Enter travel, an alluring option for someone who wants to avoid the confines of 'reality' - yet find a way to live in the time-driven moment, rather than fully succumbing to timeless fantasy's lockdown lure. I can re-weave my existence every time I enter a new city. Regular life is almost forgotten until someone asks, "What do you do?" ... a question that perhaps defines one unfairly by employment... or lack thereof. With travel, I can find variance and new places: cemeteries etched with pasts and towns sketched with paths or even just a nameless dive bar. For years, I didn't travel aside from the occasional blitz run down to Las Vegas, and it's something I want to do while I'm still - young(ish).
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| Morrissey in Glasgow* |
Morrissey's UK & Ireland 2018 Tour is the closest I have ever come (so far) to attending an entire tour... making 10 of 11 dates. This year was also my first time visiting Scotland and Ireland - and when I boarded that noisy little propeller plane to Vancouver back on Valentine's Day, I didn't yet know I would even be attending the whole tour. This was one of the most emotionally-charged, spur-of-the moment decisions I have ever made, and I couldn't be happier with it. Travelling between towns so quickly, from station to pavement to station, I mostly had time to only scribble down some notes - and my mind feels like a heavenly photo album filling in all that's in between. As I did with the West Coast portion of the 2017 Morrissey fall tour, I will mostly summarize highlights here. I've never felt the pages of a month turn so quickly.
And here we are...
Glasgow
For around two months now, it's been quiet for Morrissey news. I've been worried about him - I know he's a strong person and a warrior, but the press is cruel, and their attack within a week of the release of Low In High School hangs heavily. The album is spectacular, and this should be a time of triumph, but the black cloud is the music press, a thuggish gaggle of yawnfaces that seem intent on slugging vengeance at anyone who displays capacity for unique thought. On top of that, the last we had heard of Morrissey was back in December, when he was suffering from a virulent flu virus. I'm really hoping the fans will be able to wrap him in the greatest homecoming hug we can.
Arriving in Glasgow (vaguely unsure which day it is?) I eat a fantastic "you're the one for me, fatty" meal at a vegan fast food joint called The Flying Duck, which says EVERYTHING to me about my life. With a turn down a dark iron industrial staircase to underground Glasgow, cement-floored Flying Duck isn't fancy, but it does boast a Duck-person mural, mannequins, cute dogs, graffiti-peppered bathroom stalls, and cheap (but decent) beer on tap. I await updates from Aberdeen, and am thrilled to hear Morrissey is back on stage: "I may grow older, but I will never cave in." With little-to-no jet-lag ravaging my nocturnal head, I let the joy of being back on the tour gang flood my veins.
It's the morning of the first show (for me) and I jump out of bed with excitement, pre-sunrise, for queuing. I make 5th on the list and it's all beginning to feel a bit more real. Then... the box office strikes and triggers out-of-body anxiety. Living overseas, it was not possible for me to have tickets mailed to my address, and I am at the mercy of will call on the day of the gig. The woman at box office searches amongst neat stacks of tickets and comes back empty-handed - mine have not arrived yet - and the Royal Fail has played some cruel gag and I'm to check back later. My soaring mood plummets. Heart in throat, with tear-speckled lashes, I sit on the Glasgow pavement outside the SSE Hydro and await Divine Intervention, or at least a straggler postal truck. Time drags impatiently as the Scottish wind kicks up and picks up swirls of trash from the previous night's concert: defeated confetti strands and smashed cigarette butts. I will only sit in trash for Morrissey! Finally, by mid-afternoon, the truant tickets arrive, and I again remember, just barely, how to breathe.
Showered and changed for the show, I pass the next hurdle: making a smooth entry at doors, and claim a terrific spot on the barrier. A giant Peter Wyngarde throws me a slick 70's glance of approval over his pinstriped shoulder, and the ticket fiasco dissolves into mere memory. With anticipation and pre-show music thumping rhythm from the floor up, we wait for Morrissey.
