A Review: Morrissey on the East Coast

 

The fans, the people, understand what so many journalists do not

I don’t think stories necessarily have to go in order to make sense. Our minds aren’t really like that: they move from the comfortable mundanity of the current moment’s cup of coffee, to a childhood recollection of walking to school, to the gravity of a tearful memory of saying goodbye, almost simultaneously, in seconds. The older I get, in fact, the worse this phenomenon gets; I’m perhaps more now a decaying library of memories than anything else, and at times it makes me feel as if the pages of my mind may collapse, dust to dust.

So, I want to start after the beginning, and return to the middle of Morrissey’s US tour. I’m in DC, walking along the wharf, and late November sun breathes cool fire and its pale gold rays dance on the water. In 2017, I attended a Morrissey gig at the neighbourhood’s new venue, The Anthem, and today I walk past that same venue, having already received news that this year’s gig won’t be happening. I feel sadness, but I’m trying to put things in perspective, as this year, I’ve already experienced over 20 beautiful gigs. As long as everything is okay, I’m okay.

The Wharf’s docks creak lightly and there’s a slight breeze, but this gentle ambience is invaded by tinny Christmas music, piped in through invisible speakers from who-knows-where, jarring my ears with Do they know it’s Christmas?, an Elton John and Ed Sheeran duet, and other auditory assaults. I don’t like the holidays. At all. And tour is distracting me from this – and again, in yet another way, in my own strange way, I am grateful to Morrissey. And birds.

DC Bird

If I can’t see Morrissey today, I decide I will birdwatch, and I meet many new friends. Mallards slice through the water in pairs, murmuring ducky sounds to one another, and tiny songbirds flutter in and out of gaudy Christmas decor, including a tree made entirely from Jack Daniel’s barrels. They perch and pose, completely synchronized, for a photo, before flickering away. Clumsy gulls totter about comically in pursuit of chips and other handouts, and a row of silent black cormorants sun themselves below the docks, some with wings spread like great Dracula capes. I sit for a moment and a little songbird lands so close, almost on my knee; I wish I had seeds. For once in my life, I don’t feel entirely pessimistic. Something tells me I will see Morrissey in Brooklyn in two nights’ time.

The venue in Brooklyn, King’s Theatre, is exquisite: baroque, gilded, ornate, with little New-York finishing touches of art deco amongst the lobby’s lighting fixtures. The theatre ceiling is perhaps its centrepiece: it reminds me of a gorgeous intricate brooch, somewhat petallike, pregnant with more brooches nestled within. I’m 2^nd row tonight, which is a rarity for me, as I prefer first, but tickets were not exactly easy to get, and I am happy to have a wonderful line of sight to the stage and be standing near friends. Inside, I reconnect with some friends I haven’t seen yet this tour, and also introduce myself to footballer Bernie Slaven, who I recognize from Twitter as also being a big Morrissey fan.

“I lost my voice... in San Francisco...” Morrissey sings, and we are reunited with our dearest love. Thunderous cheers soar, oh yes – he is back, and the band, a powerhouse of vitality: Jesse Tobias, Gustavo Manzur, Alain Whyte, Juan Galeano, and Brendan Buckley, kicks in to an invigorating rendition of We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful. Morrissey is a good looking man about Brooklyn, wearing a tour tee featuring James Dean, a navy blue suit jacket, dark blue jeans, and super cool yellow and black loafers. On his jacket, he wears 3 pins: two that a friend of mine gave him, and the little owl I gave him with my letter in Las Vegas. It is such an honour and means the world: my heart is so happy, and it feels like I’m in the best dream ever.

Morrissey in Brooklyn

My aching 40-something year old body is now light and supple with energy and I bounce to the music, as Morrissey enthralls us with an energetic setlist, including Smiths number Stop Me If You Think That You’ve Heard This One Before, and Kill Uncle’s Our Frank. He moves in time with the music, whipping the microphone cord, a little catlike. We sing along joyously, and in these moments, I do stop thinking, so deeply, so bleakly, because I’m with my favourite artist and my friends. I'm entranced, and awash with familiar unfamiliar happiness.

“A miracle has taken place. As you know, we actually have a new song circulating around the world... and there it will stay no doubt. And here it is.”

The guitar-driven jangle of Rebels Without Applause dances in our ears. I think of excited messages from my UK tour friends when it was released the previous week as a single, and how we all raced over to iTunes to nab it, or Spotify to stream it. A perfect single, it’s a blend of buoyant musicality and wistful lyrics about times gone by, and the audience sings along while David Bowie and David Johanson look down from the backdrop, in all their pattern-laden, decadent 70’s splendour. “Bawdy boys of song and girls all gone wrong – I loved them all.”

“I find that when I’m depressed, I tend to read a lot more. So, as you can gather, I am very well-read. Laughter? Laughter,” and the dark percussive wall of Jim Jim Falls pulses like hammering thunder, as a well coiffed Ezra Pound looks forth from the backdrop. The lyrics juxtapose between blackness – jump-then-jump, and lightness– sing-then-sing, and one can imagine themselves standing at the precipice of the falls. From my own experience, the suicidal mind is so often at battle, drawn to the edge, searching for an end and a means to that end, fighting itself and whatever life-drive that pushes back. I think this song is powerful because it speaks to that ambivalence, and the hope, or life-drive here is music.

