Review: A Morrissey Adventure in Ventura

The rain has come full circle and I’m back where I was three weeks ago, sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by metallic churns and the rumble of conversations I don’t want to be involved with. Now the trees have thrown down their leaves and only their gnarled arthritic branches claw towards damp November skies. I’m wondering why time is even measured evenly because it stops and winds and rushes and slows to an unmoving halt, always based on feeling. I thought for a moment I might have writer’s block, because I’ve been undeniably moody these days, but within me so many memories exist and I want to capture them, at least for myself... my pencil is coursing its own way.

Was it really so long ago I was leaving for California to see Morrissey?

Morrissey in Ventura

Raindrops hit the plane’s pitted portholes, but soon I will be able to throw myself into sunshine. In Canada, August’s sunbathing lizards have long since hibernated, and I forget how it feels to have warmth on my skin. I want to say goodbye to sadness for a while, and so much of sadness is steeped in environment. At home, streets hold no adventure as grey concrete seeps into greyer skies, and bad times from the past haunt childhood buildings. The morning’s taxi ride is still fresh, and as I heaved my nearly-overweight case into the trunk, I felt relieved to leave obnoxious neighbours and mundane scenes behind.

No more entitled landlords...

“No bus, no boss,

No rain.”

A jigsaw puzzle of LAX gridlocked traffic awaits us as we pick up a friend flying in from New York. Welcome to LA. Years Of Refusal’s never-giving-in chords burst as best as they can through rental car stock speakers as Morrissey’s smooth voice balms any sense of jetlag or stoplight angst. The highway’s pits and crumbles even feel magical as we drive on towards Ventura, because this is the road that takes us to Morrissey.

Ventura is a small surfer town, a throwback to early 1960’s tanned Americana, with pastel huts, motels, and kitschy shops selling seashells and mermaids. Relative to LA, the streets are demure and laid back, and gangly palm trees sway overhead. We take a walk to the beach, which stretches endlessly, with crashing waves still warm enough to walk through even in late October. Frolicking beach squirrels tan on rocks, occasionally looking at us inquisitively, and birds skip along the seafoam.

Beach animal friends

In the evening, we walk down the street near the venue, and sound slowly fills the waiting air: our ears devour, first with surprise, swelling into full-on excitement. Familiar chords, and then... we know that voice... His phrasing pours smooth and touches our ears like longed-for blessings. Morrissey is here. Already.

Later, my friend and I collapse in tears and giggles at the hotel parking lot. After a rough summer, for this moment, life feels too good to be true.

“In my heart I begged take me with you...”

However, important business is about to begin. As anyone who attends gigs in Southern California knows, queuing can begin as early as the afternoon before the concert. We come prepared, althought slightly wilted by Tiki bar hangovers, with sleeping bags, foam mattresses, and hotel pillows stealthily whisked away in shopping bags. Having never been an outdoorsy girl, I will only sleep on the ground amongst cigarette butts and shoe grime for one person: Morrissey. My spot for the night is at least sheltered, under a glamour glare of lights forming the theatre entrance, directly under the iconic watchful eye of a James Dean poster advertising the next night’s gig. My anticipation thrusts itself onto another level... sleep seems unlikely.

Midnight and beyond drags slowly as a nearby club pumps out 80’s club hits, complete with drunken chorus attempts of Take On Me. I nearly doze until I’m interrupted by a long-haired man wrapped in tinfoil who seems to want to make friends with us. So-Cal at night certainly isn’t boring.

In the morning, I curl up with a coffee and continue working on a letter for Morrissey. A bunch of us are writing letters, and in moments the queue is silent except for pencil scratches and contemplative sighs. Part of me wants to write him an entire account of my summer, including cemetery visits, a nice duck I met in Munich, and a trip to Prague, but I feel going over 5 pages would be a bit overwhelming. I’m confused by the contrast of my own shyness in front of him in person, with my relative boldness in writing, where I feel so much freer to express myself. When he stands before me I melt into a wide-eyed puddle, admittedly longing for some sense of approval from him. Writing feels safer, yet my heart is still in my hand. I scold myself at times for being too insecure to jump on stage for a hug or for being too shy to bring a pen for him to sign my arm, and currently the best I can do is summon up all the love I’m feeling and gaze at him.

Shyness is nice... but shyness can stop you...

