UK Tour Diary: London: Royal Albert Hall, Alexandra Palace, and Palladium

I’m sitting here in my hotel room on a little retreat I booked for myself to get away from the ongoing noise at my place; living under a perpetually loud family of 6 just doesn’t line up with my introversion, anxiety, and hobbies of reading and writing. Right now, I’m in Portland, Oregon, as I enjoyed the city during the Morrissey tour, and it’s not too far away from where I live. This rare streak of silence feels luxurious, and Portland is a great spot to visit if you like vegan food (especially desserts) – and it’s also home to a massive bookstore that takes up an entire city block, a cat cafe, and a 19^th century cemetery. Needless to say, the reprieve from daily life is soothing, and I thought I’d take this chance in the quiet of my hotel room to type up the last section of my UK tour diary.

Incidentally, today – the time of writing - (April 10^th), marks one month since the Palladium concert ... I’m not sure where the time has gone, it’s come in bursts and often it drags - but to say I miss the tour would be a tremendous understatement. So, I’m hoping I can make sense of my journal notes and put something cohesive together between those scribbles and the dusty attic of my memory – and as I delve in to clear the cobwebs and look at the moments nestled in there, I hope, in a sense, I can re-live them.

Morrissey, Matt, and Jesse at Royal Albert Hall*

Royal Albert Hall

London sprawls endlessly; if you’re from a smaller city like I am, the task of finding your way around the underground maze and from district to district is monumental – especially if you have no sense of direction. Luckily, a friend is travelling with me from our hotel in Brighton, and she is far more adept than I in such matters.

Walking through the Kensington neighbourhood, it’s clear this is a ‘posh’ part of town, with neat strips of Victorian buildings and clean, manicured streets and gardens; it lacks the gritty edge of Brixton, yet offers the same big city sense of invisibility. One day I make an unplanned detour to check out Harrod’s, and realize I’m re-wearing a tshirt I wore to sleep on the street outside a venue last week – and something about this feels comical until I walk into the store – and suddenly feel terrifically slovenly; not to mention, if you’re not an abundantly wealthy person yourself, it just feels odd. At the bakery, a unicorn cake starts at 450 pounds, and in household decor, turquoise plumed peacock statues cost around 9700 pounds.  Kohl-eyed gold Egyptian Pharaohs gaze out over polished white marble floors and I'm afraid to touch anything, and it strikes me even the mannequins, all angles and high fashion, are judging me. I’m not sure if this triggers anxiety or a sense of jest – but, as usual, self-consciousness takes the lead.

Luckily, animals offer some comfort and therapy – a walk down the high street towards Royal Albert Hall will take you to Kensington Park, which features a duck pond. A friend alerts me to this integral piece of information – and I realize I must visit. As we enter the park in search of the ducks and swans, a lush green field takes us towards a strange pack of ghostly grey avian creatures (I thought they were ducks, but I later discover they’re called Egyptian Geese) that drift across the grass in strange, zombie-like unity. Feathers make rings around their eyes that look more like dark hangover circles, and their appearance seems gawky and wingless. The birds are so unattractive they’re positively enchanting, and I decide to say hello, but they are not the friendliest, and reply with throaty hisses that sound nothing like quacks or goose-honks. Moving on towards the pond, we see swans paddling silent laps, tilting their long, graceful necks with mastery of their own beauty akin to that of exotic, ectomorphic supermodels. Their white feathers dazzle under jags of March sunlight, but I also must give a hello to a street-wizened pigeon, who seems slightly affronted that the prettier birdies are getting all the attention – hmm... such is life.

"Zombie duck," or Egyptian goose

Swans

After prepping and primping – and a few giggles - we arrive at Royal Albert Hall. The venue’s carved dome curves into its own infinity amongst the clouds... and I feel butterflies flit through my stomach, and my heart leaps into my throat, a feeling so powerfully rare, yet familiar, as my purse houses the front row tickets my friend and I massively lucked out in finding. Lucky doesn’t capture it.

Even though the gig is seated, we know that it's possible nothing is guaranteed, as anyone with floor tickets, or even brave balcony divers may make a run for the barrier; the pressure’s on – and it’s wild. As doors open, we dart madly towards front row, treasured tickets in hand. In this frenzied rush, the venue’s ambience nearly escapes me. But then... look above and behind, and Royal Albert Hall's spinning gilded ceiling and red velvet interior will smother you with theatrical luxury.

Royal Albert Hall

We are instructed to stay in our seats – venue security is quite adamant about this rule – and as the Ramones fill the pre-show screens, they impart tough Queens vibes over the regal hall: “We’re the Ramones, and you’re a loudmouth baby...” and... no one moves a muscle. The Ramones' gnatty black hair and street-tough sneers fade into coiffed and sassy 60’s girl group The Paper Dolls... and still nothing... Christ, people really are staying in their seats. I teeter on the edge of my seat like a naughty schoolkid, ready to strike into motion at the first glimpse of urgency – I know that at some point – people are going to rush forward. When that moment comes – I make the leap to the barrier, and feel dozens of other bodies slam and cram towards the stage in impulsive fervour.

