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