Later in the afternoon, we assemble at the hotel to dress up in Halloween costumes. While clipping glittery black spiders in my hair I feel the giddy flutter of butterflies. Costume bits are flung over beds and counters and we rush to get ready and return to the queue. An odd team of spider-lady, boxer, and fox, I paint whiskers and a little black nose on my foxy friend as we perch on the pavement across the street from the venue. Suddenly: a commotion, as a car pulls up at stage doors. It begins with cheering, clapping, and a rush of youthful and middle-aged limbs alike, waving sharpies and shouting “Morrissey.” An ever-growing circle of fans accumulates around Moz, as he stands wearing a white shirt and a smart sweater vest, signing arms and autographs. Aviator sunglasses shield his ocean eyes and his silver hair sparkles under late afternoon sunlight. He smiles, interacting with his devoted California fanbase and more and more people rush forward. Across the street, the three of us stand watching, a mix of longing and trepidation, loving him from afar... but already realizing it is too late to run over; we feel strangely frozen to the pavement. I’ve spent so many days and nights imagining meeting him – what would I say? Where would we be? Yet cannot get my feet to do what my imagination wants and walk over there – is it that I want my first meeting with him to be more organic? More random? Have I missed my only chance? The questions hang in the air as he is whisked backstage.

Shyness is nice... but shyness can stop you...

Photo by mozzerie_dean13

Another friend is making the drive up from the LA area with his teenage son, who is also a Morrissey fan. His first gig was Hollywood Bowl last year, but since then life threw them into difficult times, in the form of a major health battle. Resiliency doesn’t even come close to describing the strength and bravery of these two, and today is a day to get back to enjoying the moment. We meet with Jesse Tobias before the gig, and have a nice chat; he is a down to earth guy and it’s a pleasure to talk with him.

7 p.m. doors are met with chaotic confusion, as venue staff seems entirely unaware that there is a VIP line-up. Women are separated from men for security pat downs, which adds fuel to the fire of nerves: as men usually tend to not carry purses – this can only mean the women’s line will move more slowly. Like finely tuned Olympic athletes, those of us who are more accustomed to GA gigging know every fraction of a second counts, and purses add uneasy weight and waits. Rushing into the theatre is a blur of security wands, ticket scanners, beeps and nervous energy. My feet know where to go, even though the rest of me seems not to, and I follow them blindly down time-worn wooden steps, flinging myself onto the solid embrace of the barrier, front row centre. Miraculously, somehow, I have made it!

Germaine Greer backdrop in Ventura

The Majestic Theatre in Ventura has a fairly short stage, so fewer bodies fit along the rail. Some friends are not so lucky and spill into second and third row. Yet again, we are International Playboys: representing Canada, New York, Scotland, and Mexico, just to name a few far off places. As other fans run in, I am finally able to absorb the beauty of the theatre. Built in 1928, the Majestic’s gilded pillars and shimmering aquamarine tiles harken flapper-era glamour. Like a fancy layer cake, panels of dusty rose and sapphire stretch up to a sky blue ceiling; if I wasn’t so squished in, I’d try to get a better look around. Some say the theatre is haunted, and I wonder if any mischievous spirits will appear or play some tricks.

1-2-3-4 Ramones fly up on the theatre backdrop, with fringe-in-your-eyes NY punk toughness, and anticipation mounts through a series of videos - many vintage black and white, including Edith Piaf and tuxedo clad dancers doing a rather painful-looking series of splits. Then... the curtain drops – has it really been almost 8 months since I’ve seen him? My pulse rolls up to my fingertips and excitement roars through my typically-lethargic veins, rumbling like drag racing motors. I am alive? Yes, I’m alive and Morrissey is about to walk on stage. Months, weeks, days, and hours of waiting dissolve into timelessness as he walks out with the band.

Thank goodness I have the barrier to hang onto, because I may just faint before the concert even begins. Mozzer is looking beyond swoon-worthy tonight in a navy blue cardigan! Am I dreaming? For a moment I truly wonder... My heart skips and bounces with the agility of a spring songbird – and I feel more 18 than 38. Morrissey’s deep blue cardigan is embellished with numerous pins, and I think I can make out Yoko Ono and James Baldwin. Under his dashing cardi, Moz wears his own tour merch, featuring a quiffed purple and pink sugar skull; he looks ultra-cool. The shirt is customized and cut into a deep V that exposes part of his chest, and being a fan of cutting up band tees myself, I adore this look. As Morrissey bows to greet us – this clamorous ocean of Morrisseys tees and Halloweens costumes - we embrace him with So-Cal shouts, squeals, and cheers.

