As the plane
descends after 11 airborne hours, the land below appears surreal, a
puzzle of earthy greens and clay reds. Flat for miles, with no
discernible end, Argentina stretches massively and, from 25,000 feet above, looks nothing like any other place I’ve ever travelled to.
With its vast spread of dust and rust, the landscape is reminiscent
of scratchy Van Gogh brushstrokes; or, is this visual poetry derived
from 29 hours of sleeplessness? Nico, 1988
plays
in the corners of my mind; I watched the
film in the sky
somewhere between icy Toronto and central
America, and Christa
Paffgen’s low, warbling
voice is my landing soundtrack.
While far in
distance travelled, my journey itself has not felt long; it never
does when you are on your way somewhere you want to go. Returning
home is, of course, another story. This is my first time crossing the
equator, and again, I have Morrissey to thank for yet another first.
It strikes me as odd I am nearly 40 and have never been to the other
end of the planet, but then again, some people never even leave their
own hometown.
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| Morrissey in Buenos Aires |
My
rudimentary Spanish
is put to the test early, as our driver no habla ingles. I feel
ashamed of how broken my once far more fluent tongue has become over
the passing
... decades (yikes).
We race along the
highway towards downtown
Buenos Aires, and the city’s
looming police presence becomes obvious early. Flashing
blue lights and bold
text “Policia” blaze
on white cars parked
haphazardly across
lush green islands, and
bulletproof vests and gun
holsters – are everywhere.
It is a slight culture shock, and predictably, extra security
generally serves
to make one feel more insecure. However, nothing seems to be
happening and I drink in the scenery.
High
rise living complexes line
the roads and
motorcycles weave in and out of lanes, kicking
up balmy late Spring air. The buildings are etched with time’s
grime, but look well-loved
and lived-in, complete with clothelines sagging with colourful
laundry and balconies hosting
requisite air conditioners.
The cab driver murmurs
something in Spanish... it is
hard to make out while
the radio is playing, or perhaps I am that inept, so
I assume he wonders where we are from: “Somos canadienses,” I
reply, slightly anxious someone will assume I’m American and bring
up the orange president.
As we near Palermo,
familiar notes hug my ears, and like magic, by chance, The
More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get
comes
on the radio. I can’t help but beam a little; South America loves
Morrissey.
“I’m
going to see the one I love... so please don’t stand in my way.”
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| Buenos Aires Street Art |
Resisting
the jet-lag fuelled temptation to crawl into bed for an afternoon
nap, I decide to tackle the business of acquiring some
Argentinian pesos and my
concert tickets. However, it
is Saturday and nothing appears to be open. The streets bustle with
people speaking singsong Spanish and I catch myself devouring
snippets of words and sentences like a guilty eavesdropper, trying to
re-familiarize with the language. Tiendas
and street stalls pour with bananas, frutas, and colourful beads and
mirrored hearts. Stalls sell everything from plastic wrapped computer
magazines to prayer candles, and the
delicate scent of incense wafts
everywhere. People,
even in the heart of downtown, are incredibly friendly and helpful.
While it is a busy jungle of concrete and bricks, Buenos Aires has no
shortage of trees and greenery, unlike many large US cities, which
stand entirely grey and manmade. Buildings are painted with roaring
jaguars and psychedelic cats,
and colour is an integral part of life. On the main street stands a
massive billboard of Morrissey, crooning in all-white. Yes, South
America loves you.
 |
| Billboard in Buenos Aires |
Having
been unable to obtain a
Brazilian visa
in time for the Sao Paulo gig
on Sunday, our
first concert stop is Paraguay, and
we fly there Monday evening.
The venue is nearer the airport than downtown,
and we stay in the lone hotel adjacent to it. I
feel anxious about picking up my will call tickets for the concert,
as there seems to be absolutely no information about where the
tickets can be found on my
order printout. I have heard
panic-drenched tales
of GA
shows where people have queued
all day long
only to discover the box office doesn’t open until doors, and as
any seasoned Morrissey concertgoer knows, those extra minutes will
absolutely spell disaster for making the barrier.