When Morrissey walks upon the stage tonight, it almost feels as if he’s eye-level with us, as Royal Albert Hall’s stage is much lower than the towering arena stages at most of the previous concerts. A precious swoop of nervous exhilaration in my frame competes with the bliss spreading across my chest – how can someone make me feel so many emotions at once? Later, I’ll see photos of myself from the night and I hardly recognize my own face, because I’m smiling and ecstatic – which is something I’m still not used to. As Moz and the band launch into Playboys, the prim assigned-seats atmosphere from beforehand catapults into that otherworldly realm of musical energy, and this gilded opera house is awash with sweaty limbs and racing pulses.

2^nd Low In High School single Jacky’s Only Happy When She’s Up On The Stage engages me deeply tonight, as it’s a favourite of my friend from New York, who has just sleeplessly arrived via red-eye flight. Morrissey tilts his head back and sways to the rhythm of Jacky's opening notes and adds a playful “whoa-ho-ho-ho” to the lyrics, tossing the microphone stand from hand to hand. It’s entrancing – and so is the story of Jacky. Our subject, Jacky, like many artists, lives for her art – and lives for the stage, because reality is not a place where she can express herself comfortably. On the stage, Jacky is “free in the truth of make believe” because that world has become her truth, a place where she can channel her losses, and live out her desires - and this feels far more tangible than any mundane or disappointing off stage experience. As someone who is shy, this line speaks to me as well, because it’s mostly in fantasy or creativity I feel I am myself – and this is far truer to me than what most would consider my actual life. Reality hinges on the subjective. As Morrissey sings, “exit... exit... everybody’s headed for the exit” with a bite, he points towards the exit, and in our story, the artist’s dream is over, as Jacky no longer has an audience or cues to alleviate her confusion about life (aside – is it confusion – or is it absolute self-knowledge – to know where you feel most alive – as barefaced daily existence can hang with unfulfilling disappointments?) With Jacky, Morrissey shows his prowess for writing a song that is not only catchy and fun, but also has a lot of depth.

For Speedway, Morrissey’s silhouette stands dark against the backdrop, as the guitars gently bend and caress notes. His lyrics weave vulnerability with strength – taking the battered-down spirit and turning it around as a form of resilience: “and when you try to break my spirit, it won’t work, because there’s nothing left to break... anymore.” Hearing Speedway live is like a much-needed jolt to a wounded heart.

During I’m Not Sorry and Everyday Is Like Sunday, Morrissey holds hands and interacts with the audience, even those up in the side stalls. Every time I see him live, I’m remarkably touched by his connection with us. He’s helped us in so many ways, and I hope, somehow, some way, we’ve helped him too.

Alexandra Palace

I’m not used to being a lucky person... well, I do feel lucky with the experiences I’ve had over the past few years, and that is undeniable. In a sense this has helped me with this gut-wrenching, permeating sense that's plagued me since I was little: that I’m somehow doomed. This feeling started when I was about five, ever since I attracted bullies (and I still do occasionally attract them as an adult) and my own self-understanding came into question. Sometimes, however, unfortunate luck is merely tiny things, and luckily, my journey to Ally Pally was only fraught with little misadventures that I was able to overcome.

This is my first time doing an entire tour (except for Aberdeen) and when I go to shows, I am usually bursting with so much energy to go and queue, that I race out of bed at the crack of dawn – like an adrenaline junkie, basking in the ecstasy of anticipation – and more than that – an unfamiliar happiness in my heart. But something, I don’t know what, happened after Royal Albert Hall, and I felt exhausted – as though I had hit a wall – my body didn’t want to cooperate with my desires, and my mood started to crumble soon after my energy started evaporatating.

I felt wrong as I travelled through Shoreditch with a friend – the faces on the tube, so many faces, overwhelmed. When was the last time I slept a full night... and why was my head feeling so heavy? My friend was lovely as ever, and we had vegan ramen for lunch... but something in me started to collapse, very faintly. I became angry with myself, because for me, touring is as close to happiness as I can get – so why was I feeling so weird? My head was slowly turning to muddled cement, and then – my stomach flipped out – some sort of food poisoning, however mild, had struck. My anxiety hovered as my airbnb fell through... and there were no vacant hotels left near Ally Pally... and I was stuck at a soulless inn nowhere near walking distance. Shaking hands led to me spilling an entire scalding cup of tea all over myself at Costa, my suitcase fell on top of me as I got out of my uber and I collapsed on the curb – the driver drove off and people saw – just little things, a string of bad luck, albeit minor.