Cardigan goals: Morrissey in Ventura

Tonight’s setlist opens with the whirling guitar chords of William It Was Really Nothing, “the rain falls hard on a humdrum down...” ah yes... the rain – I’d nearly forgotten. And my town has dragged me down too, and this is why I love life on the road, because for once I feel alive. Morrissey energetically flicks the mic chord, to the excitement of the lunging, loving crowd. After a cathartic visit from Alma and I Wish You Lonely, we are met with the busy busy chimes of Hairdresser On Fire, which hasn’t been sung live since Quarry days. We sing along, some of us remarkably out of tune, but oh-so-lovingly – how can anyone fault us? Morrissey’s voice soars boldly over our much less capable ones, seamlessly stretching up to the high notes, and burrowing lusciously into velvety low notes. “I am depressed, but I’m remarkably dressed” he sings, patting the chest and neck of his cardigan – and I am again catapulted into otherworldly cardi-heaven.

Next on the setlist is Refusal’s Something Is Squeezing My Skull, its growling guitars and galloping drums pummel against the Majestic’s walls. “I know by now you think I should have straightened myself out, thank you, drop dead” is a lyric that has been a continual lifeline for me, as I find myself strapped onto the oft-misunderstood emotional roller coaster ride of mental health that no one really wants to be on. From the outside, perhaps answers seem simple, but when you are living the moods: the lows, the self loathing, the isolation – well, sometimes even getting out of bed is a feat. Part of modern life’s strife is its soullessness, and while others are quick to give advice, they are simply not living in our shoes. As the song tumbles into a chaos of pharmaceutical clutches, fierce rhythms and vocals salvage our numbed-out spirits punctuated by pleas of “don’t give me any more...” We sing along with mutual understanding and the energy makes life suddenly feel much less lonely.

After Spanish-guitar laced beauties First Of The Gang To Die and cheeky-devil When You Open Your Legs, Sunny makes an appearance for the first time this century (last played in 1999), followed by Smiths number Is It Really So Strange? Rarities continue with a live debut of Dial-A-Cliche, which is beyond moving. Dial-A-Cliche explores the pain and confusion of being ordered to hide one’s true self due to socially constructed definitions of what it is “to be.” Parents, society, and other forces tell us we must become what we are not in order to ‘fit in’ and conform to some predetermined formula of male, female, or any other identity that might be imposed upon us... “but the person underneath Where does he go?” How many of us force our true selves into hiding, or even worse, death, to fit into a mold or life we never even asked for? Morrissey’s voice nurtures deep emotion through this personal struggle as he sings, and when he changes the lyrics to “be a cliche...” I get goosebumps and my eyes well. I like to think that it’s not too late to discover your true self, even if you are a little older. For me it took until my 30’s. There is still time.

Setlist: Ventura, October 31^st, 2018 (via Setlist FM)

1. William, It Was Really Nothing

2. Alma Matters

3. I Wish You Lonely

4. Hairdresser On Fire

5. Something Is Squeezing My Skull

6. First Of The Gang To Die

7. When You Open Your Legs

8. Sunny

9. Is It Really So Strange?

10.The Bullfighter Dies

11. Dial-a-Cliche

12. If You Don’t Like Me, Don’t Look At Me

13. Munich Air Disaster 1958

14. Back On The Chain Gang

15. Spent The Day In Bed

16. Hold Onto Your Friends

17. Jack The Ripper

18. Break Up The Family

Encore:

19. Everyday Is Like Sunday

20. How Soon Is Now?

During Hold Onto Your Friends, Morrissey shakes my hand – and it makes me so happy, that time seems to stop. The shared moment is purely beautiful for me, and somehow it goes beyond memory and into eternity. I often hope these best threads of my life are painted or etched somewhere... forever... as vivid as they were when I first experienced them. Right before the encore, another gem from Viva Hate appears, Break Up The Family. “I want to see all my friends tonight.” What could be more fitting? And, as Morrissey tears off his shirt, throws it into the crowd, and disappears into the depths of the night, he leaves our hearts heaving, full, and delicately wounded from being so open; no wonder tour feels like a healing process. There is love in modern life, after all.