This review features a special section dedicated to the new, unreleased tracks from Bonfire of Teenagers.
Las Vegas is one of those cities I probably shouldn’t like, but I do. I’ve travelled there about 10 times in my adult life, and 3 of those times were to see Morrissey. There’s something semi-comforting about Las Vegas that, on the surface, grates against my introverted ideals, but on further inspection, it makes perfect sense: it’s easy to disappear into a crowd. It’s great – you can be a complete weirdo, or a loner, and no one would ever notice – or bother you – it’s the opposite of nosy small town nitpickery. If you can’t be alone, be alone with everybody.
Maybe I like that Las Vegas feels quite glamorous too, albeit somewhat trashy at times, but I like a bit of trash with my glamour, and a bit of grime with my glitz. When I was growing up, my grandma spoke about Vegas as if it were the fanciest place on earth: a glittering desert oasis filled with feathery showgirls where you could see the Rat Pack, and more specifically, the man of her dreams, Dean Martin. She never quite accomplished that feat, but in her TV room, she proudly kept a framed photo of Dino, Sammy, and Frank, laughing in a black and white world of fedoras and cocktails.
Fast forward many decades and I am standing on the 25th floor of Caesar’s Palace, looking out at a sprawling sequined skyline against velvety blackness, on the eve of Morrissey’s 2nd Las Vegas residency. These shows are promised to showcase songs from Morrissey’s latest album, as of yet unreleased: Bonfire of Teenagers. A heady mix of anticipation and prosecco already has my head spinning for the next night: I can’t wait to see him and wonder how many new songs he will debut!
Walking through the hotel and casino to the venue, faux-Michelangelo sculptures and roman pillars tower over swirling jewelled carpets, and I continually find myself walking in the wrong direction. Sense of space and time are distorted, and it’s virtually impossible to gather what time of day it is, as crowds of people wander in dad shorts, bikinis, tuxedos, and ball gowns. Aspects of the pandemic linger, with hand sanitizer dispensers conveniently located near elevators; a small minority of us still wear masks in the casino, and I observe some be-masked patrons hunched over at slot machines, pulling down their paper surgical masks to take long drags on their cigarettes. Vegas must be one of the last places in North America where one can smoke indoors.
Crimson Viva Moz Vegas screens tower throughout the casino and in front of the venue, and even on the streets, the airport, and on taxi cabs. The one I love is everywhere... and I hungrily snap photos every time I see one. In the promo photo, a circa 2000 Morrissey is wearing yellow tinted sunglasses, and leaning against a slot machine, his hand on his chin. There’s also a shop filled with Mozzer merch adjacent to the venue, with everything from Bona Drag tees, to Vegas tour hoodies, to coffee mugs, to little lapel pins shaped like TV sets animated with the International playboy himself.
This year, with overbearing travel restrictions finally beginning to wane, international playboygirls from all over the world queue up to see Morrissey: some fans have travelled from as far as Australia, as well as fans from Belgium, France, Canada, and the UK. There are many happy reunions, and every gig night, as time ticks down to doors, we are wrist-banded while pre-show jitters and excitement nip our heels, and slot machines purr chaotically in the background.
Running down velvety carpeted aisles through the theatre to the pit, I stop in my tracks and look up, up, up – the stage is confusingly high – much higher than the previous year – and stands a daunting, massive black wall. I snag my spot at the front, but looking ahead, see mostly blackness unless I tilt my head upwards, for there is no barrier. It’s a slightly odd setup, yet somewhat comical, and I overhear many utterances of “what is with this stage?” as more fans arrive.
Pre-show videos always give a fascinating glimpse into Morrissey’s interests and inspirations, and the screen fills with blazing images of The Sex Pistols, The New York Dolls, a very lounge-y come hither Keith Christmas, and the extremely catchy Why Can’t We Be Friends by WAR. Lypsinka begins her howls, and cheers erupt, and then... Morrissey appears. My eyes drink him in, in glimpses, as whenever he moves behind a monitor I have trouble seeing him; I stand on my tiptoes, full of anticipation for what he will bring to us. Life feels alive again, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on earth.
