Killarney
The countdown felt gruelling. Time in late summer hung as stagnantly as the wildfire smoke that suffocated tree-tops. Unexpected depression trudged her well-worn paths across my neural circuits, telling me everything would be anything-but-fine, and as she can be so very convincing, I believed her. Why was I so nervous? I had travelled overseas before to see Morrissey, and it was absolutely magical. In early 2018 I spent some of the best weeks of my life shivering in sidewalk queues and quivering in concert halls; but 2018 felt like an eternity away.
Fast forward and 2020 still haunted me. Everything was booked, all tickets bought to see Morrissey in the UK, France, and Germany ... and then: global hysteria exploded. As March blossomed, my hopes decayed, and leaving Canada suddenly felt impossible. You might get trapped in another country. Quarantine. Pandemic pandemonium. So many big ugly new words to learn, and as news anchors in colourful suit jackets barked end of the world narratives, my luggage sat empty as my soul. From home, I watched a shaky YouTube video of Morrissey singing Jim Jim Falls in Leeds. I didn’t go. I could have... I think?
So since then, I’ve realized the precariousness of everything. They (they?) could shut the world down any minute, or at least it feels that way, and I’m still not over it. Attempting to go overseas again felt, in some ways, like an impossible dream, but I’m going to see the one I love, so please don’t stand in my way. And in September 2022, with my suitcase overflowing and my soul hoping to follow suit, I got on a plane to Dublin.
And then, I am there – here, in Europe: jetlagged but with a rekindled spark, feeling cobblestones under my feet while church bells dance in my ears. Dark alleys pour with vibrant celtic song and laughter, and yes, the Guinness absolutely does taste better in Ireland! The train to Killarney blazes through rolling emerald hills dotted with fluffy sheep and aged stone buildings, and ever closer to the venue where Morrissey is set to take the stage the following night.
Our hotel, The Gleneagle, is attached to the Gleneagle INEC Arena, and sits amidst lush green countryside. Outside, along boulevards and dry stone walls, a crew of corvids congregates boisterously, and of course I must run over to say hello: for it’s not every day I see crows, rooks, and jackdaws all in the same place! Fans are already arriving, and the Gleneagle Hotel’s clientele seems to be a mix of 30-and-40 something year-olds wearing Morrissey tees and a slightly older crowd of retirees decked out in semi-formal dress, teetering drunkenly about the hallways.
Queuing from early morning, I nab 3rd spot on the list and feel my mood lifting, as reunions with some friends I haven’t seen in years bubble, and the clock is finally moving, moving, moving towards doors. New merch catches my eye, my favourite being the “Life is a Pigsty” tshirt, which includes a pretty fawn dusted with powdery pink detail: it is perfection – oddly humorous yet existentially profound. As Pigsty is my favourite song, I clearly need to buy it. Faint music flows into the lobby where we wait: can it be? We press our ears against towering wooden venue doors and hear soundcheck: guitars, bass, percussion... and then... Morrissey begins to sing.
My heart is in my hands and throat as I begin getting ready. I’m awake and alive and Morrissey is in the building. Lines for doors wind within and without the venue lobby, and legs kick into action as tickets are scanned and we jog the stretch to the stage, featuring an Apocalypse Now backdrop and “HELLO HELL” drum head. I nab a glorious spot on Jesse’s side of the stage and chatter and snap photos and somehow feel 20 years younger than I did mere days ago – for this is my greatest therapy. The build-up begins, and any Morrissey regular will know what’s next – waiting in velvety blackness... first pre-show songs and then... the videos: a mix of music and soundbites selected from Morrissey’s influences and tastes: from T-Rex to Kenneth Williams to The New York Dolls. The backdrop switches to American writer and activist James Baldwin and under the silver of stage lights, Morrissey and his band appear before our frenzied, famished howls. For some fans, it has been at least 4 years, as the last time Moz appeared in Ireland was 2018; for others, including the newest gen Z Mozzer disciples – this is their first ever gig; some have been on his trail since the 80’s, and others – like me – found him sometime during the 2000’s and 2010’s – and have since followed him as much as we possibly can. We unite, all in our own way, cheering for the man whose songs have saved our lives: we’re happy just to be here.