My friend texts me that the queue has already started – and I’m sitting in this hotel room, with an exhaustion-cement head, and I know I need sleep. I cry... I feel five years old, I feel eighty-five... Befuddled, I decide to queue early in the morning instead, possibly kissing the barrier goodbye. As anyone who has been front row at a Morrissey show knows, there’s nothing quite like being at the barrier – it’s remarkable - but I also know if I want to make it to the concert at all – I need rest.

There's nothing like being at the barrier - Moz at RAH

I hardly remember falling asleep, passing out for several hours, and awake to find out the queue list has already closed. Feeling genuinely pissed off at myself, I spill more tears; the internal debate begins: “guilt: stop being so spoiled, you’re lucky just to be here...” vs ... “self-chastisement: you’re so weak willed – you could have gone last night.” My friends convince me to come to Alexandra Palace when I can, and I decide to quit flipping out and get myself down there.

I stumble as if hungover onto the street and into a waiting uber. In my dismal, dishevelled state, oddly enough, I seem to have finally found a driver in the UK who seems to like me.

“What are you headed to Ally Pally for?” he asks.

“A concert.”

“At this time?”

“Well, I’m lining up for a concert,” I say, matter-of-factly.

“At seven a.m.? Wow, you must be dedicated,” he half laughs.

“Oh, this is late for me,” I inform him.

“No kidding? Who are you going to see there?”

“Morrissey.”

The driver takes interest in how I’ve come from Canada, and that I’ve been here in the UK nearly a month, following the Morrissey tour.

“You know,” he pauses, “I’m very envious of you. You have something you love so much and you do all of this. I’m 42,” he begins, “and I feel like I’ve lost any excitement in my life. There’s nothing I love – life is all very monotonous.”

I understand this feeling he describes, in some sense, and we begin a full-on existential discussion about the dwindling of pleasure as one ages, how people can become so entrapped in a drab daily life, that such disenchantment comes on so subtly one doesn’t always notice until one day – you realize you haven’t felt a positive emotion in months, years... decades? This is a heavy conversation for 7 a.m., but by the time I get out of the car, he tells me he’s inspired to find something he loves too. Wherever he is, driving around London, I hope he finds what he’s looking for.

By some lovely, strange miracle, someone has opened a second list by the time I arrive, and I snag number 37. It’s certainly not where I usually am – but it’s a number, and a wristband. Afternoon rain pours over the expanding, drenched queue; I run into a friend who unwittingly blurts out "you look terrible," and I do! I can only laugh and apply makeup in the venue pub’s bathroom – a makeshift beauty salon; it’s like a bandage on a gaping wound, but we do what we can.

Doors. I come alive again. We race in, towards the barrier, so many bodies, so many determined feet running, running running. I see no light or gaps on the barrier as I enter the sprawling floor – and decide to find a place in second row, near centre, behind a group of friends. I made it – and no, I’m not front row, but second row is pretty awesome too – and I’m determined to enjoy myself. As pre-show music begins its ritual, I turn around – and it seems like countless people are behind me, going miles back towards some distant horizon I can’t see, as lights stretch over their heads in misty rays towards the stage.

Lypsynka’s leggy shrieks hit the screen, then, in stark white font, “WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T AFRAID?” I wonder... 
and then, James Baldwin's face appears... 
There is an anticipatory build up of rumbling percussion, and then - from the depths of backstage, Morrissey, Boz, Jesse, Mando, Matt, and Gustavo appear... the audience lunges and cheers... and the band plunges into the opening notes of You'll Be Gone.

You'll Be Gone at Alexandra Palace

“Sweetheart we are alone -

And you are mine.

Let’s make this night

A night to remember.”

Spanish guitars strum swirling chords and Morrissey leans into the microphone, making the 1960’s Elvis song his own as violet lights dance above. I forget I was ever tired, or sick, or anything – the moment is here. As the music begins, I realize I had forgotten how, at a particularly exuberant show, if you have nothing to hang on to (like the barrier) you may find your feet don’t even touch the ground, as you are swept back and forth in a roaring sea of bodies that sway and tumble like white crested Hawaiian surfer waves.

“I’ve never had Twitter account and I’ve never tweeted,” Morrissey announces, and the band launches into the opening notes of Your Arsenal’s Glamorous Glue. Matt’s cymbal crashes punctuate and Morrissey whips the microphone cord in perfect unison with the accented rhythms of the guitars. We are getting fierce tonight – it’s fantastic – are my feet touching the ground at all? I doesn’t matter! A collage of sound caresses my eardrums, this tremendous wall of vibration and chords, pulsates - and a song that’s over 25 years old feels timeless, ageless. "London is dead, London is dead, London is dead..." the audience sings back with ardour, in half-drunken football chant.

