming from everywhere from Germany to LA. Minutes tick down to doors, and I feel my heart pounding through my veins, down to the pavement as a blend of bliss and nervousness overtakes me. The last time I saw Morrissey was in November when he made the announcement in Boulder that Gustavo had collapsed backstage. It feels like an eternity ago, yet simultaneously it feels like yesterday.
As theatre doors open, I walk into enveloping velvety darkness lit mostly by the black-and-white image of 1920's Joan of Arc on the screen ahead. Like an athlete, I fine-tune my focus towards a coveted barrier spot, and while it's certainly less panicky than a dash to the front at a GA show, I feel my feet weaving past dawdlers with farther-back Orchestra seats. I secure a place on Jesse's side at front row and await Maya Angelou's poetry.
During pre-show videos, a venue security guard in front of me starts to get a kick out of the fact I am mouthing the words to everything from the Sex Pistols to Mrs. Shufflewick. He smiles at me, "Have you seen him before?" he asks. I tell him this will be my 17th show, and as with the woman at the airport, I must add that many people have been to hundreds.
Public Enemy's Can't Truss It booms onto the screen and I'm thrilled because I like rap, especially older stuff. Although completely sober, I must be the most annoying person ever as I yell out "Flavor Flav!" a few times, as I watch him strut on screen wearing a white top hat - paired with - in Flav style, a massive clock hung around his neck.
On a deeper note, the pre-show videos are a cultural and thought-provoking collage of drag, punk, anti-royalism, soul, racial inequality, rap, and suicide. Somehow all the pieces fit together perfectly. I could go on, but many of the social rights topics are perhaps as relevant today as they were in the 60's and 70's and before and beyond. Can we make America think again?
.... And then... the curtains fly up - or down - or somewhere - and out of the darkness and sparkling lights, Morrissey appears, with Boz, Mando, Matt, Jesse, and Gustavo - and they launch into the microphone whipping opener Suedehead. The feeling is back - I'm where I'm happiest.
Everything, at least to me, seems to be going beautifully. Alma is up next, and then for the first time ever I get to hear When Last I Spoke To Carol live, complete with blazing brass and shimmering tambourine. Morrissey is wearing a deep brown shirt and the band is decked out in Mercy For Animals' Don't Eat My Peeps t-shirts.
Setlist (Via Setlist FM):
1. Suedehead
2. Alma Matters
3. When Last I Spoke To Carol
4. Speedway
5. Staircase At The University
6. Everyday Is Like Sunday
At some point between songs, Moz says something about how he "left half of [his] mouth in Guadalajara," and then adds that he will try to stand and sing and continue. An ache of concern stabs through me and I wonder if he is okay - his health is the most important thing. To me he still sounds beautiful, although maybe ever so slightly hoarse; Morrissey not at 100% is still miles better than anyone else singing. We move on to Staircase At The University, a song that fittingly was released not very long after I had returned to University as an.... err... 'mature student.' Gustavo's fingers fly dexterously over his acoustic and Spanish guitar notes fill the theatre. I'm still worried, but I'm also reminding myself - and my flyaway mind - to stay in the moment - I'm at the concert and it's happening.
If there's one thing traveling and seeing Moz has taught me over the last few years - it's to try to stay in - and enjoy - the moment. I've always been a shipwreck of what-ifs and why-nots, and have spent my whole life chained to the pains and fears in my head. They're still there, because it's who I am - inherently perhaps - but yet - sometimes for your own sanity, you must absorb what's around you - no matter how fleeting it may be. That's what living is... and it's easy to be distracted from that space.
Then, after Everyday Is Like Sunday, Morrissey walks towards backstage. This isn't something that typically happens. Concern strikes me, and I immediately wonder if he is okay. It's not even about whether or not the concert continues, as much as I want it to, because I feel very worried for his well-being. Before Boz and Gustavo even walk out to speak to us, I have a strong feeling the concert is over.
Many of us sink our heads into our hands against the barrier and my heart drops to the floor. I speak quickly with a few regulars and we get out of there, although part of me keeps looking back to see if Moz will somehow appear on stage again. I feel a bit stunned, and I realize I'm in shock.
The little inner cheerleader that sits on my shoulder some mornings when I'm so depressed that it's a struggle to heave myself out of bed pipes up: "You were able to see him front row for 6 songs - imagine before you'd ever seen him sing live what a blessing that would be." My cheerleader is right. Seeing Moz always feels like a gift. More than anything, I just want him to be okay.
I sink myself into a few doubles at the hotel bar, almost compulsively refreshing social media for some kind of news.
Gustavo's beautiful words appear not very long after: "...He tried...he would have NEVER come out if he didn't think he could have. He tried. His voice is gone. But he's not. Just a bit of rest for his voice. Please understand. He is human."
He is human. And I can't help but think some people forget that sometimes.
Relief that Morrissey seems to be okay and just needs some rest mixes with the heady buzz of my vodka and cranberry and I try to stay uncharacteristically positive. We're just going to keep moving on to the next city - and stay in the moment.
There's a flight to San Antonio we have to catch tomorrow.
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