East Coast Tour Part 2: Morrissey at Madison Square Garden in New York

I’m walking through the lobby of the Hyatt in Boston, and there are Christmas wreaths, bows, and bells everywhere. That I can handle, but the music, it permeates everything... perhaps because music evokes emotions and memories much more strongly than any other medium. Santa Baby (I’ve always found it creepy) sends me over the edge towards panic and I momentarily feel like blacking out. The same tired Xmas music and advertising jingle bells hell reminds me that December really feels like a drag.  It all just seems so forced. When did I become so jaded?

As a child, I enjoyed Christmas, but now in social anxiety driven adulthood, I dread it – it seems like code for something I’m not part of: I just can’t feign frivolity - and I know I’m not unique in feeling this way. I've heard if you have kids it's different. Maybe, maybe not.

I wonder if I will see Morrissey again before having to face Christmas. The fate of the Boston concert seems uncertain, as Philadelphia was cancelled two nights before. Within minutes of finding out about the cancellation in Philly, our airbnb cat, Soren (named after existentialist philosopher Soren Kierkegaard) comforted me by settling her warm, purring body onto my lap. It’s the first time a cat has sat in my lap since my own cat passed away last year.

“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”

- Kierkegaard

Soren the cat

As usual, I need to try to live in the moment, and somehow not stress out. Free from tinsel’s trappings and into the open air, one of my goals is to visit Boston Common, a park in the middle of downtown Boston that features a bronze sculpture called “Make Way For Ducklings.” There’s also a massive duck pond and a number of extra friendly chubby squirrels that respond when you talk to them or blow kisses. My mood lifts and I buy a little bag of cashews to share with them. In my head I naively feel very Snow White as I hold a cashew between my fingers and a fluffy squirrel leaps towards me, with no coaxing necessary. Before I can even blink, the brazen squirrel does a crazy Bruce Lee 360-degree turn mid-air and ... tears the cashew (and the skin) from my hand, which is now bleeding. Boston squirrels are intense.

Make Way For Ducklings

Some Squirrels Are Bigger Than Others

Not long later, there is an announcement that the Boston concert is cancelled. I’m glad I’m not alone and am with a friend. My heart sinks: it’s a seated show and I had front row tickets – but more than that, I wasn’t mentally prepared to say goodbye – not yet. Most importantly, I hope Moz and the band are healthy and that it’s nothing too serious. The news really hits when we are at Whole Foods later that evening, and Spent The Day In Bed fatefully pours over the speakers – I can almost feel tears start to well. It bothers me how some faceless people online will criticize, because I know it hurts Moz to cancel: “I put myself through torture. One cancelled show and I lower my face on to a hot stove for six weeks.”

While the tour didn’t end as I had hoped, I had some wonderful times with some great friends, and the concert in New York City was one of the best nights of my life.

Let’s go back...

I’m in an uber travelling from La Guardia airport to our hotel in midtown Manhattan and to be honest, it’s simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Moments in, I let out a teensy yelp as a car cuts us off, with seemingly no room to enter. New York traffic: it’s wall-to-wall cars across 5 lanes and constant honking horns and gestures that are absolutely vile. We're already immersed in inky darkness and the famed skyline glistens in the distance as we crawl towards our destination. A large bus (not double-decker, unfortunately) nearly drives on top of my side of the car: by the time our uber ride comes to an end, I’m pretty sure I've nearly died at least 3 times.

The buildings in New York City tower, black, sooty, casting shadows upon shadows. They suffocate from above, and on the zooming streets below, countless people walk and wander, from tourists to businessmen to the homeless. The class juxtaposition is disturbing: a woman drenched in diamonds may be only a few steps away from a man sleeping under a crumpled blanket of newspaper. The rich must profit and get richer, and the poor must stay poor. Stands crammed with faux-designer handbags and sweaty food trucks pepper the sidewalks, ground floors typically remain behind wrought iron bars, and second floors beam neon signs for palmists, psychics, and variations on ‘massage’. A chain-smoking man selling Egyptian cat statues from the back of a van screams obscenities and pizza stands sling slices nearly the size of truck tires. It’s overwhelming even by big city standards.

Early in the morning, well before sunrise, we make our way to Madison Square Garden to line up. It’s freezing, and I’m swaddled in double scarves and blankets. I am 9^th on the list, and I gingerly lay my sleeping bag against a wall peppered with cigarette butts and onyx grime. Oh, the things I do for this man, I giggle. My love I’d do anything for you. In all my 30-something years, I had never camped or slept outside before Morrissey. Queuing makes me feel content, as strange as that may sound to some; I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world

People think we are street kids and offer us food – we politely decline and explain we are lining up for a concert. A man with swaying dreadlocks gets a massive kick out of us: “You guys are crazy. If you are so determined you can do this, you will go far in life” he laughs, taking a long sip from a dented mega-can of beer. I consider the fact that I’m not-so-sure in other moments in my life I’m tremendously determined, but the thought is nice. Tumbleweeds of errant garbage twirl and swirl in the wind, and as the sun begins to rise, plump Penn station pigeons strut about like tiny businessmen in shiny grey suits.

A friend from Japan surprises us with some beautiful presents: a magazine from Singapore, some Japanese Tour Posters, and a vinyl. Morrissey has changed my life in so many ways, and the great friendships I’ve made all over the world are a huge part of that. We are all from various backgrounds, life experiences, ages, but our bond of loving Moz means that, in a sense, we immediately understand each other. Hold onto your friends.