“They were the happiest days of my life,” Morrissey sings the Pretenders’ classic, and I know these days are my happiest. Then, around halfway through the show, something incredible happens. My friend on the barrier turns around, and says, “We are going to trade places now...” my mouth drops open and tears well... “are you sure?” I ask, stunned and touched, knowing it means the world to her to be at the front as well. ... and in one swift switch... I’m on the barrier. This is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me – and I’ll never forget it: hold onto your friends.

For the last two songs, Morrissey returns to the stage wearing a white shirt, signed and written in places with a black sharpie, and the clothing item is its own abstract, coveted work of art, an eternal memory of the night – who will be lucky enough (and strong enough!) to acquire a treasured piece? Jesse and Mando exude punk cool as they thrash their heads with the ferocious tempo of Judy Is A Punk, and the Ally Pally floor bounces with do-or-die encore excitement. The swaying crowd cheers as Irish Blood, English Heart's opening gallop stirs throughout the venue's walls, and Morrissey sings the first verse at the microphone stand, nearly still, so controlled, his arms crossed – and - the build up - as the song drives towards its increasingly climactic pulse, his voice rises passionately: “I’ve been dreaming of a time when...” Moz moves forward, leaning into the adoring crowd. It’s exquisite. But it’s also time for goodbye – at least for tonight – and... in one last fierce flash, he tears the shirt from his torso, and hurls it into the wilderness of the pit.

I Bury The Living at Alexandra Palace

Palladium

The bittersweet knowledge tonight is the last show of the tour pours over me as I awake. Feeling bolder than usual, I decide to brave the tube, alone, with my 45 lb suitcase; luckily, and surprisingly, I don’t get lost or fall into the tracks with my luggage, and make it to Soho to meet up with some friends at their hotel. Our moods are everywhere: buzzing excitement, nostalgic, butterflies, joy, sadness. We traipse up and down 60’s mod-chic Carnaby Street, under its sparkly Union Jack sign, but don’t really absorb a thing we see, as we talk about tonight’s show... and the inevitable goodbye we know is coming.

Getting ready in our hotel room, a slight vibration shakes the walls, ever so delicately – is it distant music? Our eyes widen: “soundcheck?” No, it can’t be... My friend struggles to open the stiff window, which seems to be painted shut, and is eventually successful, as the tricky glass squeaks ajar. It’s definitely music! I know that bass line... “How Soon Is Now?” I blurt out, as if I’m a name-that-tune contestant. Guitars and drums faintly come into focus. We stop everything we’re doing, drop pens, makeup brushes, half-packed clothes and rush to the window like a trio of lovestruck Juliets. And then... a voice... the voice... his voice. He’s singing! We can hear the soundcheck from our hotel room, and our emotions, already so complex, already so intense, zoom up beyond the stratosphere.

As darkness falls over giddy London, we line up at the Palladium, which was designed by a tightrope walker’s son in the 19^th century. This detail feels fitting, as keeping our emotions in balance feels like such an impossible feat, especially when they’ve been at such dazzling heights over the last several weeks. The Palladium’s facade, framed by Corinthian columns, watches over us as groups of buzzing fans accumulate, and glowing golden lights surround Morrissey’s name on the marquee.

London Palladium

It’s another seated show, and we again race to the front, but are instructed, once again, to stay in our seats. Inside, balconies and boxes rise, golden and velvety, and I feel as if I’m siting inside a fancy jewellery box. Peter Wyngarde is looking over his shoulder at me, and, by now, he probably knows I’m itching to jump out of my seat. Mid-conversation, a venue security guard notices my accent and when he finds out I travelled here from Canada, he asks, “Are you one of those Superfans?” I kind of giggle at the term, but well... yes I am, I think, although many others have been to more shows than I. And here we are – from the US, Canada, Mexico, the UK, Belgium - all here at this same place and point in time, waiting for Morrissey to take the stage.

London Palladium

One last look at Dionne Warwick’s sleek cat-eyed grace upon the screen, as Don’t Make Me Over sparkles throughout the theatre, her voice smooth and bold as she embodies that remarkable ability to exude strength and daintiness all at once. Fiona Apple’s dark, deep contralto rolls over vintage horror show clips, including an “abnormal brain” in a jar, and I’ve learned these songs, and their order, word-for-word, as they hold their own special nostalgia as we wait in that weird, impossible space of impatience... yet never wanting the night to end.

One more rush of crumpled silver curtains, and for now (aside from those of us attending Vive Latino in Mexico) one last taste of Morrissey walking out to the front of the stage and bowing. Tonight he wears a stunningly beautiful black jacket, embroidered at the back with a glittering black peacock. Peacocks bring to mind the Wildean aesthetic, and I also happen to love the jacket because of my fascination with birds. Morrissey’s silver hair sparkles under the lights, and his eyes glisten like warm sapphires. The band is wearing “Living Bodies That Actually Move” t-shirts, written in goldfinch yellow caps, and the opening notes of You’ll Be Gone captivate our senses the way only music can.

