Mozzer Matters: Morrissey Travel Review and Concert Blog Part 3: Dallas

I’m lounging in my hotel room bathed in post-gig glow. Nursing a warm, flat can of Tecate, I still have tons of packing to do as I look around at the cosmetics and clothes tornado I typically turn my room into, always in record time. The last two concerts are back-to-back, so we leave for Dallas early in the morning.

But - the show happened and it was divine – so I need a moment!

The build-up to such happiness carries me over months back at home - planning, booking, hoping against a backdrop of smaller-town dreariness - and then suddenly, in a flash of jet fuel and luck, I'm in a new city with Morrissey right in front of me - it's so surreal. Tour time passes in a flash: it's a lot to absorb. I have so many precious memories, and only over a few short years. My mind becomes a sprawling diary; yes, my mundane daily life feels like a desert, but it's dotted with these magnificent mirages. My memories, like my emotions, tend to run at extremes.

I have so much energy right now ... and my haphazard sleep(lessness) pattern seems to have fixed itself.

Goodbye creepy hotel mannequin. The sun rises and we're off. Our loaded up rental car represents: Canada, Germany, NY, California, and ages spanning 2 decades. This is only a fraction of the diversity seen amongst Morrissey fans. I've met everyone from stylish middle school kids to hip 60-somethings (all with spectacular hair, naturally) in line before a concert; Moz-lovers of the world unite.

Our first pit stop is at buck-toothed beaver Texas truck stop chain Buc-ee's and 3 of us are wearing black variations of the "Be Kind Or I'll Kill You" t's. I've never heard of Buc-ee's but inside its more blinding than the brilliant Texan morning sun: throwback 90's neon lights, growling slushee machines, and a menagerie of tacky merchandise attack the senses. It appears to be the trucker-speed-addled love child of Wal-Mart and 7/11. The best find in our quick stop is a 'Ya'll Need Jesus' cup holder.

Y'all Need Jesus

The rest of the drive glides by and it begins to sink in that tonight is the last night of tour. As no new dates have been announced yet, none of us know when we'll see Moz again. I try to refocus my attention back to the present moment, which at times passes as quickly as zooming cars on the freeway. It is uncontrollable; time cannot be captured. Happy moments always fly through your fingertips, and sad times will inevitably lag and drag.

For lunch we stop at Spiral Cafe and Bakery, a 1950's style vegan diner with snazzy spindly-legged tables and key-lime green walls. Indulgent vegan junk food is my favourite - and I loom around a glass display case stacked with pretty little amaretto cupcakes. The food is so good we have to queue, and queuing for food is something I am not often willing to do. In fact, on concert days I rarely eat a thing: jitters overwhelm me. Still, all I can think of is tonight.

Last hotel check-in of the tour after a drive past suffocating skyscrapers and the grassy knoll. I begin the ritual of getting ready one more time, and also prepare some surprises. Lying on fresh hotel linens doing my makeup is my one pause in a packed day, although my phone is already buzzing with panic on the streets of Dallas about the fact the pit has been made General Admission and our front row tickets are now no longer necessarily front row. We decide to get down to the theatre a bit early.

Outside the Majestic Theatre a mini-queue has formed. Winds tear through the air and frazzle my hair; to preserve my bangs I find a safety haven in the form of a doorway and sit on the pavement. My heart and stomach flip-flop through the past week – and I simultaneously relive past lives and imagine that moment when Morrissey walks on stage, now only hours away. Everyday life haunts in the background, and I never, never want to go home.

Can you please stop time?

The Majestic is a vaudevillian-era venue with a vivacious history of hosting acts like Mae West and Bob Hope. Sandwiched between brick buildings, from the outside it seems quite small, but inside it magically expands to towering Corinthian columns and Baroque balustrades. I couldn’t tell you what the lobby looks like, because as usual I am too nervous to notice. At doors our lines split into two, and predictably I choose the wrong line, ending up at the mercy of an elderly usher scanning tickets at tortoise-level speedlessness. My eyes widen and my veins churn as - again - bodies fly in front of me down to the pit line up.

Mae West

I seem to have lost at least a dozen spaces, and wait to be wristbanded. By some awesome chance, being further back actually pays off and Gustavo comes out to say hi to those of us who are still in line. I’m delighted he remembers me, and similar luck will follow later as we end up running into Boz at a pub after the concert. I find my place in the pit just in time to snag a front row spot. Behind us rows of crimson velvet seats cascade along orchestra level, framed by intricate vaults of gold leaf, restored but reviving the glamorous 1920’s feel of the place. Dots of golden lights dance in the darkness and I’m surrounded by friends, yet deliciously absorbed in my own thoughts and anticipation. My eyes have adjusted to the dimness and all I can do is hug the heavy black metal of the rail and wait.

The Majestic Theatre

During pre-show videos, Warhol’s Flesh drives a couple of Texan dudes out of sorts and their reactions amuse. Their distress at Dallesandro’s undress seems partially feigned or exaggerated (O-M-G Male Nudity!). We can’t help but share a giggle as the pair slide into their seats and cover their eyes as naked male buttocks thrust across the screen.