We
traipse over
to the venue, beside the football museum, outside of which stands a
massive 30 foot tall football. Mostly deserted like the hotel
itself, no one seems to be around except a man wearing a black and
white uniform, sitting in a hut down the road. Metal
gates surround everything... but I really
want my tickets, so I shrug and push on
one gingerly – is it
unlocked?- and it creaks open. Perplexed, I scan the area for the
venue entrance, but it seems sterile and
signless, with
no box office in sight. I’m
so concerned with trying to find my tickets that
I don’t notice the
uniformed officer making his way towards me, scowling with military
sternness. Uh-oh.
“Documentos”
he demands
brusquely,
his eyes shielded by mirrored
aviators. I fumble for my
passport and try, in creaky Spanish, to ask if the box office is open
because I would like
to pick up some
concert tickets. He speaks quickly, and I can feel my bogus veneer of
calmness cracking, as he doesn’t seem terrifically thrilled
we are opening gates and wandering around on his turf. I understand
enough words to piece together that today will not be our day for
ticket acquisition, and slink off like a rejected alley cat longing
for treats.
Hmmm
how on earth am I supposed to get my concert tickets?
 |
| Paraguay |
An
internet search leads us to believe our best chance might be to go to
a nearby shopping centre
to
see if someone there
will print them. A taxi ride takes us past orchards, street vendors,
and stalls, and
we zoom past waving palm trees.
Class division is unbridled here, and the mall, with its designer
shops and overpriced
boutiques stands in gaudy contrast to the weather beaten shacks on
the town’s outskirts. The rich must profit and get
richer, and the poor must stay poor.
Americanization
also haunts everywhere,
as noxious KFC fumes steam the air, and gluttonous
whopper Murder King posters line the shopping mall’s walls. Ugh. I
try to stay focused on task, and luckily find the ticket kiosco and
fumble my way through the order –
success! Snagging tickets and a bottle of Malbec, we make our way
back outside to hail a cab. This
particular cab has no back
windows, its
seat belts are merely dangling ornamental straps, and as I sit on the
sun-bleached back seat, I consider my fate of possibly dying in a
taxi in Asuncion. I shrug carelessly, but notice the driver pulls his
seatbelt on as we accelerate to
over 100 km/hr on the blustery highway, as
my hair flies
into my mouth.
Later
that night, while sipping the Malbec, a message from a friend in
Mexico appears on my phone. The Spanish stands starkly before my
eyes; no translation necessary. Tomorrow’s show in Paraguay is
cancelled due to food poisoning. Is Morrissey okay? What is
happening? Concern and sadness knife me,
erupting through the
wine’s fog, and I crumble
into tears.
36 hours later...
We
land again in Argentina – I’m a bundle of nerves, but thanks to
some friends I am nurturing a little thread of hope that Friday’s
gig in Buenos Aires will happen. I am, of course, a serial pessimist
by nature, but I try to keep focusing on that magical moment
Morrissey walks on stage, and that it will happen Friday, rather than
the looming black cloud of ending up crying in bed. Distraction is a
must when you are an emotionally messy person trying to cling to
optimism, so I am pleased to learn of a beautiful cemetery nearby: La
Recoleta. I spent many younger years terrified of cemeteries, but now
I find them calming for the soul; there is a peacefulness about
walking in silence amongst decades-old tombstones and mausoleums,
devotions to lives once lived, air one breathed. There is also an
undeniable sadness to them, but one thing I’ve learned in my
38 years is that attempts to avoid confronting that emotion only drag
one below the surface, further into despondency.