The magical riff of I Started Something I Couldn’t Finish sounds next, with all its sliding sharps, and Moz dashingly swirls the microphone cord. The energy of Morrissey, the band, the entire night... I feel I can’t do it justice with words... There was an indescribable quality to every second, sound, breath. And meanwhile, I’m drinking this gorgeousness in so much, I’m ignoring the fact I’m centimetres from being impaled by the strange shape of the stage, as I’m standing to the side, where a corner juts out straight into my ribs like a menacing flick knife – and I DON’T CARE, because I’m in such a state of delight. Morrissey’s voice sounds better even than the original Strangeways recording, as he nimbly scales the notes and growls, “that’s what tradition means...” He comes over to our side of the stage, and shakes the person’s hand next to me, and then holds my hand next... and I feel so happy that I’m purely in heaven, if just for a perfect, blissful moment...

Morrissey at London Palladium

Morrissey produces a list from his pocket, “Yesterday I was bored stiff, so... I made a list of the 10 most incredible people who’ve stood on this stage...”

1. Frank Sinatra

2. The Beatles

3. The Rolling Stones

4. George Raft

5. Noel Coward

6. Ken Dodd

7. Dorothy Squires

8. Marlene Dietrich

9. Tony Bennett

and

10. Mrs. Shufflewick

A snapshot of Bruce Lee in a 70’s slick white suit and shimmering lights fling into How Soon Is Now?and the audience is filled with emotion. Presents and letters are offered, and Moz shakes hands as he walks along the stage. At one point, Morrissey gestures up towards the Queen’s box and says his mother is at the concert tonight – and I feel so happy to know she is seeing all this love for her son.

The winding riffs of November Spawned A Monster, which hasn’t been played live since 2013, throw us into a cheering frenzy, as Moz rattles a silver tambourine and it flickers like a rattlesnake’s tail. “Yes, I am a freak, and nothing can make good of the bad that’s been done.” November Spawned A Monster empowers those who are disabled, because it shows such uncensored understanding of being constantly talked about, treated differently, and the fact such people often feel voiceless – and yes, it even acknowledges the pervading feeling of being unlovable, that hangs and haunts. The uncomfortable and unspoken is faced with brave, barefaced boldness. We sing along with passion, and Boz’s clarinet weaves upwards while an invisible baby wails.

More waves of love crash towards the stage during Everyday Is Like Sunday, as people run forwards, yearning for a hug or handshake. Bodies come from all sides, and a release of emotion from the depths of the soul, often so buried in modern life - as we are told from an early age to act this way or that way, shows itself in spur-of-the-moment outpourings.

The delicious swagger of The Last Of The Famous International Playboys marks the encore, and thirst to hold onto the moment forever reaches that tightrope pinnacle. Ooh, the passing of time and all of its crimes, but time also brought us here, as we planned and dreamed of this moment, anxiously pouring over laptops or smart phones to buy tickets, where a reflex click or second hand can make all the difference in the world. Stage rushers are everywhere, most quick and limber, grasping for touch. And with “I am the last of the famous international playboys,” the climax of the song rising, guitars ablaze, Morrissey rips the white shirt off his body, twirls it, and flings it into our longing, clamorous hands... and shouts... “I LOVE YOU!” More fans run up, one even kisses his hand... and then... Morrissey disappears into the London night.

We love you too.

(And yes, the night was so wild, that bolted-down chairs were torn out, and the security guard who I spoke to before the show, informed me that he is now a “Superfan” himself.)

It’s overwhelming – and difficult - to fly so far back home, mile for mile, after such an incredible month, but I like to think that parts of you never leave these places, because your memories exist, scattered across the world, on venue pavements, in mammoth concrete arenas, in velvety concert halls – and the feeling of being there is yours forever.

*all photos by me unless otherwise specified

UK Tour Diary: Birmingham, Brixton, & Brighton

Birmingham

Morrissey singing Jacky in Birmingham*

An anything-but-glamorous National Express coach ride takes us through the countryside to Birmingham. Barely-there dustings of snow seem to send English drivers into a flurry of panic, and delays and detours move us past rolling fields with lambs (I wave again) and bizarrely, a 30-ft tall Rabbit made of hay. Snowflakes dance in the air in front of Genting Arena, and I want to let out a little squeak because in spite of a few spirit-crushing decades of adulthood, snow makes me feel like a giddy kid. Even blah-concrete box buildings and parking lots designed for functionality look ethereal under snow’s glimmer, and it’s kind of a real-life Instagram filter for unattractive architecture. Childlike-me is fascinated with snow, possibly because, somewhat irrationally, I was forbidden to play in it for fear I would fall seriously ill. Old selves flicker past and your current self feels their ghosts.

lambies!