As each video counts down to Morrissey’s arrival on stage, I want to capture every second so I can relive it; sadly my memory is not photographic, and I have to let time come and go. While Marlene Dietrich’s faux lashes and rhinestones waver on screen, I know the moment is fast approaching and I gulp my heart back down from the top of my throat.

It's time.

Morrissey appears on stage in a midnight blue shirt and ultra-cool distressed denim and bows in front of us. The band is once again decked out in “Fuck Trump” shirts and Suedehead’s opening notes ring through the gilded air. Moz whips the microphone cord in time with the beat. It continually enthralls me how perfect the phrasing of his lyrics is, in balance with sound and silence; each note, syllable and rest captivates. The pit is tiny but bustling with energetic excitement as we try to reach up at Moz to touch him or savour a coveted moment of eye contact.

My 19^th show still feels like my first show and I’m enchanted.

The lyrics of every song say something to me about my life... and isn’t this all any of us could ask for? To find Earth can be at least a slightly less lonely planet?

It’s my life to destroy my own way

And when you try to break my spirit, it won’t work, because there’s nothing left to break... anymore

I’ve hammered a smile across this pasty face of mine... since the day I was born in (insert year here...)

After stylish and glum Istanbul's gritty guitars, climactic string crescendos, and vicious street gang slang, Morrissey addresses the audience:

"The Beverly Hillbillies, All in The Family, Maude, Rhoda, Roseanne, 3rd Rock From The Sun, Sean Spicer, Kellyann Conway, Betsy DeVos, Jeff Sessions: you just can't beat American comedy."

... and into World Peace Is None Of Your Business...

Matt's drumrolls rumble... there's a build up to something... and a brilliant white spotlight envelops Morrissey as he walks up to the microphone stand. Anticipation folds into the ethereal swirling minor chords of Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loves Me: one of my favourite Smiths songs; I've never seen it live before. I mouth the lyrics and look up at Moz... every head turn and facial expression of his so precious as shadows and light interplay across the stage. We drink the moment in.

No hope no harm... just another false alarm.

Setlist (Via Setlist FM):

1. Suedehead
2. Alma Matters
3. Speedway
4. When Last I Spoke To Carol
5. Istanbul
6. World Peace Is None Of Your Business
7. Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
8. Everyday Is Like Sunday
9. Ouija Board, Ouija Board
10. The Bullfighter Dies
11. I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris
12. Ganglord
13. Meat Is Murder
14. Let Me Kiss You
15. Jack The Ripper
16. The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores
17. How Soon Is Now?
18. First Of The Gang To Die
19. Shoplifters Of The World Unite

Encore

Judy Is A Punk

Time is poetic. At one point during the show some brave injured soul in the pit stretches their crutch out to Moz and he blesses it in a crutch-shake. Oh hear my voice... Ouija Board weaves healing protection around my heart. Let Me Kiss You's shirt toss entices me but this time I'm nowhere near in range to grasp the incense-scented flailing fabric.

Ripper crashes into Crashing Bores and two of my favourite songs are back-to-back. Before Bores, Moz again addresses the audience:

"As the world knows, you-know-who is gonna kill us all. North Korea... he'll find somebody. He's gonna kill you, he's gonna kill me. So, I have loved knowing what bits of you I know - and - when I am ashes please remember it was me who said... 'The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores."

And how could we ever forget he said that? The first moment I heard those lyrics they hit my arid, bored-with-the-world mind like a long-awaited rainfall... a downpour of "YES! The world is full of crashing bores!" Someone pointing out the disenchanting truths of life is a lifeline in the midst of a dreary world... it makes us feel less alone. And that internal tug-of-war "and I must be one...I am not one... you don't understand" as our own insecurities and persistent, ever-resistant self doubts are rolled out before us in brilliant lyrical catharsis. "I'll be your mirror."

Morrissey, you are no crashing bore and this is why my tour notebooks are never, ever "consequently, blank."

Did I mention the rail at the Majestic Theatre is high? It seems at least a few crucial inches higher than many other barriers and my friend and I are feeling hopelessly vertically challenged. At some concerts I'm able to teeter my torso on the edge to stretch out for a handshake, but this mammoth chunk of black steel is unforgiving and we keep gracelessly falling back every time we attempt to prop ourselves up. Our efforts are so clumsy we end up laughing each time we fall backwards, and my ribs and arms become a tender puzzle of purple and beige bruises.

Perhaps noticing our efforts, Moz brings the microphone stand over in front of us and gives our side of the stage a serenade during First Of The Gang To Die. He leans into the microphone stand, and it almost becomes part of his body; in fact, when he's singing, the microphone always seems to be an extension of his body, rather than a separate element. The midnight blue shirt since torn off, he's now wearing a white shirt with tufted ruffled patches along the front. He looks one part angelic/one part handsome devil.

I never want the night to end.

But time of course does pass, and the encore arrives... Soaring eardrum-spinning cheers and claps can't fully convey our love and devotion, and we drink in a finale bow from Moz, Matt, Mando, Boz, Jesse, and Gustavo.

"So, be good to yourself,

Be good to your mother,

Stop Trump

And may all the gods in the world bless you."

- Morrissey