As we count down to doors, I sense a familiar feeling pouring down my arms – that rush – a blend of anxiety and excitement. I can tell other people have it, by the way they shake out their limbs, like racers lined up at a track. As the glass doors open, we rush to separate lines at metal detectors. I make a habit of NOT bringing a purse because it slows things up... I throw my lipgloss and a few items into a dish placed before the detector. A grey haired security man, looking slightly like a grouchy Bob Barker, barks at me.
“THESE ARE METAL DETECTORS – WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
I gasp, wide eyed, confused.
“YOUR PHONE!” He adds.
Oh – it was still in my hand – I fling it into the dish and walk forward... I had no idea cell phones contain metal, which is apparently supposed to be common knowledge. There’s something else to check off on my list of shortcomings that render me virtually useless at everyday life.

Pretty little orange Madison Square Garden bracelets are snapped onto our wrists, although the clasps make it fumbly for some venue workers, and valuable seconds slip away. I speed-walk up to the barrier and claim a spot on Jesse’s side. Now it’s time to absorb the feeling of the pre-show music – the build up is exhilarating, and any feelings of exhaustion from a long day slip away.

The pre-show videos are a ritual – and as the Ramones burst onto the screen with Loudmouth, the floor starts to jump in time with the beat – the pit is set on a bouncing dance floor. A really great thing about the pre-show videos is they give you an eye into Morrissey’s influences and interests. I decide I should check out 60’s girl group the Paper Dolls when I get home. The screen is filled with Warhol stars like “we’re rich, we’re famous, we’re beautiful, and miserable” Candy Darling and spiky head-thrashing punk icons like The Sex Pistols.

When Morrissey walks out on stage tonight, he is wearing a dashing navy blue cardigan with white trim and dark jeans with rosaries and chains hanging from the belt loops – I'm filled with delight – because I LOVE Moz in a cardi. The blue suits his eyes, brilliant eyes that somehow pierce and delve into your soul when he looks into yours, if only for a moment. A friend later coined his style that night as “Madison Square Cardigan” and I’m kicking myself for not coming up with that first.

This New York City show is already feeling awesome!

Photo by Violeta Preciado

The songs from Low In High School are such high points for me live: Mando's pulsing bassline in I Wish You Lonely is accented with Morrissey's microphone cord whips: “turn the key slowly, remember how I can’t sleep” and “romance gone wrong...”

The lyrics somehow identify feelings I’ve never been able to articulate outside the diary of my mind: “free in the truth of make-believe,” “the news contrives to frighten you,” and “the more I wish for someone the less likely they come.” These beautifully sung snippets of poetry start to etch themselves seamlessly into my consciousness, like tattoos on my soul. Sing your life, our lives, my life.

Tonight the lyrics of My Love I’d Do Anything For You are really speaking to me – I wonder how many people really do teach their kids, or even themselves to recognize and despise the propaganda of the mainstream media? It’s so hard to extract yourself – and be yourself - when outside forces are battering you from all sides on a daily basis – surely life isn’t destined to be lived in a one-size-fits-all format? Certainly society – the news, governments, bosses, the media drown down our minds and creativity... are we held captive by rules and expectations? Think of all the other things we could be – but what a hard route that is to walk, and not without criticism – and loneliness. Fitting in means stripping so much of yourself away – how much of you is other people, or what other people want or expect? Society’s hell. These thoughts bend and sway over Matt's rolling tribal drumbeats.

For many of us, the only time we feel happy, or free to be ourselves, is at a concert.

Photo by aine1974 on Instagram

Jack The Ripper evokes London fog, and the dank dangerous alleyways and backways of 1880’s Whitechapel. Morrissey emerges from within the fog, his hands grasp through its billows towards the microphone stand, his head slightly thrown back. His arms spread as he sings “crash into my arms.” Jesse next moves through the fog towards the front of the stage for the guitar solo, notes singing in response to Morrissey's powerful, haunting vocals. You can almost feel the eerie echos of bricks and cobblestones. Again, it’s music that transports you to different places, times, and minds.

As the notes to Everyday Is Like Sunday fill the theatre, a friend boosts herself over the barrier. Morrissey reaches out to grasp her hand and she makes it on stage – for her first hug.

“I’m in a dialogue with my audience – and that’s something I need.”
- Morrissey

Tonight, two soul-baring ballads are back-to-back. Home Is A Question Mark’s bells and tearful minor chords sparkle through the air - “Home - is it just a word? Or is it something you carry within you?” Stunningly, searchingly beautiful, I wonder if this song will be one of the next singles.  Next is Quarry’s I’m Not Sorry, which speaks to me like an earnest plea to be understood, or at least accepted as one is, by one’s love: “reach for my hand, and the race is won... reject my hand and the damage is done.” We can be so bold as to reveal ourselves to the world, yet behind this, deep within, the fear of rejection devastates and aches.

Existence Is Only A Game

Morrissey and the band walk out for the encore – and with arms interlocked, bow to the crowd. Of course I don’t realize at the time it will be a while before I see them again. It’s strange looking back because I hadn’t really prepared myself to say goodbye to Moz for a while – but then again, maybe I’m never prepared.

Photo by maladjustedguy on Instagram

During Suedehead the pit becomes a sea of groping hands, limbs, and bodies. Cardiganed Morrissey makes his way over towards our side of the stage – and I reach up to touch his hand, but the first handshake goes to a person in the row behind me who is much taller – then, the moment comes and our hands touch. My heart floods and beats with life. More flying bodies – I get a big New York boot to the back of my head – and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so carefree about being kicked in the head in my life...

If I’ve ever been kicked in the head in my life...

A random hand socks me in the eye. I duck, then smile.

What an incredible night.



All photos by me unless otherwise specified.