As pretty snowflakes kiss my cheeks, a shadowy frown line suddenly appears as I consider the complications such a Spring anomaly could possibly bring. Anxiety-me, never too distant, pipes up, “What if it snows so much the gig doesn’t happen... or you freeze to death trying to queue...?” I tell anxiety-me to shut it, and remind myself that the important thing is, I’m here, and I’m the happiest I’ve been in months. While I fret over weather disaster possibilities, I suddenly think of my friend who has just arrived from Jakarta – and wears thermal socks when temperatures drop below 20 degrees Celsius – has she even seen snow before? It turns out she hasn’t, and we decide it’s time for Happy Hour Mai Tais.

Queuing in the morning is cold, but surprisingly, not unbearably so, and I share my granola bar with a little black and white bird that skips along the frost-etched pavement. I half-die once more with what feels like yet another impending will-call fiasco, but finally, after almost ten minutes of searching, the elusive tickets are safe in my hands. We are scanned in at doors and in venue’s lobby, every food stand has gone vegan for the night... in fact, the “Fish” part of the “Fish and Chips” stand is blacked out with dark tape. Fish belong in the ocean with their friends, not wrapped in manky chip shop newspapers.

After the pre-show videos ritual, Morrissey appears on Genting Arena’s towering stage dressed in a deep chestnut brown shirt, and dives into Elvis cover, You’ll Be Gone. The band, wearing Animal Rights Militia tees, is on point and Mozzer’s vocals are smooth and swoon-worthy. I love that the setlist is fairly heavy on songs from Low In High School, which has been nearly a constant on my car stereo since its release last November. My Love I’d Do Anything For You begins with Moz shaking a sparkling tambourine, which he smashes against his hip – and it’s pure rhythmic hypnotism. The song has a catchy glam-rock stomp to it, and will be the next single. Morrissey’s voice seamlessly glides up the high notes, and the crowd sings back, not so seamlessly, but with rousing enthusiasm “Hey, hey, hey...”

“Society’s hell, you need me just like I need you.”

Spunky opening trumpet notes for When You Open Your Legs ring through the arena, and Morrissey takes the dramatic stance of a flamenco dancer. The backdrop becomes a giant pulp fiction novel cover: “Artist Colony,” featuring a bearded man painting a sultry raven-haired nude, and shocking scarlet script, “their “ART” was an excuse to indulge themselves in lewd orgies!” The jumbo naughty book cover continues to inspire a giggle when I see it. If you ask me, there’s a bit of Carry-on cheekiness and double entrendre going on with the lyrics, “I see it all, I see it all as plain as day,” but the impending gloom of Armageddon never strays too far away: "soon there will come, the very final pull of earth." As he sings, Moz toys with his open shirt collar and snaps along with the castanet rhythms and flamenco-inspired guitars. And now, I’m of course wondering, dare I read Artist Colony?

Morrissey singing When You Open Your Legs in Newcastle

Between Hold Onto Your Friends and Home Is A Question Mark, the audience begins to chant, “Morrissey, Morrissey, Morrissey,” to which he replies, “You don’t have to - the important thing is you’re here.” <3

Brixton

Trains from Birmingham to Brixton sweep us past snow-scattered hills and red-brick towns, and fields inhabited by more lambs, ponies that look like they’re wearing fur-trimmed booties, and baby alpacas (the alpacas especially make me want to squeal with delight); I’m on full cuteness overload by the time we arrive at the spray-painted stones of Brixton station. The journey to our hotel feels like an obstacle course with my 45-lb suitcase, up and down icy stairs and through mazes of hectic people. I also must drag myself and my case through a street-market overflowing with shop carts and sharp shouting tongues. Many vendors display the carcasses of animals murdered for human greed, and the nonchalance around such violence strikes painfully as coin purse transactions unblinkingly occur. Ramshackle stalls jampack the sidewalks and my will slowly deteriorates as my suitcase catches and lurches along chipped cobblestones.

Finally we reach the hotel, which is across the street from an if-looks-could-kill mural of Bette Davis in All About Eve, and after a few moments of “calming down” (anxiety release of tears), I decide to venture out again, as Brixton is home to a 5-star vegan cupcake shop called Ms. Cupcake. The shop is a tiny nook but its glass display cases are polished and packed with luxuriously decadent vegan treats... I think we are so enchanted, by the end of the tour, we have made at least 4 visits.