Tonight, Morrissey wears a dark jacket with a dark brown shirt, a beautiful rosary, and ultra-wide legged dark blue trousers. The trousers later instigate fashion debate on social media: but I think they look fashion-forward and cool: as the kids will tell you, skinny jeans are no longer en vogue. My eyes focus, and I see he is wearing the owl pin I gave him in Las Vegas and I feel my heart swell over as happy tears form in my eyes. In his hands, he holds a rustling pale blue bag of... crisps? And I recognize the Tayto crisps I’d seen for sale at the hotel gift shop, perhaps an Irish delicacy, but sure to shred one’s tongue in cases of over-indulgence.
 |
| photo by @shanejhoran |
The band erupts into the lively opening notes of We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful and Morrissey whips the microphone cord with catlike dexterity, his silver quiff catching glints of light as he moves. The crowd is already bouncing, and boisterous Irish voices sing along to the Your Arsenal single. The 30 year-old track sounds fresh, clever, and energetic – and I am already entirely enchanted. Our Frank is next, complete with Old Blue Eyes backdrop and the frustrations of my fellow over-thinkers and I are suddenly balmed and calmed through song: “won’t somebody stop me from thinking... from thinking all the time... About everything, oh somebody, from thinking all the time... so deeply, so bleakly, so bleakly all the time?”
From Billy Budd to Knockabout World to First of the Gang to Die, every song feels timeless, yet simultaneously conjoined to a point in time: the moment you first heard it, a road trip with friends, a break-up or make-up, or perhaps the sparkling euphoria of your second ever gig. And time tonight becomes a glorious blur: early on, Morrissey shakes my hand and I am, in that moment, without question, the happiest girl on earth.
And the new songs – as of yet unreleased – are already adored and mapped across our minds and course through our veins. We sing along, word for word, to Rebels Without Applause and I Am Veronica and know and love Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings and Bonfire of Teenagers note for note. Already, these songs have taken hold in that mysterious part of the psyche that clings to music and lyrical poetry, and are now forever known, and instantly recognizable, like old friends. Seeing Bonfire of Teenagers on this side of the Atlantic, now so much nearer to the horrific attack, feels even more powerful, darker, and closer to the unimaginable wounds, and I wonder what it will be like to see Morrissey sing it in Manchester in ten days, for my gut instinct tells me that he is singing what many people are thinking and feeling, but perhaps feel, in these strange times, they cannot say.
The Loop oozes rockabilly cool with Juan Galeano on upright bass as Moz twists and turns to the beat, delightfully sweaty, and shaking a pair of maracas – divine! – and a live solo debut of The Queen Is Dead’s Frankly, Mr Shankly, evokes cheers and roars from the stalls. Tonight, when Morrissey emerges for the encore, he wears a beautiful shirt in the palest aquamarine, detailed with intricate ruffles, and sings an acapella line from Danny Boy. Basked in golden lights, he looks ethereal, almost angelic as he begins to sing Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want. His delicate shirt at times falls sheer against his frame as the light softly spins, and his voice, so filled with emotion and sincerity, is beyond beautiful, as Jesse’s guitar weaves magic through the air. It is otherworldly. And then, for one last song, the arena jumps in tempo for Irish Blood, English Heart, and tossing the sheer, exquisite shirt into the grasping hands of the crowd, Morrissey disappears into the night, and out of our sight.
...
Blackpool
“Blackpool is the Vegas of the North!” people tell me prior to my journey, a description I find rather exciting. Still others warn me it’s “not very nice,” but on arriving the evening before the gig, I actually like Blackpool. Some shops are boarded up or perhaps run down, giving a slight ghost town impression, but the blend of quaint English seaside with garish flashing lights and cheapo dated casinos is oddly compelling. Atlantic winds tear wildly, but we manage to snag some vegan tapas at a wine bar filled with eerie circus decor and take in the famed Illuminations before hibernating for the night.
