7 nights: A Review of Morrissey's Residency on Broadway

That last stretch to 46^th street always zoomed by like a race: turning right out of the subway, and another right up a blackened walkway, to the tap tap of concrete steps on 42^nd street. 7 times. Up into rain-smattered early evening light, weaving past endless people: monochromatic business guys and snail’s paced tourists staring at phone screens, staring at 10-story-high screens. Tanned limbed girls and boys wear stars-and-stripes thongs and grotesque green statues of liberty sway on stilts; bright colours against sooty skyscrapers. I suppose this all spells endless distraction if you are so inclined; however, extroverted Times Square is very Americana and far too overwhelming for a Canadian girl from a small town. But that’s okay because I’m here for something else.

7 times weaving past far too many people. And then, on that final left turn onto 46^th, the air around that corner always rushes like the silk of the finish line, and my heart stutters a bit, as I am met with 4 Morrisseys looking out from the facade of the Lunt-Fontanne theatre. Suddenly, everything else disappears.

This is my first real trip to New York. Sure, I had been there for 2 nights in 2017, but this time it will be 2 weeks. I will even learn how to semi-navigate the subways, and strangely, for this claustrophic germophobic nearly everything phobic, I begin to like them: cooing at fat grey rats on the tracks from the grime of the platform, and, as for the ride – my favourite part is when the train turns a bit, squawking metal on metal, and sparks fly. I can’t pretend to be, in any capacity, a “New Yorker,” but I’m not entirely useless.

My first night in Manhattan I meet a guy selling records at a street stall, mostly weird rare jazz stuff in silky filthy plastic sleeves ... I would linger, but people, yet again, overwhelm. I get a lot of, “you’re not from around here, are you”s and soon end up back in my friends apartment, looking out at a skyline that previously existed only in movies. I am alone, the only sounds incessant honking and Imagine playing on a distant piano ... a little too surreal. New Yorkers, or those who can face driving in the city, seem to express their angst through their car horns: not just one long honk, but in triplets and quintuplets.

The next day, I walk into a cafe and New York, New York starts playing, and I really began to wonder if I am in a movie. Yellow taxis crawl up streets bumper-to-bumper, and black fire escapes snake up the sides of decaying buildings like spider’s legs. That night, we go to a Patti Smith gig and a diner that looks like something out of Seinfeld.

And then... May 2^nd arrives: Morrissey’s opening night on Broadway. What will it be like? When I think Broadway, I think a chorus of girls with Carol Channing lips dancing in glittering top hats, but surely not... and maybe a lot of rich people. Will they make us stay in our seats... at a Morrissey concert?

We line up early, along with international playboygirls from Japan, the UK, Mexico, Belgium. New Yorkers are there too, of course. The atmosphere buzzes. Built in 1910, the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre features Beaux-Arts stylings: gargoyles and arched windows, and most certainly, lashings of glamorous golden lights. Tickets scanned in, we are then herded into the lobby, impatiently waiting on jewel-toned carpets to race down to the orchestra. The Broadway merch is classy and cool, mostly black, but I try to keep my purse-strings tightened because everything in Manhattan costs a small fortune, and I’m already languishing under the dismal Canadian exchange rate. There’s a drink called Hairdresser On Fireball that tastes like cinnamon candy hearts, and a few shows in, when I’m the right amount of nervous, I’ll get one. But tonight, I’m 100% present, in the moment, and relishing that pre-gig mix of excitement and jitters that feels like a combination of first date and final game of the playoffs, and yet somehow, far beyond this or any other description.

7 times we rush down stairs into the orchestra pit at Lunt-Fontanne, and wait, under the glowing teardrops of chandeliers, for Morrissey to take the stage. The theatre’s stage is closest to the audience at the sides, with centre barrier stretching a half-moon ocean to Morrissey’s microphone. Such a far gap makes stage-climbing seem unlikely, and towards the centre, handshakes would also require extra agility, or extremely long arms. Between the stage and front row there is no existing solid floor, only a black ropy net stretched over beams, underneath which lies a possibly 15-foot drop. I gingerly press my foot through the black fabric of the barrier and see it gives way, and the area below is soon littered with drinks, a purse, and a likely ill-fated iphone. Freaky.