Vegan cupcakes

Swaddled in double scarves, 3 layers of sweaters, and a toque (what Canadians call a knit cap), I make my way to the queue at a relatively late 8:30 a.m. Queuers are already huddled along the Brixton Academy's domed entrance’s frosted steps, their blankets, coats, and even eyelashes powdered with a fine layer of snow. One kind soul from venue staff delivers us steaming cups of tea, which sadly become chilled within minutes. In spite of gloves and thermal socks, my feet and toes start to feel that strange, fuzzy burn caused by sub-freezing temperatures, and this gives me one of my weird thrills. My friend from Jakarta has been here at least 2 hours longer than I have, and sits remarkable still in such teeth-chattering weather, like a raven-haired, earbud-wearing statue dusted with frost; to say I admire her strength and dedication would be an understatement. To put it concisely, she’s goals AF.

Brixton Academy

In the afternoon, we are moved to stand in line along a side street adjacent to the building, where brusque winds whip more fiercely than before. There is no denying that, unsheltered, I’m the coldest I can remember ever being in my life, but the internal vision of that barrier in a few hours keeps me focused on on a higher destiny than my current shivering. The last hour truly does feel like the hardest hour, but the undeniable excitement flooding my arms and legs as dusk falls over bustling, icy Brixton reminds me why I’m here. Everything from ticket scanning to wristbanding is a misted blur until I remember wrapping my arms around the barrier and nearly collapsing in tears. We made it!

The inside of Brixton’s O2 Academy is ornate, with ivory columns and balustrades, and even a Romeo and Juliet balcony towering over the sides of the pit. We pack ourselves in, still bundled in jackets, waiting for Morrissey and the band to take the stage. Even by Jet Boy’s gritty riffs and lip curls, I can’t fully feel my feet, but it hardly matters. As Morrissey bows to the audience my ribs get a love crunch and I’m glad to be wearing so many layers. The band launches into the opening notes of The Last of The Famous International Playboys for its first live playing since 2011, and as Playboys’ deliciously indulgent tempo swaggers into effect, the crowd surges like a bolt of charmed electricity. Morrissey’s silver hair sparkles under the stage lights and his blue eyes glisten under dark brows and all memories of shivering and waiting on cold sidewalks entirely dissolve.

Morrissey singing in Brixton

“Bring back free speech,” Morrissey asserts, and we cheer.

This London crowd is rough and daring as drunken fist fights erupt in small pockets like volcanoes. Someone with an unsettlingly damp torso is intent on pulling my ponytail, perhaps in an attempt to claim coveted front row, and it seems the chill outside has unearthed an even deeper, more fiery passion than usual. At one point, a black bra sails over the rail, straps flailing, yet fails to make it on stage; no, it’s not mine.

Jack The Ripper’s haunting notes slide up and down quaking scales and intensity mounts as London fog billows from the depths of the stage. Jesse’s and Boz’s guitars drive a sense of lurking and longing, and Morrissey drops to his knees and contorts towards the lone, tall, microphone stand. Staggering, emerging from the smokey depths, his voice wraps around the simple poetry of the lyrics: “Ill-housed and ill-advised... your face is as mean as your life has been” and crimson lights frame his silhouette. As notes and verses tumble towards time’s unavoidable passing, I never want the gig to end.

Jack the Ripper in Brixton

Jagged-fast tempoed Ramone’s cover Judy Is A Punk leads us to the encore, and seems fitting for this rough and tumble London crowd. Mando attacks the bass with blazing fire and Mozzer’s vocals showcase his roots in 70’s punk music. I think about New York Dolls loving music-fan Morrissey writing letters in his bedroom as a teenager, and wonder if he envisioned he’d one day be singing for a sold-out, passionate, panting London crowd. Everything that’s inspired him fascinates. Rapid tempos tumble towards the end of the night. There is no shirt toss at this show: is it because it’s freezing still? Or would it result in too many scraps in this rabid pack?

As we pile out of the venue, all crumpled and fulfilled, onto snow-smacked streets, I realize I’ll be buzzing for a while.

Brighton

I once visited Brighton as a teenager, and as I arrive a few decades later, it strikes me that not much has changed. Even the “Welcome to Brighton” sign, with its turquoise beachy font evokes mid-late 90s brightness or woe, depending on your perspective. As we pile into our uber, we pass out-of-season resort awnings and pastel summer flat walls, one scrawled with a shakily spraypainted “LONER!” By this time, it’s come to my attention that most of my uber drivers in the UK seem to hate me, judging by my plummeting rating in spite of tips and thank-yous. I presume they dislike something about my personality, but figure it could also be they assume by my accent I’m American and somehow unfairly blame me for Predicament Trump... sigh.

We are staying at The Grand Hotel, which I probably have no business staying at, but as it’s the more affordable frosty offseason, and is adjacent to the venue, I make it happen. Doormen in velvety top hats greet us at the doorway to carry our luggage and I’m dazzled by the prospect of dragging street-sullied sleeping bags through this chandeliered lobby at 5 a.m., while paintings of pompous George-the-somethings look on with jowly disapproval.