As the sold out concert at the Blackpool Opera House is seated, with no queuing required, we are free to look around town on the day of the gig, and decide to go for a walk along the seafront. Late September sun dazzles, cutting choppy Atlantic waves into sparkling facets, and seagulls sway and lunge adeptly across the blue sky, no doubt on the prowl for stray chippies. We walk down the North Pier, past blinking signs for arcade games and amusements, towards an ornate, gilded out-of-service merry-go-round. The air smells of sticky candy, cigarettes, and sea salt, and there’s something delightfully sinister about the whole scene.
Our front row tickets are on Alain’s side, just beside the speaker, and when we race in to claim our spots, I notice there is no barrier, so we are right against the stage. Our 90 minute wait blazes by, a blur of fan chit-chat and music, and then, the moment arrives, and Morrissey and the band walk on stage: all dressed in dapper dark hued trousers and cool shirts. They’re a stylish gang of handsome devils, and a very energetic crew of well-matched and talented musicians: this group is definitely my favourite band line up I’ve seen. Morrissey wears a dark suit with sparkling buttons, and underneath, an Ena Sharples TV Times tee. Ena scowls out at the audience, hairnet firmly in place, and I later learn that Violet Carson, the actress who portrayed her on Coronation Street, died in Blackpool back in 1983.
 |
| photo by @mischievousnose |
“I smell a show...” Morrissey croons, and the opening notes of How Soon Is Now? soar up to the heights of the venue, as fans cheer and bounce. For now, nothing else matters except that we are here and Morrissey is singing: for my overthinking self, this is when I feel most alive – I’m in the moment and it’s rare, vivacious, and elevating. Tonight, during Our Frank, a fan from front row hands Morrissey a bottle of Dom Perignon: “give us a drink and make it quick” and another tosses a pack of cigarettes up to the stage. He takes a ciggie out and puts it in his mouth, prowling across the stage holding the gleaming bottle of Dom in his hand, and sings the outro, arousing more cheers, giggles, and of course, heart-eyes galore!
Tonight we are treated to the live debut of a track from Bonfire of Teenagers: Kerouac’s Crack. An ode to beat writer Jack Kerouac, Crack has a “tra la la la” 60’s girl group feel with a good percussive edge. Fellow beat writers Burroughs and Ginsberg make appearances in the lyrics, as well as imagery that summons 1950’s New York, including “Coney island” and “sloppy sailors.” It’s a catchy, quick piece featuring a sultry guitar solo, and it makes me feel inspired to explore Kerouac’s work in more detail, as from my University days I’m mostly familiar with Burroughs.
The thick, heady London fog of Jack The Ripper rises against blood red lights, and Morrissey takes his jacket off, swinging it slowly, hypnotizingly to the music. “Crash into my arms” he sings, and opens his arms and we mirror back to him, arms outstretched, singing, spellbound. It’s completely captivating to watch him, as he laughs with his head back, contorting and devilishly passionate. Fans begin trying to rush the stage, and though most attempts are thwarted, some manage a coveted handshake, or even a hug. The encore, Irish Blood, English Heart, grows even more chaotic, and fans rush forward again. Someone from behind me flings themselves upon the stage, but not before somehow pinning my arm against the speaker and booting me in the head. Expect nearly anything in the pit – and I’m fine except for a few bruises, which I’m sure will look very punk rock! More bodies propel on stage, and Morrissey tosses his shirt into the sweaty, grasping, gasping crowd. One fan runs on stage at the last minute, but his approach is too frenzied and he nearly tackles Moz. Luckily, the man is pulled off, and Mozzer jogs towards the depths of backstage.
...