I find this all a bit of a thrill, and clutch my Playbill, my eyes dancing from pre show video to pre show video. And then... after Rebel Rebel, the moment arrives... and we meet again. No one is in their seats, well at least no one around me, and the audience cheers, as Morrissey walks up to the microphone, wearing a black sequined peacock jacket, a Morrissey merch tee (cut at the neck), and dark wash jeans.

“There is a light that never goes out... on Broadway” he croons.

The first song of opening night pours through the theatre like liquid gold, and That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore brings cathartic sparkle, soothing the soul and captivating the heart. The healing opener draws us in lovingly, followed by uptempo Suedehead, which whips us, with a microphone cord, into a frenzy. Set design exudes vintage Hollywood, featuring massive 1940’s-style camera flash bulbs shining various colours (unversed in such matters, I initially think these are giant metal parasols, but awe-inspiring, nonetheless). At times, trios of lights spread like fans, basking Morrissey in ethereal blue.

“The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd,” he quips.

Setlists span remarkable decades, yet always embrace in-the-moment themes, indicating the timelessness of Morrissey’s art. Alma Matters is an ode to living life on your own terms, If You Don’t Like Me, Don’t Look At Me is a succinct “get lost” to the haters, and I Wish You Lonely muses on existential bleakness. And... as if our emotions aren’t already overpouring, unrequited love pummels us to the core for the encore, with the painful, earnest longing of Let Me Kiss You. My heart is open to you...

6 more times. Wow.

I am now staying in Brooklyn between shows, enticed by its slightly slower pace and a pair of very cuddly cats, peaches and cream-grey Grettel and black with pink toes Minuit. Non-stop purrs lure me to spend the day in bed, but I do make it out around noon a few times to explore Brooklyn’s brownstone-lined streets and even take in a Frida Kahlo exhibit, as brushstrokes take on new, textured life in person.

And every time, no matter how humid or hectic, that rush hour subway ride back to Broadway throbs with tip-of-the-tongue, almost there magic. In fact, in a strange way, this nightly penance intensifies my joy, as do the beaming, disjointed rides ‘home’... to Brooklyn.

Before and after gigs, fans wait alongside Lunt-Fontanne’s stage doors for Morrissey to arrive and depart. Some hold black markers, hoping to have their Playbills, albums, or own skin signed. If you time it right, you just might see him slip into the venue, and if you time it even better, he may stop to say hello. Celebratory cheers welcome him as he arrives, and I wonder if one ever gets used to such a thing, and what range of emotions it inspires. I love that he is loved... the truth exists in action, and I see it with my own eyes every night. Meanwhile, the clickbait-mad out of tune British press continues to be obsessively cruel to him, and I hope that the reception first in Canada, and then on Broadway, at least somewhat eases the pain of that.

Night 2

Setlists continue to sparkle, as Morrissey’s voice is stronger than ever, at once both smooth and passionate, and the band is ultra on-point for slow, pensive pieces and vibrant faster-paced ones alike. California Son covers dazzle, inspiring even headier anticipation for the album’s May 24^th release, and one night, Morrissey brings a vinyl on stage, showing the front cover, back cover: “I’m Me, Not Meat. Go Vegan,” and inner sleeve.

I believe the setlists are also strong because Morrissey’s music appeals to both current events of the external world, and to the constantly churning internal world of the human spirit: covering everything from how to avoid the dismal clutches of the media and tedious bosses: Spent The Day In Bed, to experiencing the impermeable, aching loneliness of rejected love: Seasick Yet Still Docked. And... who else has ever openly sung that all-encompassing truth: Life Is A Pigsty... and this is one of many reasons why we luff you, Morrissey.

Night 3

Night 5

Every night transports us to a different dimension, and every night is unique.

Small, precious details make the live experience otherworldly, to be woven into the fabric of your heart for life: and I wish I could remember even more than my ever-slipping memory can grasp, to relive every facet in its entirety, but even when memories begin to fade, the feeling can never be lost. I cling to Morrissey’s words between songs, from the profound to humorous, to the profoundly humorous. One night, he changes the lyrics to How Soon Is Now? to blend with Half A Person... six long years chasing your tail... and it is spellbinding.

“What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?” asks the backdrop in stark white font, for Dial A Cliche. The question sticks with me... and I use the song’s lyrical wisdom to hold me through some difficult times on my return to Canada... and I again remember, that I’m never really alone.