“Viva Las Vengeance!” he shouts, and the band rises into We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful, to energetic chord whips and twists. Morrissey is wearing a dark suit with sparkly buttons and a dark shirt, looking elegant and ultra handsome devil! The 1992 opener from Your Arsenal has the crowd dancing, singing, laughing, and finally living, and limbs stretch above the darkened depths of the pit, reaching for Morrissey with adoration.
On the backdrop, a giant Frank Sinatra appears, decked out in a smashing suit, and as Morrissey twirls the microphone cord, the band launches into Our Frank, a dazzling rarity not played live since... 1991. Cheers explode to the opening notes, as the younger blue-eyed crooner sings and stalks the stage and the older one gazes out, frozen in film and time. “Won’t somebody stop me... from thinking all the time?” Some nights, during the “give me a cigarette” line, Morrissey will grab a cigarette offered from the crowd and tuck it behind his ear, giving him a devilish look, like a 1950’s bad boy: he is entirely mesmerizing and keeps songs that are over 30 years old sounding fresh, with a spirited 5 piece band keeping impeccable time.
The setlists span delicious decades of Morrissey’s impressive catalogue in minutes, jumping from I Am Not A Dog On A Chain’s Knockabout World and a live debut of My Hurling Days Are Done, to Smiths gems like Half A Person, to catchy newest single I Am Veronica, featuring backing vocals by Miley Cyrus. A number of Years of Refusal rarities, not played live in almost a decade also make appearances, including the unrequited longing of Black Cloud, and the life lessons of That’s How People Grow Up. In between songs, Morrissey jokes about the height of the stage, which I’m sure must have also looked quite funny from his view, and refers to hiding in his hotel room in “the city that never naps.” One night, he wears the little owl pin I gave him and squeezes my hand, and every second of my life to get to that moment feels worth it. As Morrissey sings and moves across the stage, fans hand him presents, letters, and reach out to touch him, and one fan passes him a “Moz for President” poster. Despite what any click-bait paper will lie, he is loved, and brings art, song, thoughtfulness, and joy to so many in this often-empty, stressful modern world.
Between shows, 2020’s stressors unfortunately lurk. Covid fears bubble to the surface as a number of fans fall ill, and I realize I am hopeless at dealing with such anxiety in real life, for on social media I have muted everything to do with the pandemic, as I have with many other news topics I just can’t bear to face on a daily basis. Even though we are freshly boosted only 2 months prior, a hotbed of covid hysteria triggers hypochondria, and every hangover twinge or hoarse voice from screaming leads to concern, scrambles to find rapid tests, and mask upgrades to N95s. To top that off, gun anxiety lurks, as there is a reported shooting at a 4th of July parade in another state. Being Canadian, 4th of July festivities don’t even register for me, but as we walk out of the hotel for dinner, enormous crowds are gathered with no escape route, and as we try to weave through an impossible sea of people, I notice numerous men in bulletproof vests, hear an explosion, and shriek, soon realizing it is simply fireworks. Regardless, I have problems dealing emotionally, and it is complete culture shock. There is no love in modern life...
However, it is not all doom and gloom between gigs, as there is time to giggle with friends over tour videos and photos, check out the merch shop, drink dates and excursions, and time by the pool. I surprise myself by loving the indulgence of stretching out like a cat in the sun, gazing up at skies nearly as blue as his eyes, as birds skip happily about palms. I sip frosted margaritas and dip my toes in the cool water, and I feel my own sense of self coming back in throes of relaxation. And the new songs dance about my sun-soaked head, and I feel immensely lucky to have seen them live for the first time.