Doncaster
As the train heaves on to Doncaster, I can’t help but bask in some of the great memories this tour has already given me. Between two gorgeous gigs, and catching up with friends, I feel my summertime sadness lifting and am more attuned to the actual moment than the odd tangents of my chattering brain. Morrissey is the soundtrack in my earbuds, and looking out the window I see muscular horses with long manes, flicking their tails in silent rhythm.
Checking into Doncaster, our hotel is quite laughably mediocre, somewhat resembling my friend’s university dormitory circa 2001, which is possibly the last time this hotel may have been renovated. With caulking thick and uneven as chewing gum, a leaking sink, and grime-slick carpets, I barely bat an eyelash, for the important factor is that this hotel is indeed close to the venue – a must for general admission shows!
We queue from early morning, joining the small brave crew of overnighters in their sleeping bags. The Doncaster Dome is also part leisure centre, and soon we are whisked away from the entrance and told to line up at the side of the building, where it is completely unsheltered. Within hours, thick slate grey clouds swell, heavy with rain, and winds pick up. Umbrellas blow inside out, errant crisp bags flutter and twist mid air, and the resident Doncaster crows huddle in their trees. My boots, which are apparently falling apart, soak rainwater through to my socks. No, it’s not always glamorous, but thankfully as the weather gets worse, we are given wristbands and told we can leave for a few hours.
When we return, the venue lobby has opened, and we line up along the side wall, in queue order. Inside, the Dome has spindly brick pillars and alternating black and light grey floor tiles, making it seem like a giant medieval chessboard. We are all buzzing energy, but luckily the bar is already open and I grab a drink to quell my nerves as we count down, down, down, to doors – and then – through winding corridors, we make our way to the venue floor. “No running!” is always the rule, and somehow over the years I’ve mastered the art of making my torso look like I’m walking whilst my feet race to the barrier. We made it, and nab a great spot on Jesse’s side of the stage.
“What’s a nice boy like me doing singing in a joint like this?” Morrissey sings softly, and then we lift off with How Soon Is Now, to a chorus of Yorkshire cheers. Morrissey wears a dark suit, with the official tour tee underneath, and whips the microphone cord with incredible style, moving with the vigour of a man at least 20 years younger. He exudes youthful spirit and intensity, and the crowd is enraptured, singing back to him, clamouring for a touch of his hand.
Between songs, he signs records, and voices scream “I love yous” to which he replies, “Don’t rush into anything... Please I beg you!” Vauxhall And I’s Have A Go Merchant has the audience singing and clapping, and the song, in 2022, sounds even fresher than on the album in 1994. It’s completely ageless and timeless. Magic.
Before My Hurling Days Are Done, Morrissey shares heartfelt words of condolence for the family of Moors murder victim Keith Bennett, as possible remains had been discovered. Keith was only 12 years old when he was murdered in 1964 by Hindley and Brady: “it appears that they have found the body of Keith Bennett, who as we all know was the boy they couldn’t find who was killed by Hindley and Brady. So I raise a heart to Keith, to his mother Winnie, who will now hopefully rest in peace.”
My Hurling Days Are Done has a soft, lullabilic lilt, and wrenches the heart with its lamentation of time, as time raises us, blossoms us, and then knocks us down with experience, loneliness, and weariness. Morrissey sings with pure emotion, his voice travelling over the landscape of decades, somehow within only five minutes of song. On the setlist, My Hurling Days Are Done is back-to-back with Smiths’ song Half A Person, and I can’t help but wonder if that is because of Half A Person’s lyrics of youth: “sixteen, clumsy, and shy; that’s the story of my life.” As Morrissey once said, “I am still my teenage self,” a quote I relate to very much.
Rowdy sweet and tender ruffians rock the encore, with bodies flying in all directions, attempting to grasp his hand or hug him, for a moment to thank the man who wrote the songs that saved our lives. It is rapturous chaos. And, with the closing notes of Irish Blood, English Heart, under the watchful Wilde eye of Oscar, Morrissey disappears into the Yorkshire night.
to be continued...
*all photos by me unless otherwise noted.
Thank you to @basia_ana for the video clips
No comments:
Post a Comment