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| King of 70's dapper Jason King |
Moz walks out following a lucky flashlight's beam, wearing a white shirt in which he looks angelic, vulnerable, and strikingly bold all at once - he gives a bow - and I notice the band is wearing "Nobody Likes Us We Don't Care" shirts, which is a fabulous f.u. to the complaint brigade.
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| How Soon Is Now? in Glasgow |
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| Boz rocking the Nobody Likes Us tee |
Tonight is my first time seeing I Bury The Living live, and it's one of those experiences I struggle to do justice to in words. Stage lights die down towards relatively ghostly darkness, the black and white Vietnam soldier from Meat Is Murder towers on the backdrop screen, and the band swells into precisely erratic aching guitars and Matt's burgeoning drumbeat, which launch towards the first verse... something in the music itself betrays the imagery of trench warfare, or treacherous combat booted jungle treks. Green tinged lights surround Morrissey, his voice smooth and bold over haunting notes; his lyrics convey complex psychological ravages of war: the breaking down of an individual already broken down and the grotesque flaws of an age-old savage structure built under the guise of order and honour - "honour-mad cannon fodder." At one point Morrissey holds the microphone stand aloft like a rifle. The pit is a sea of intensity in response to his voice, his movements on stage; you can't help but feel transported... Then... the climax - the admission - the realization - the anger, rising - "That wasn't the job I loved!" - and the denouement ... "it's funny how the war goes on..." as Morrissey's voice scales up octaves, taking on the mourning mothers role... and yes, to the military it seems - "our John" wasn't "our John" at all, simply another lifeless honour-mad casualty: a number.
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| Morrissey singing I Bury The Living in Dublin |
For the encore, Irish Blood, English Heart, Morrissey tears off his shirt, teasing from side to side, before flinging it into the audience, where a mass of bodies pounce on the precious item, all gripping and twisting, until a crew member assists with scissors. I emerge successful, as do a number of my friends, and tuck a sizeable piece (my largest one yet!) of divinely scented, slightly damp fabric into my pocket.
Places to visit in Glasgow:
The Flying Duck
Glasgow Necropolis
Glasgow Cathedral
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| Glasgow Cathedral |
Dublin
As the plane descends over Dublin, rolling velvet green hills are dotted with fluffy lambs and it's unmistakably beautiful - I wave at the lambs (you should always wave at lambs!) and wonder what they think about airplanes? Dublin is home to a number of places I'd like to visit, and it's nice to know I have an extra day to look around. My uber driver alerts me to a ship docked nearby that likely transported my grandfather's parents across the shivering Atlantic to Canada... all those decades ago. There's also the Guinness factory tour and a whiskey tasting tour should the urge strike. I decide to take it easy for sightseeing the night before the gig and go for dinner at an awesome little Japanese locale that has loads of vegan options. The food is excellent, and the atmosphere is great, with a colourful 1960's nudie mural and scratchy old Japanese movies projected onto the wall. Matt Walker is there and I manage a shy wave, as I could never imagine interrupting someone during dinner. All in all, it's a brilliant night and I feel rejuvenated for queuing early the next morning.
The morning of the gig races by and I spend most of my time writing and chasing intermittent slivers of Irish sunlight. Some minor blips before doors occur, but being 4th on the list, I attain a great spot on the barrier again. Morrissey covers some Gilbert O'Sullivan and pays homage to Oscar Wilde during the refrain of Everyday Is Like Sunday. My first handshake comes during Hold Onto Your Friends and every kilometre and hour travelled and border crossed dissolves into a blissful moment of touch. My happiness can't be put into words.
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| Morrissey singing When You Open Your Legs in Dublin |
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| Jesse Tobias in Dublin |
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| Mando Lopez in Dublin |
Somehow even more dazzling on Irish soil, the chords of Irish Blood, English Heart fill the arena to the brim of the ceiling and beyond, as the band passionately weaves a fiery sound collage of strings, rhythm, and keys, and we, the audience respond like bouncing fireworks. Morrissey's voice soars beautifully as his mozmerizingly blue eyes survey the crowd, and before we are ready to say goodbye ... because we are never ready to, no matter how exhausted our pit-raggled limbs may be ... he throws his shirt into our sea of exalted madness.
