A review of Morrissey's concert in San Luis Obispo
Midday gridlock traffic out of LAX crawls across countless sun-bleached freeway lanes as jets roar overhead, huge and seemingly almost grazing the cars below. Our rental car is barely moving, but my mood is in a different sphere and cannot be touched by typical silly frustrations like traffic jams or missing the nearest exit for an oat milk latte. I’m still beaming from the incredible gig in Phoenix the night before and such joy: dancing and laughing and finally living, in today’s world, feels like a rare gift. Someone, somewhere tweets to me from a place of understanding “I know how much you missed this and how it is therapeutic for you.” I’m not sure I could sum it up any better.
So my spirit is somewhere soaring above the freeway, perhaps with the weaving winged West Coast seagulls, perhaps even higher, as traffic slowly thins out and we head further North, towards San Luis Obispo. Emerald green highway signs sing out towns of gigs past: Hollywood, Ventura, Santa Barbara, all vibrant gems stretching out from the heart of Moz Angeles. The road begins to narrow and wind, and rolling parched hills replace towering concrete and graffiti. To the left, frothy waves swell and crash against the shore, and the ocean impresses me with its blueness – not the chilled, dark grey-blue of the Pacific Northwest, but a brilliant azure that reminds me I’m not from around here, and I want to absorb it into my memory. I even want to grasp the palm trees, swaying at impossible heights at the edges of the beach, as we twist and turn higher and higher up into the hills.
World Peace is None of Your Business plays on the stereo and Morrissey croons over the GPS, and friends who have already arrived in San Luis Obispo text splendid photos of the beach. I realize, that somehow in this complicated life, there is still magic to be had and felt, and whenever I approach a gig town, there is a certain sparkle to everything. I look out at endless countryside, where horses shake their mystic white manes, and brown cows, free to roam, congregate under blackened trees doubling as arthritic parasols for shade. For once, earth doesn’t feel like the loneliest planet.
A man who looks remarkably like singer Meatloaf checks us in at the hotel, and we jet off to meet friends for vegan junk food from local haunt Ziggy’s and overpriced gift shop wine sipped out of disposable cups. Friends work on handwritten letters to give to Morrissey and I’m struck by a warming nostalgia for the tours of 2019: it feels like old times. That night, I am able to indulge in some much-needed beauty sleep before heading over to the venue the next evening, as the gig is seated and we don’t have to queue.
The Fremont Theater makes one feel as if they're stepping back in time to the 1950’s. Its facade is powder puff pink, with elements of movie star glamour and streamlined art deco. The name even lights a spark, for in my hometown, I have a crow friend I've named Hal Freemont: daredevil crow extraordinaire. A young, unflappable show-off, he twists and turns through the sky and divebombs fearlessly into traffic. For what is life without risk? As the California sun beats down, fans begin arriving outside the venue, and a young boy dressed as Smiths-era Mozzer complete with glasses and gladioli poses for photos. Nearby wine bars pour over with Morrissey fans, be-quiffed and donning cool cuffed denim, abuzz with pre-show excitement.
I have no recollection of doors opening, but somehow my feet carry me down aisles and I am at once inside the theatre, with my heart in my hand, and elbows on the stage. It’s a rare thrill to have the chance to see Morrissey at such a small venue, and the energy and anticipation rising from the pit is palpable, vibrating off the swirling pastels of theatre frescoes and beyond. Even the last-minuteness of the gig adds to the feeling of exhilaration, as it was barely announced 2 weeks prior, and part of me hardly believes I am here. Is it all real? The stage stands so low that Morrissey’s microphone can nearly be touched, but I wouldn’t dare. Wow.
After pre-show songs, from the darkness of backstage, Morrissey and his band appear. Tonight he wears a navy blue shirt and suit jacket, with dark brown trousers. And... let’s talk about his shoes - sleek loafers with a bright yellow pop of colour: how delightfully daredevil extraordinaire! He’s so close I can smell the incense of his cologne, and if I’m dreaming, I pray I don’t wake up, because this is AMAZING. The band blazes into We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful, and Morrissey grabs the microphone stand and tosses it from shoulder to shoulder, prompting squeaks and squeals. Like magic, my back pain disappears and I am now a 41-year old swooning teenager. Some distant voice in my head says: take a photo and I feel nearly self conscious to pull my phone out (he’s so close... oh-em-gee) and I absentmindedly point and click, and somehow, with tremendous luck, on first shot, I capture one of my favourite photos I’ve ever taken of him.
Next up is fast-paced rocker Billy Budd from 1994’s Vauxhall And I, and Morrissey turns in time to the music, flicking the microphone cord with the elegant playfulness of a cat. Ouija Board, Ouija Board swirls mystical notes beckoning the beyond, and I think of a friend who passed away the previous month, far too young, who loved sunflowers, Pusheen, and books. Morrissey kneels in front of the drumset, and I feel such love for him. He has gotten me through so many hard times: his words, his voice... are with me when I crash, and also when I soar. I find it odd when people trot out the “he’s miserable” dial-a-cliches, because I find him so comforting, as even in his sad lyrics, sparks of hope and healing guide the spirit, and help me feel less alone. My friend also loved his music.