What Would You Do If You Weren't Afraid?

On Friday, during What She Said, I prop myself up, my hips against the barrier... the stage seems unreachably far away, as I am near the centre of front row.  And then... Morrissey is looking at me, reaching towards me for a handshake. Can I make it? I balance my left hand onto that black netting pulled over the abyss down below, and stretch myself to the very tips of my left toes, an ungraceful ballerina ... and a sharp, hardening pain tells me a leg cramp is imminent, but I look into his bluest eyes and the pain entirely dissolves, and our hands meet. In that moment, I wouldn’t trade places with anyone else on this earth.

Closing night arrives and the entire theatre throbs with spectacular energy. Opening with the swaggering riffs of The Last Of The Famous International Playboys, we are treated to another stellar set and Broadway is on fire. I feel so jubilant but also, inside, I am beginning to wilt, as I never wanted this time to end... and saying goodbye til next tour is never easy. At any given moment, I could cry, or my heart could soar... are there any borders to emotion? I think this is what it feels like to fully live. And I’ve done it, 7 times here at the Lunt-Fontanne.

Night 7

“Take it from me. Life passes by in the blink of an eye. So the question is, what the hell are you going to do with your blink”?

Boz and Jesse stand behind Morrissey, facing each other, intricately weaving guitar notes...the lights glow like golden moons... and then... Morrissey sings softly, “I won’t share you...” for the first time ever, live.

“The press in England say really disgusting things about me to such a degree and such a consistency that I think they actually have a crush on me... and they just can’t stop... but anything they say and all the horrible things that they continue to say... you , this week have made it all worthwhile, I’m so grateful to you”

Tears flow. And then... one more Broadway encore: First Of The Gang To Die. Morrissey rips his shirt off, throws it into the crowd, and disappears into the Manhattan night.

Outside, the rain falls hard... and for the last of 7 nights, I look up at the sign outside the Lunt-Fontanne.

‘Til next time.

#teamsnuggles

Morrissey in Toronto and Montreal: A Review

"In business class, they bring you sparkling wine as soon as you board.”

My God, they weren't lying. I feel giddy as I study the curious spaceship-like cubicle in first-class seating. For my flight from Vancouver to Toronto, I have attained an upgrade and marvel at having my own deluxe bubble of glossy white space, rather than being crammed and jammed in wretched economy. As I look out the cabin window at endless clouds spreading beneath my feet, I use this rare gasp of relaxation to begin penning a letter to Morrissey.

Morrissey, Toronto April 26th

By far the largest city in Canada, Toronto is known for its fiercely competitive hockey culture and stands an ashphalt jungle of towering black and grey office buildings. My granddad was born here in the 1920’s, and I will finally venture down its surging streets and see the polished silver of Lord Stanley’s Cup with my own eyes. Our first night in town, I snag a bottle of Malbec and walk through a darkened urban park, only to befriend a raccoon, who comes to me with tiny praying paws. I offer him a cracker and he runs away with his treasure, a rolling tumble of plump fur.

The next morning, more Morrissey friends begin to arrive from New York, California, Germany, Belgium, and the UK – a crew of international playboygirls. Tours are often like reunions, and it is warming (and somewhat surprising) to know I now have friends from all over the world. With the upcoming concerts taking place in my home country for the first time, I consider myself a bit like a host ... and all is gloriously surreal as red and white maple leaf flags wave in skies above. As I think of Morrissey’s return to Canada after so many years, my heart jumps like a startled, impassioned bird, hammering against the walls of my chest; I so want the audiences here to show Moz all the love he deserves. Will they? Well, I wonder...

Toronto Night 1

On gig day, we arrive early evening, even though the venue is seated. Tonight is the first of two sold-out shows, and hot palpable energy pounds the pavement surrounding Sony Centre for the Performing Arts. Posters featuring a certain blue-eyed handsome devil exclaim “First Tour of Canada in Almost 2 Decades!” - for me – it’s over half a lifetime ago: “if only I had known about Morrissey during the drudgery of high school,” I muse; however, what matters is that I am here, in this moment. I’m happy just to be here.