 |
| La Recoleta |
La
Recoleta is an urban cemetery, with very little foliage, stone built
on stone. Eva Peron is buried there, and to this day people come in
long lines to pay their respects, looping colourful rosaries and
flowers through the tomb’s wrought iron facade. Evita helped bring
the women’s suffrage to Argentina, and was tirelessly active
politically, helping working classes gain rights. One can’t help
but consider how vastly different she is from American first lady
Melania Trump, and again it seems modern times fall hopelessly
backwards. Tragically, Evita died in her early 30’s from cancer,
but achieved so much in her short life, it is said she is an
everlasting part of Argentinian collective consciousness.
 |
| La Recoleta |
Towering
white stone dazzles against Argentina’s blue skies in the form of
delicately weeping angels, and as you walk from tomb to tomb, you can
often see within. Some mausoleums seem like
afterlife parlours, complete with family portraits, candelabras, and
chandeliers; many are in a state of crumbling decay, and cobwebs
frame their bars like intricate lace. La Recoleta is like no place I
have ever been, and time spent there passes swiftly, to the point of
entrancement. Sadly, tourists with selfie sticks occasionally make
unwanted appearances, but other live creatures are far more
appealing, and I am happy to meet a sunbathing cemetery cat.
The day of the concert arrives, and we are scanned into DirectTV
arena’s huge property, which lies somewhat out of town. My
overwhelmed heart flits in my chest like a startled bird, and all I
can do is picture Morrissey’s blue eyes and hope that in a few
hours I will be looking into them. I am happy to meet some new
friends in the queue, and beaming-with-energy Argentine fans are
decked out ultra cool in black Morrissey t-shirts, while others wear
dapper tailored floral shirts in the style of their hero.
Is it real that I am at the barrier, looking up at Germaine Greer’s
beads and curls once again? I wrap my elbows around the cool,
bruising metal as more and more fans rush into the massive 15,000
capacity arena. The show is sold out, and fans have come from all
ends of the earth: the US, Japan, the UK, Belgium, and other South
American countries like Chile and Uruguay. Adrenalin isn’t
everyone’s best friend: some fall running in to the pit, and fights
break out early; it might be a rough one tonight.
Pre show videos and then... curtain drops ... and I wait
breathlessly for the little flashlight beam which means Morrissey is
coming... my eyes dance and dart through the darkness... and then...
he appears, wearing a midnight blue cardigan, dark jeans, and a James
Dean tshirt that is cut at the neck into a v. Silver flecks in his
hair and colourful chains around his neck catch diamond glimpses of
light. In this moment, every mile travelled and second waited feels
so, so worth it: my love, I’d do anything for you. Soon, my
lovestruck joy is thrown into another turbulent mix, and I am
reacquainted with anxiety’s pangs as there seems to be a technical
issue, and “will the show go on?” creeps into my consciousness.
However, the issue is taken care of, and time regains its flow, and
the band launches into the first song of the night, William, It
Was Really Nothing.
The crowd cheers, “We love you Morrissey” and Moz takes the hand
of a young woman teetering on her friend’s shoulders. Fans build
towers with their own bodies to get a better view of the man who
wrote the songs that saved their lives. They also undoubtedly want a
treasured moment where their idol sees them – a precious
acknowledgement of mutual existence. Outpourings of love come from
both the verbal and physical, with outstretched arms, “I love
yous,” and “marry mes” springing from the crowd. Joy,
catharsis, bliss. A rush and a push from behind forces me into the
rail, but it is not painful, and strangely offers athletic
exhilaration.
“It’s my life to destroy my own way,” Morrissey sings during
Alma Matters, flicking the microphone cord with whip-like
precision. These words continue to soothe even at this time in life,
as my parents continue to judge my very existence. Fans sing along,
loudly, and mostly out of key, but warmly with love and excitement.
Many hold letters, presents, flags, flowers, and at one point a
stuffed animal of some kind tumbles plumply onto the stage from the
depths of the crowd.