The new songs
Leading up to the Las Vegas residency, there is much anticipation over how many songs Morrissey will debut from Bonfire Of Teenagers. On writing this review, I wanted to focus on my first impressions of these songs and the power they hold. As they are currently unreleased, I feel incredibly fortunate to have been there for their live debut, and truly hope there is a record deal in the near future. Now it is my job to write about them, and I hope I can do them justice, as it is difficult to convey in mere words the full sense of awe such music opens up for the ears, mind, and heart.
Imagine being thrown into the blistering heat of the desert and being struck, full force in the chest, with the most compelling new music you could dream of, unreleased as of yet to the rest of the world...
Bonfire of Teenagers
On opening night, Morrissey walks up to the microphone, and says, “This song is new. It’s about England’s 9/11... yes I heard what you just did under your breath... and as well you might. Obviously in jolly old England, most people won’t talk about it, but I will.” He walks back towards the drum kit, the spotlight following him, as Gustavo begins a soft lullaby-style intro on piano. Morrissey’s voice glides smoothly with gentle, restrained power over the opening lyrics, ending with the heartbreaking image, “oh you should have seen her leave for the arena, On her way she turned and waved and smiled: “Goodbye”... Goodbye.”
“And the silly people sing: “Don’t Look Back in Anger”
And the morons sing and sway” Don’t Look Back in Anger”
I can assure I will look back in anger til the day I die”
Bonfire climaxes to an intense crescendo, and guitars and cymbals swell towards the refrain: “Go easy on the killer...” The repetition conveys a blend of anger and sense of despair at society’s dismissive handling of such an evil act, ending with the return of the quiet minor chord lullaby on piano. I stand in awe, eyes damp, completely unable to record the song on my phone or even snap a photo: it is beyond overwhelming to see such power and emotion conveyed through music, so raw, and so brave.
There is no one else in music who approaches Morrissey. He is a multimedia artist: painting a picture, sculpting a troubled, gut-wrenching journey with his words: Bonfire of Teenagers is a living, breathing musical monument to the loss of innocence, and society’s failings in the face of inconceivable terror and violence. One sees a vivid image the young girl leaving, excited and happy to attend a concert. A concert: one of the few remaining pure, joyous experiences left in this world. Within hours, her heart beats no more, and innocence is shattered, and the lives of her friends and family, and those of other victims of the attack, are changed – horribly - forever. It’s impossible to imagine. And then... at vigils to hear people sing “Don’t Look Back in Anger” sits oddly, for shouldn’t we be angry? From what is this notion borne? Is it not somewhat insulting to the loss of precious life to simply shrug and virtually sweep this attack under the rug? What can be done to prevent such a thing in the future? But questions and natural feelings, such as anger, seem to be frowned upon by today’s society. This is a tribute to the souls who lost their lives, and a response to the public’s limp treatment of this devastation, and I believe if it were my loved ones who were ripped away from this earth, I would feel comforted by Bonfire.
“Go easy on the killer” is repeated, almost as a chant, for this is essentially what we are doing, by saying “don’t look back in anger.” Morrissey’s voice rises with emotion over the refrain, with anger and rawness striking the soul. It is uncomfortable. It disturbs the peace. It is painfully beautiful. I want art to be uncomfortable. I want to be challenged. There is absolutely no way our world can ever be improved or helped if we don’t question things, if we don’t feel free to express our opinions and feelings, and I believe Morrissey is one of the last people to totally, unabashedly stay true to himself and achieve this, and so beautifully and poignantly through art. I am in awe of his courage. It is a complete act of bravery and I love him for it.
Predictably, some people, including Mancunian photographer Kevin Cummins, who actually blocked me on Twitter, expressed faux outrage towards the lyrics. But the likely truth is these people are trapped in a cage of ‘wokeness’, or simply don’t understand the message Morrissey is conveying. For how lost is the world if we aren’t allowed feel rage at the death of innocence? When did we lose our way? As Franz Kafka once wrote, “start with what is right rather than what is acceptable.”