Outside, scalpers shout touting tickets, and knockoff merch vendors wave woefully blurred silk-screen California Son tees for 10 bucks. Inside, the venue lobby buzzes with pre-show animation – Morrissey patched denims and bequiffed heads are on full display, and everyone from teens to sixty-somethings trill excitedly. Stands display official merch– and my inner squealing teenager cannot be concealed: special Canadian tour shirts? This is so cool! One features a crooning Moz on the front, and cross-Canada tour dates on the back, another, “Be Kind To Seals Or I’ll Cull You,” and a third features adorable animal friends: a seal, moose, bear, and goose: “Canada is Theirs, and We Owe Them a Living.” These exploited animals have endured unimaginable atrocities at the hands of human greed – so senseless and unnecessary – and I think with an open heart of how Morrissey has worked so tirelessly to spread the message of animal rights. Activists are also standing throughout the lobby, holding petitions to be signed against brutally cruel coat company Canada Goose. A Morrissey concert is not only art, it is also a catalyst for social change. Humans are not the world.

At 7:30 pm, orchestra doors open, and we race like an avalanche of adrenaline-fueled schoolchildren towards the front of the stage, which is remarkably close and low – so much so you can rest your elbows against its thick, marled wood. My seat is front row, nearly centre, and I gaze up at a massive, rugged-jawed cowboy Robert Mitchum backdrop and then to the microphone where Morrissey will sing. Symbolically, his microphone stands dark, stark, and alone, exuding at once vulnerability and bravery – as the two go hand in hand. The caged bird of my heart leaps and sings; I can’t wait to see Moz again, as it has been nearly 5 months since I last saw him in Buenos Aires. No, not a lifetime ago, but time experienced is rarely linear.

A sensation beyond anticipation rolls through my veins as theatre lights darken, and my eardrums rumble with a burgeoning earthquake of cheers and claps. Sparks ignite and every sense is awakened: my eyes widen and breathing is no longer thought of, and nor is any past or daily stress. Suddenly, I am thrown in to the existent moment and life is truly lived. Spotlights rise and swing, and Morrissey emerges from the depths of backstage, donning a deep chocolate jacket and the “Canada is Theirs” tee, cut at the neckline to expose strands of colourful rosaries and crosses. Rosaries are also looped through his vintage dark wash jeans, catching glints of light as he moves; I soon realize the swaying crystal beads are in Oh, Canada colours: red and white.

“Near, far, wherever you are...” Mozzer croons, paying homage to Canadian chanteuse Celine Dion before the opening notes of Suedehead. Its beloved jangly guitar riff reverberates in my thirsty ears, and I notice the band wears crimson “Be Kind To Seals” tees. Morrissey whips the microphone cord, hypnotically in time with the music, and his energy, quiffed hair, and broad-shouldered physique make him seem far younger than his 59 years. I believe he exudes eternal youth, which is why any “heaven knows he’s older now” digs could never make sense; he is ageless.

Alma Matters is up next, a tapestry of lyrical wisdom, inspired by Salford’s Shelagh Delaney, crafted into song by Morrissey: “it’s my life to ruin my own way” has become something of a personal motto, for how often are we confronted, even confined, by the unwanted opinions of others, telling us how we should exist. Life is not a formulaic checklist, despite what many may want you to believe. Morrissey sways with the music, and moves towards me, and clasps my hand in his. I feel full of love and so grateful; for me, this is perfection in a moment, and I soar higher, my limbs and heart absolved of the weight and stress of a seemingly unending winter.

Songs spanning decades from Morrissey’s catalogue follow, ranging from 2017’s Low In High School back to Smiths days, all a radiant outpouring of energy. How Soon Is Now? cascades a thunderous wall of strobing lights, guitars, and the pounding heartbeat of a bass drum, as every sense is captured and captivated. It takes a few songs to gather my thoughts and remind myself how historical this concert is, as Moz hasn’t played in Canada for 15 years. Six songs in, during I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris, it strikes me and, again aware of my ever-soaring feet, I now feel the land beneath them... Canadian soil.

A charming piano riff warbles, and Morrissey sings, “Oh Bill, I love you so...” and Toronto is treated to the live debut of Laura Nyro’s Wedding Bell Blues, the newest single from Morrissey’s forthcoming covers album, California Son. Hands on his hips, his voice smoothly scales up the notes of Nyro’s vivaciously springy tune, this time a request for marriage from the one who “will never marry.”