“The past is another country,” Morrissey says after Never Had No One Ever, and I wonder if it is a reference to James Baldwin’s novel Another Country. I discovered Baldwin through Morrissey, and along with Giovanni’s Room, Another Country is one of my favourite books. “Artists are here to disturb the peace” and this quality is increasingly rare, particularly in fame-click-lack-of-attention-span-twitstagram 21st century culture. Paying lip service to nothingness, and pretty-vacant lack of opinion won’t be what saves us, and this is why I admire those who express themselves and stay true to their own minds.
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| Brendan Buckley on drums |
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| Jesse Tobias |
I am Veronica impresses me even more on 2nd listen: it is musically uplifting, and I already find myself singing along to the words I remember from the first night. I notice more elements this time: the “tiny spot allocated each of us... so make your mark and now you’ll be the spark” lyric is fresh and inspiring, and I love the vivid trio of lines summoning animals as guides: dolphins, fish, and owls. Veronica seems to have many layers, both musically, and lyrically, and multiple meanings already to fans: it could be about a daring rendezvous, or lighting a spark artistically on stage, but I think perhaps its essence may be to take risks and live in the moment, because as humans, we often lose ourselves to routine. The “harmonica” outro is gorgeous, and Morrissey’s voice rises smoothly over the notes. Alain and Juan do a little dance with guitar and bass, and fans ecstatically wave their arms, exulting this newest and already loved addition to Morrissey’s remarkable catalogue. I hope that the rest of Bonfire of Teenagers is coming soon: I think it will be brilliant.
The opening notes of How Soon Is Now? invoke cheers, as Moz contorts before the microphone stand and a large cross sways from his neck. I personally prefer 2022’s live How Soon to the 1980’s era Smiths version – as I find it more robust and forceful, like an adrenaline slam to the chest. Shyness becomes defiant, empowering. Morrissey stalks the stage and plays with his necklace and the collar of his shirt, and the crowd’s chaotic chorus of limbs flails. Partway through the song, the young boy I saw earlier, with the gladioli, is propelled onto the stage, and hugs Moz, and they stand arm in arm as Morrissey sings, and it is such a precious moment, ending with perfectly synced bows. The kid’s life must be absolutely made – and it shows how the power of music spans generations. As the band plays the final echoing chords and Brendan smashes the gong, Morrissey slides down the microphone stand and crouches on the ground – his beautiful blue eyes looking upwards – and I am once again struck by how near he is.
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| Photo by @mischievousnose Instagram |
Everyday is Like Sunday shimmers with Moz on tambourine, and Suedehead leads to more outpourings of love: gifts and letters are passed on stage, and Morrissey sings much of the song holding up an Elvis record my friend gives to him. The Fremont pounds with life, becoming its own beating heart: the atmosphere is incredible. As the tempo slows into the jangle guitar intro of Half a Person, Morrissey stands at the microphone, his silver quiff sparkling under lowered stage lights, and sings “that’s the story of my life...”
Quarry’s Irish Blood, English Heart has the audience clapping to the rhythm of the drums, and as it crescendos to “I’ve been dreaming of a time when...” Morrissey moves from centre stage and begins grasping hands in the audience. A sea of outstretched arms and letters reach for him and he pockets a little neatly folded note. Singing, he walks towards me and I reach up, and he holds my hand... and keeps holding it... and keeps holding it... and it is beyond, beyond my most blissful dreams... there is no way to describe how lifted and happy I feel. Every wintery moment of waiting was worth it. My night... my year... my life... made.
We bounce with boundless energy to First of the Gang to Die and Morrissey changes the lyrics to “Oscar was the first of the gang...” walking the length of the stage and shaking hands. Jesse, Alain, and Gustavo make a dazzling trio on electric and acoustic guitars, and the pit is singing and dancing... San Luis Obispo, you are too hot! Jack the Ripper plunges us into otherworldly red fog and Whitechapel’s creeping danger and we are engulfed in completely untamed, mesmerizing passion, crashing into arms ...“I know you...” and then, in an instant, Morrissey disappears into the depths of backstage. The audience erupts into volcanic, unbridled screams, begging ravenously for more, more, more...
and he returns...
“Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire...” Morrissey serenades dreamily under enchanting pink lights, while Gustavo adds beautiful detailing on acoustic guitar. “But then... you open your eyes... and you see someone you physically despise,” Morrissey sings with a scrumptious bite, and tears his double breasted grey suit jacket off and flings it into the crowd. Super-ultra dreamy! Then, in a complete tempo turnaround, the band charges into Sweet and Tender Hooligan, and fans jump and scream and scramble to get on stage to hug Morrissey, and rapturous energy soars through the venue... and then... he rips his t-shirt off and escapes from our sight into the night.
All photos my own unless otherwise credited
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