Rebels Without Applause and Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings
Morrissey introduces Rebels Without Applause, saying, “I haven’t been lying to you over recent years when I tell you there is a new album. There really is, and it will be released in your lifetime, so please, don’t die soon.”
Rebels Without Applause has a lighthearted, spirited jangle pop sound, with tastes of Cemetry Gates and some of Morrissey’s early solo catalogue work. It is vibrant and catchy, and the guitar phrases weave magic, playing perfectly off Morrissey’s smooth, dreamy vocals about “the gang” and “bawdy boys of song.” Fans instantly remark how enjoyable the track is, and it leaves the listener with a sweet sense of nostalgia and old friendships: “I loved them all.”
Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings is a gritty pessimistic romp complete with heavy hard rock guitars and biting lyrics. The guitar work contrasts deliciously with that on Rebels, and showcases the impressive stylistic range of Jesse Tobias and Alain Whyte. “Sure enough, the telephone rings who wants my money now?” I adore the structure of the song, and the “Please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now” section is pure Mozzer cynical-yet-humorous brilliance. The guitar solo is wild, unabandoned rock and roll, and Morrissey flicks his microphone cord in time with defiance. I love the song; it’s one to play at full volume, and it hearkens back to the feel of some of the heavier tracks from Years of Refusal and Ringleader of the Tormentors.
I Live in Oblivion
“This passion play, that you call life, when you come to the end, you will be either shoved in a hospice, shoved in a home, or at the mercy of the NHS, which is a fate worse than life, and this song is I Live in Oblivion”
Piano draws us in, and Morrissey sings under the spotlight, his voice filled with beauty and emotion, at times almost ethereal and angelic:
“I apologize, I grew old.
I apologize I grew tired
I apologize I grew old...
And now I live in oblivion
and it suits me very well...
I live in oblivion
and it suits me very well
And the only thing that can kill me is the hospital food
And the only one left to visit me is you”
Lyrics hammer the heart with resigned pain and reflection, and even a touch of black humour. It is a bleak glimpse into the future, and if one makes it to a “ripe old age,” such is the reward. This lament of time and aging is rarely spoken about openly, with unbridled rawness, and the ache of loneliness, resignation, and regret is palpable. Such dark words are sung so beautifully, and musically, it holds an epic beauty similar to Life is A Pigsty, although somewhat more restrained and solemn.
“I knew the best, the worst, the last
I knew them all.
I set the world on fire
And now I’m tired.”
The exhaustion is heart wrenching through reflection: a life lived, now in decay and decline. Yet Morrissey takes something so dark, frightening, and isolating and turns it into the most beautiful poetry. It somehow lets us confront our fate, with complete gut ripping honesty, yet still feel less alone and somehow guided and soothed. I don’t think you’re ever truly alone if you have Morrissey’s music.
The ending, “one more spoonful down the hatch... one two three... there’s a good boy... oh, there’s a good boy” expresses the return to a condescending childlike state that we often, for some unknown, unspoken reason, apply to the elderly. It is at once demeaning and depressing, and decades lived somehow unravel us and travel us to such a fate. Guitars hauntingly close the song, conveying the lonely echo of hospital corridors. I doubt there is a dry eye in the house.
...
On closing night, Morrissey appears for the encore, and it is again goodbye-for-now. Sweet and Tender Hooligan fills the Colosseum, and the pit is jumping and screaming. Morrissey thrashes on the stage with the energy of a man half his age, and exudes youth and vibrance to fill our famished hearts. I long for one last handshake, and try to reach, looking up into Morrissey’s bluest eyes, but it becomes too chaotic, as more and more bodies jump the high wall of the stage. Security guards sprint back and forth, akimbo, trying to manage unruly boys and girls. One final, rather rotund invader roughly tumbles across the stage nearly crashing into Jesse and it is likely no longer safe, as Morrissey is waved off into the darkness. My heart begs for him to come back, but I know he has disappeared into the night, and I whisper a wish that this is the year Bonfire of Teenagers will be released.
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