Later in the set, ethereal minor chords spiral through the waltz time signature of That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore. Not played live since 2013, tonight is my first time seeing the Smiths gem in concert, but its lyrics have guided me through otherwise unreachable depths during murky stretches of depression. One remarkable gift of Morrissey’s music is how it helps me feel so much less alone, like a reflective diary of my most deeply felt thoughts and experiences. That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore expresses a keenly isolating facet of mental illness, for how it jabs when others joke at the sufferer's expense, as depression is often so vastly misunderstood by those who never plummet: “kick them when they fall down.” In 2019, such stigma persists ... and stings.

Tonight, Morrissey dedicates Life Is A Pigsty to Marissa Shen.  In 2017, in Burnaby, British Columbia, Shen was brutally murdered, her young life cut tragically short at the age of 13. Canada is known as a relatively safe country compared to gun-obsessed US, but senseless violence still lurks.

During Everyday Is Like Sunday, Hold Onto Your Friends, and What She Said, Morrissey interacts with fans in a dialogue of mutual appreciation, shaking hands, signing a copy of List Of The Lost, and one long time UK fan gets his inner forearm signed in Morrissey’s signature scrawl for a tattoo. The critics, who misunderstand Morrissey and describe him as “miserable,” or dislike him for speaking his mind, will never get it, and that is their loss. For so many of us, he brings joy, understanding, and a place in the world. Looking up at him singing upon the stage tonight, my heart is full. 

As he returns to a roaring crowd for the encore, First Of The Gang To Die, he wears a midnight blue shirt, signed “Toronto Morrissey 2019” in gilded ink. He tears the shirt off, dabs at his gloriously sweaty torso, and throws the damp, incense-scented fabric towards our frenzied limbs in the pit. I nab a coveted corner, twisting the shirt’s fabric into my hands with a strength I typically never possess. I soon notice my friend from New York is holding another edge, and one bewildered guy also in the mix seems shocked by such “fiesty female fighters” and gives up. Hours later, back at the hotel, we realize we have matching shirt quarters: hers is the top, mine is the bottom. It is, to quote a friend, “like the coolest friendship necklace ever.”

Toronto Night 2

Tonight, while standing at the rail, I meet another fan who has travelled from the UK for the two Toronto shows. She also writes a Morrissey blog, and we discuss the merits of travelling solo to gigs. I have met a number of people who had never even considered travelling alone until they started following Morrissey tours, and now extra dimensions of independence and adventure embellish their lives. During my 20’s, I never ventured far by myself, but now travelling is in my blood, and because of this, I feel younger and more confident, even though I am admittedly hopeless at finding my way... I have been lost in more cities than I can count, but how I adore the lure of unknown streets over the claustrophobic drag of known ones.

Following Lypsinka's glamorous howls, Morrissey appears, wearing a dashing black jacket embroidered with glittering peacocks, a “Rodeo no es deporte” shirt from Chile, and a heavy-beaded white rosary. My breath catches as I try to focus my vision on the small white badge pinned to his lapel as spotlights dance over his shoulders from above... it looks like he is wearing a pin I have given him... could it be?

The crowd ignites with adoring cheers as the band launches into the first song of the night, Is It Really So Strange? As Morrissey moves closer towards where I am standing, on Jesse’s side, it dawns on me that he is indeed wearing the duck pin I gave to him.  Am I dreaming?  Some joys are beyond description and can only be felt - and tonight - I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Toronto’s Saturday night audience is extra fiery with Moz-passion, and ardent fans hurl themselves on stage, at times with overwhelming vigour. The youngest stage invader must barely be a wide-eyed seven years old, and Morrissey holds his hand as they walk to and fro during Everyday Is Like Sunday. Some other concertgoers take a slightly more chilled-out approach to the evening: “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think I can smell weed,” Morrissey announces between songs.

A swirling Rod Serling Twilight Zone backdrop appears, and shimmering opening chords trigger an immediate rush of goosebumps, as Morrissey croons the poetic opening lyrics to Jobriath’s Morning Starship. With this cover, Moz pays delicious homage to 70's rule-breaker Jobriath, and in its live debut, the song blossoms further into otherworldliness. Awestruck, I make eye contact with my friend, but am too captivated to nab photos or video as Morrissey’s voice pours luxuriously over ethereal instrumentals... and – how very cool - Boz even plays a theremin!