Moz
dedicates I’m
Throwing My Arms Around Paris
to the people of Paris, as
the
city is currently burning in the midst of riots and protests against
Macron’s government. A towering back drop photo displays a masked,
yellow vested protester waving the French flag with
clouds of heavy black smoke framing
the
Triumphal arch. Morrissey reaches for our hands, singing, “in the
absence of human touch” and I’m again part of a tower of people,
as second and third row fans climb towards the stage, on top of one
another, filled with dreamlike
admiration and unbridled devotion.
The
air wavers in my ears as a wall of sound - cheers, chants –
welcomes the first notes of How Soon Is Now? Guitars crunch
with delicious force, and strobe lights flash. It’s nothing short
of pure rapture. Morrissey softly sings My Life Is An Endless
Succession Of People Saying Goodbye over the instrumental, his
voice haunting and smooth, in near-whisper merging two songs, decades
apart, into one. As How Soon Is Now fires into denouement,
Morrissey kneels in front of the drumset while the band plays with
furious on point passion, and Matt thrashes a giant golden gong. The
floor vibrates, part with musical rhythm, and part with excited arena
feet. Morrissey, South America luffs you so.
First Of The Gang
opens with its strumming guitar chords, and the audience claps in
time with the rhythm, cheering as Morrissey croons, “we are the
pretty, petty thieves, and you’re standing on our streets...” The
lights engulf him
like moonlight and
rosaries looped around his
pants sway enchantingly as he moves.
One lucky girl is pulled on stage for a hug and
a
burst of
intensity from rows of people heaves forward once again. If
You Don’t Like Me, Then Don’t Look At Me is
a strong middle finger to talentless tabloidists incapable of writing
anything beyond boring, soulless slander pieces and to the complainer
‘fans’ who never seem to go away. But - right now the arena beams
and throbs with supportive love, and there is no better place to be
in the world than at a Morrissey show.
 |
| Ripper in Buenos Aires |
The
tempo slows and lights drop, then pour fiery red for Jack
The Ripper, and Morrissey ties
his cardigan around his waist revealing his
toned upper arms. I cannot even still my heart as he toys with his
cardigan sleeves whilst singing, each note phrased with emotional
force. He stretches his arms, singing “crash into my arms,” and
at other times points with passionate, punctuating gesture, “I know
you.” Jesse's guitar solo soars as Morrissey falls back into the fog,
laugh-singing
rhythmically:
is he perhaps momentarily
transported into Ripper himself?
It is mesmerizing madness.
Then...
those chords... so dark, and deep... Life Is A Pigsty.
“It’s the same old S.O.S... but with brand new broken
fortunes... and once again I turn to you...” Morrissey sings, his
voice smooth and strong... and I do turn to his words, his lyrics,
his spirit, when times are hard: lifeguard
save me from life. Percussive
tears drive
like raindrops, lights dance,
and at times Morrissey holds his hand to his head. I
wish there were some way to return the help he has given me in life –
and, even in this room full of people climbing over me, pushing into
me with urgency -
in this moment - I feel completely safe and serene in his presence.
 |
| Life Is A Pigsty in Buenos Aires |
It
is getting near the time to say goodbye, my love, as Everyday Is
Like Sunday’s chords stretch and dance in the air; we have
reached the encore. Last chance for now limbs clamour for his hands
and fans sing along ardently. During the last verse, Morrissey moves
the microphone stand over to our side of the stage, and I am again
devoured by a sea of bodies, but my eyes won’t leave him even under
the hurricane force of countless other humans – when will I see him
again? He tears his shirt off, dabs it on his torso, and throws it
into the air, and we pounce with catlike dexterity to claim a coveted
piece. The battle is rough, sweaty, and semi-savage, and my finger
gets twisted into the fabric and nearly snaps. But ... then the
reward, a beautiful, slightly damp incense-scented cuff, complete
with two little buttons. I hold it close to my heart as I return
into the darkness of a warm December night, 11,000 km away from the
question mark of home.
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| "No pisar el cesped" |
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