Places to visit in Dublin:
Yamamori Noodles
Glasnevin Cemetery
Oscar Wilde's House
Oscar Wilde's statue
The Temple Bar
... and yes, the Guinness tastes different here.
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| Glasnevin Cemetery |
Newcastle
Somewhere between the euphoria of Dublin and Newcastle dates, I decide what I've always known, that I never, ever want to go home. I extend my trip to last for the entire tour - and I'm amazed how spur-of-the-moment planning combined with a few dashes of luck make this lofty fantasy work out... I kiss most of my anxiety-self away because I'm beaming.
Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, in North-Eastern England, is home to some pretty cool sites, even if on the surface it screams silent and grey. Russian cold-front air snaps around the town's soot tinged buildings and blackened church spires watch over ever-cryptic traffic lights (with cars driving on the other side of the road, I still haven't a clue where to look when I cross), creating a gloomy atmosphere. Some describe Newcastle as unattractive, but perhaps there's a charm to be found in its dark winding alleyways and I - being from a North American country rife with modern architecture - enjoy the disheveled cobblestones and too-low doorways. A traipse up one narrow alley leads us to Newcastle's Cat Cafe, Mog-on-The-Tyne - a bright little haven of purring moggies housed in a building of brick and mortar. We meet a tough-as-nails rescue cat, rehabilitated with a broken jaw, and a jaunty calico eats treats from the palm of my hand. As well as animal rescues, Newcastle is also a great place for vegan food, including a stellar spot called The Bohemian. Walking up for our reservation, I cringe as Elton John booms out on all speakers, but then realize the unwanted music hails from next door, and The Bohemian is playing Blondie - that's better! Over a few hours and a bottles of wine, the music and food are both great, and so is the decor, with black and white 8x10's of rock gods, goddesses, and daring, darling outcasts plastering the walls. The Bohemian also doubles as a record store, stocked with vintage vinyls - shelves oozing with temptation, especially after the wine.
Queuing in Newcastle is a little more rigorous than usual, with a "storm of the decade" waiting to tear the air to icy shreds, but we are too excited to freeze, and I make a terrific spot near centre barrier. The stage may be arena-high, but Morrissey feels breathtakingly close as he stands at the microphone, wearing a deep blue shirt and toying with the intricate pendant around his lovely neck. One song in, somewhere during Suedehead, a half-filled cup of beer is thrown, pouring down the back of my head - oh yes... and this is just the beginning. Surges from the rowdy crowd are not overwhelming, however, and my ribs only receive a gentle crush, a little love-bite souvenir from a Northern England gig.
The setlist blends Smiths songs and music spanning Mozzer's solo career, and the new songs from Low In High School are so undeniably gorgeous live that even the typically basic-bitch music press must admit it. And as for us - the fans - the lyrics and music from LIHS have already engraved themselves as classics along our veins, for eternity. Tonight, Morrissey adds Quarry ballad I'm Not Sorry to the setlist, and my heart blossoms with longing. The shirt toss again showcases the crowd's rabid intensity, and I'm swept (shrieking!) off my feet about 3 rows back, in an undertow of limbs, even though the shirt itself lands nowhere near the place I'm actually standing.
Warning... you may walk away from a Morrissey concert with any - or all - of the following:
An overflowing heart
An expanding mind
and...
a peppering of purple bruises tattooed across your ribs.
And the bruises are so, so worth it!
Places to visit in Newcastle:
Mog On The Tyne
The Bohemian
Leeds
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| Ticket and Jesse's guitar pick from Leeds |
For an excellent review of Morrissey in Leeds, check out Angie's blog:
http://angiejcooke.blogspot.ca/2018/03/morrissey-at-first-direct-arena-leeds.html?m=1
*all photos by me unless otherwise specified