The setlist is full of varied gems, including Maladjusted’s alluring opera of self-destruction, Trouble Loves Me, and dramatic and punctuating Scandinavia, complete with the rather amusing (yet oh-so-passionate) imagery of “eat[ing]” the soil. As blue lights dim to a moonlit wash, Seasick Yet Still Docked haunts with melancholic, soul-wrenching beauty. Tonight, my restless, transient mind is fully present and aware, no longer chasmic from body and soul. At Morrissey concerts, at least for a few hours, I escape my half-a-person fate.

These two nights in Toronto have been memorable, beaming, sacred bliss.

M Memo From Montreal

Montreal

Jetting out of Toronto, we travel onwards to Montreal. My French is practically non-existent, because I am very lazy, and my clumsy tongue is unused to its silenced nuances. I regret not spending more time with the Duolingo Owl, and feel stutteringly apologetic in taxis and hotel lobbies. Tomorrow’s concert venue, MTelus, is situated on bustling Rue Sainte-Catherine, so queuing is a slight question mark for this GA show. While Toronto was far from tropical, Montreal has a particularly chilling bite to the air, and winds pierce through fabric, making late April seem more like winter. The french-speaking city houses a vaguely European ambience, and even police sirens wail in foreign timbre. Rudimentary dark brick buildings blaze with vibrant street art, and the main strip is lined with sex shop after sex shop, where window mannequins pout, appearing more bored than erotic, clad in lace and cringey spandex. Peppered throughout are vintage bookshops, dive Tiki bars, and neon half-burnt out signs boasting all variations of exotic dancers.

Dawn rushes fast, and soon we are back on the queue gang, camped out on gritty city pavement, and today I have nabbed 4^th spot on the list. As we wait, seagulls and pigeons march around determinedly on official bird business, and brusque suity types rush by on pointless human business. More concertgoers arrive to the queue in the early afternoon, and for some, tonight will be their first ever time seeing Morrissey in the flesh. One young fan clutches a book by Canadian author Elizabeth Smart to gift to Moz, while another looks nearly identical to Smiths-era Mozzer himself, sporting NHS-style glasses and a billowing shirt over his slim frame.

I have no recollection of racing in under dazzling theatre lightbulbs when 7 p.m. doors arrive, but somehow my shivering feet find their way to centre barrier. Tonight’s stage is high, so handshakes will be challenging except for the most tall and limber. Standing at the barrier, with no one in front of me, I often lose track of how packed concert pits can be, but one glance behind shows an exultant crowd, seemingly stretching back for chaotic miles.

As Morrissey takes the stage for his first Montreal show in 22 years, fans shower him with presents, so many he can barely hold them all, and he tucks them under his arm while singing, an overflowing abundance of records, books, and gifts wrapped in shiny paper. Other fans lunge forward, trying to jump up and touch his hand; it is an outpouring of love and respect for an artist who has become an integral part of the psyche of many, and while perhaps he has been far in distance, he was never far in heart. In one perfect moment, from the depths of the crowd, a voice rises: “Welcome Back.”

A sparkling setlist including Suedehead, I Wish You Lonely, Hairdresser On Fire, Morning Starship, Life Is A Pigsty, Jack The Ripper, and Something Is Squeezing My Skull rouses even the most exhausted, freezingly-cold queuer to another sphere. And as Morrissey rattles a glittering tambourine, weaving opening guitar riffs elicit wondrous gasps from the audience: can it be... Girl Afraid, live for the first time as a solo artist? Morrissey stands, ageless, bouncing the tambourine in his hand, his eyebrows arching and falling, as he expresses each sung phrase, so perfectly encapsulating every angst-drenched insecurity of unrequited attraction. 

Girl Afraid in Montreal

...And, as First Of The Gang To Die purrs through the hall’s walls for the encore, with a release of song and shirt fabric, so fluid, towards grasping hands, we say goodbye-for-now.

Tonight, there is no better place to be in the world.

Canada luffs you, Morrissey.

Scooter duck spied in downtown Toronto

*all photos by me unless otherwise specified