Brighton is reminiscent of my hometown in that most restaurants and bars seem to close impossibly early. However, many of the people here are really nice, and one resident Brightoner (edit: Brightonian!) is even kind enough to let me have my last-minute tickets mailed to his house, as I possess no UK address. My friends and I pass shop after shop, and every seafront shop is remarkably the same – selling Royal Family tourist trash (including Prince Charles masks – why?!) and year-round beach gear. A turn off the main beach strip will take you down darker narrow alleyways lined with vintage shops with lead paned windows displaying tarnished seed pearl baubles and ostentatious brooches in decaying satin boxes. I wonder if the jewellery could, would it tell tales of its wearer’s loves or hates, or simply nothing at all except somebody’s comfortably mundane dinner party existence. One shop’s entrance is topped with an overwhelmingly poorly painted, faded cameo portrait of Dodi Al Fayed and Princess Diana.

Croissant-loving seagulls

Pre-dawn queueing allows a sunrise view of Brighton’s seafront, complete with ocean-battered piers and screeching seagulls fighting over a massive croissant. I fill my pockets with breakfast buffet baguettes for the gulls, which they squawkingly appreciate. With air that’s finally snow free and above freezing, we wait on the pavement in front of a venue that looks more like a conference centre from the outside. A trio of revolving doors at its entrance seems especially fraught with impending drama for any seasoned gig-goer: won’t there be some kind of panicked collision? Late-afternoon rain showers turn the sky from crisp blue to stark grey, and the venue is nice enough to let us line up indoors. However, an alarmingly drunk man who appears to have fallen and whacked his head open, also seeks refuge in the venue’s foyer; he grips a wonky plastic pint of lager, somehow knows I’m Canadian, and tries to become my ‘friend,’ by trapping me inside the revolving doors... sigh pt. 2.

In spite of such excitement, doors go smoothly, and I feel my runners slap against the bare concrete of the floor as I run towards barrier, nab a place, and lock my arms around its blissful metal. Morrissey and the band walk out, bow, and launch into Playboys. Glittering rosaries tied around Morrissey’s belt loops sparkle and sway with the music, and I’m captivated, although a couple behind me threatens to distract as they use my head and shoulders for arm rests and keep reaching out in unison, which makes me feel as though my head may entirely be squeezed right off. More Brighton thrills – but oh... My Love I’d Do Anything For You.

Morrissey in Brighton

Between songs, Morrissey chastises the Crashing Bores at Brighton Centre’s HMV for only stocking 2 copies of Low In High School, and a friend of mine visits the mall the next day and affirms that this stat is true. During How Soon Is Now?, someone from several rows back flings a white rose on stage, which reflex-ready Moz catches mid-air, and stuffs down the front of his jeans. More flowers fly from the depths of the pit, and one is crumpled like paper and chucked off stage. Moz is deliciously cheeky tonight, and full of vigour – and as he passes by enchanting traces of incense dance across my senses.  

Home Is A Question Mark enwraps my spirit in otherworldliness; I’m transported by its minor chords and lyrics... for true music isn’t just something you hear, it’s something you feel in every pore, every cell. And how can I be crunched in a sea of flailing, sweaty bodies and feel these same bodies disappear as if it’s just me, Morrissey, and the band? It’s nothing short of magical. At one point during the concert, Morrissey tells us that he and the band don’t need awards, just us – my heart! <3

Who Will Protect Us From The Police? opens with a zooming riff, powerful and distorted, and Morrissey’s voice joins in with a soft, “Say Daddy... Who will protect us from the police?” and we are left wondering “who will?” on a cliffhanger edge. Images of police brutality flash on the backdrop screen, reminding us that law and order chain us to disorder and inequality, and that power corrupts, erupting any good intentions (if they existed in the first place), for it often seems that those drawn to such work as policing are power-mad, and if they are not, they may inevitably morph that way. News reports specifically, selectively, ignore and gloss over police force abuse – and for that reason, amongst many others, we must question everything, especially ‘authority’.

Morrissey singing I Bury The Living in Brighton

Towards the end of the set, the band roars into Refusal’s All You Need Is Me’s driving defiant riffs and rhythms. The pit floor rages like a vibrating motorcycle and it’s a vicariously empowering moment: screw the haters, pound-shop journalists, and anon internet keyboard warriors! I’m so glad to hear this song again – to me it symbolizes strength in the face of criticism that goes beyond, delving into the personal... and if you’ve ever experienced that on even a much smaller scale, you know it can rake and deflate your spirit. Morrissey’s voice croons like a punk rock Sinatra, gliding and phrasing notes... “there’s so much destruction, all over the world – and all you can do is – complain about me!” The bad-ass gallop of the bass, guitars, and drums, thumps against my chest and such palpable energy in this seaside town thrusts into the gritty divine. Gutsy, rejuvenating, ageless ... tonight captures itself in my heart. 


*all photos by me unless otherwise specified