You Are The Quarry’s dreamy My Life Is An Endless Succession of People Saying Goodbye draws captive awe from the audience, and rightly so. Succession seems to dance on the edges of the otherworldly, as Morrissey’s voice scales with haunting beauty over the notes, reflecting on loss after loss, and the passing of time. Lights wash gently over the stage and the crowd, almost imparting a surreal sense of being underwater. Everything desirable is behind glass, untouchable, unreachable: “money, jewellery, and flesh,” and the line “at one time the future, it stretched out before me, and now it stretches behind” brings tears to my eyes. “And what’s left for me?” This is a rarity live, and I feel incredibly fortunate to be here to witness it.

“Good times for a change...” Morrissey stands alone under a spotlight, which dances in silvers and whites like the moon. He looks angelic, luminous against the darkness as he sings “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” salving and saving our souls. His voice is gentle yet expresses such depth of emotion, and the guitars weave ethereally, framing his phrases. My heart hurts with love and one thing I find very special about Morrissey gigs is how, especially during slower songs like this, I feel like it’s just him and me, even though I’m surrounded by thousands. There is a dreamlike quality, and I become lost in the blueness of his eyes. Some fans jump up for a hug towards the end of the song, and during the refrain, Morrissey adds “this is life, this is it! This is it! This is life!,” his eyes widening. This is life...

When Morrissey runs backstage, the crowd screams and cheers in anticipation of the encore, begging him to come back: “we luffs you,” and he returns in a dark blue button up shirt. The pit is rumbling, jumping to Sweet and Tender Hooligan, and fans try to leap on stage or reach for handshakes. Morrissey is an artist of the people, and we love him for it. He tears his shirt off and flings it into the crowd, in our direction, and in a chaos of people, I reach into the fight, and feel my hand wrap around some of the dark blue, incense-fragranced fabric. As if by magic, with almost no effort, a long, thin piece tears off into my hand. A thrill shocks me and I hide the damp fabric up my sleeve. At least 3 more of my friends make it out with a piece. Amazing.

...

And... we do it all again the next night in New Jersey. It’s a blur, and the most wonderful blur I could have envisioned.

In New Jersey, Morrissey opens the show with the coolest version of How Soon Is Now ever. The guitars burst forth aggressively with a wall of robust passion, capturing the defiance of the song.  Tonight, Morrissey wears a dark jacket, dark blue jeans, a tour tee cut DIY to expose his handsome neck, and those fabulous yellow shoes again. He even has yellow bandages on his fingers that match the shoes – oh-em-gee: I adore his attention to detail! He thrashes about the stage, bending at the knee, twisting his hips, swatting the microphone cord around. I am immediately drawn into his world, and he changes up the lyrics to How Soon Is Now. I live for little changes like these at gigs: they add to the excitement and make the night feel extra special. In this rendition, Moz sings he is “the scum and heir” Hail Mary full of grace, pays tribute to New Jersey-born Sinatra’s The Lady is a Tramp, puttin’ on the ritz, with copious “shut your mouth”’s, and finishes the number with how happy he is “to be an animal” - the lyrics have been almost completely revised! NJ's How Soon is Now is clever, avant garde, and quite addictive (yes, I'm still humming it this way now) - it's Freestyle Mozzer – and he’s entirely mesmerizing!

“This is art! This, this this, is art!” he exclaims. The crimson walls and boxes of the New Jersey Performing Arts Centre continue to heat up with a blistering rendition of First of The Gang to Die. “You have never been in love...” Morrissey slinks the stage like a feisty alley cat, gifting us with voice and song. The sparkling bracelet on his wrist catches glimmers of light as he moves, his silver quiff impeccable, and his dark eyebrows expressive. Below, we bounce and dance in the pit - the pretty petty pit thieves - and everyday mundaneness has melted away, at least for tonight.

He jokes with the audience in moments between songs: “Now, if you don’t like this next song, I’m afraid I’ll have to poke your eyes out” before Gustavo’s trumpet leads into The Bullfighter Dies, while video clips of bullfighters being gored appear on the backdrop. It is hard to believe such a barbaric ‘sport’ still exists, and again Morrissey gives voice and thought to animals, who have no voice of their own, as humans continue to exploit them in unthinkable ways. This is another reason I love Morrissey, for his devotion to animals. At his concerts, there is often a Peta information table set up in the lobby, and volunteers hand out flyers about veganism. It is my belief that only through saving animals, will we ever be able to save ourselves. It is the purest sign of compassion, and it is clear that the horrific ways humans treat animals is now destroying the planet we share with them.

Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings is yet another stellar track from Bonfire of Teenagers, and I’m smitten with its hard rock driving guitar sound and punchy, cynical lyrics. “Please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now...” is pure Mozzer dark humour, reminiscent of the children’s choir in The Youngest Was The Most Loved. It’s undeniably a testament to how strong and loved these new songs are to see and hear the audience singing along, word for word, and it feels criminal that such a great record has not yet been released, or is under the hold of censorship (at the time of writing).

Little details burrow their way into my memory. On introducing the band, Morrissey refers to them as “The Banana Splits,” which sounds terribly funny to me in the moment, and becomes even funnier when I learn it is a reference to a late 60’s/early 70’s children’s show that features a band dressed up in animal costumes: a dog with a lisp, Fleegle, an ape named Bingo, a lion called Drooper, and an elephant, Snorky. I wonder who is who. In one moment during the concert, the little girl beside me, who is attending with her father, hands Morrissey a present, and he carries it across the stage while singing. Her face beams with joy. In another moment, during Everyday is Like Sunday, Morrissey’s tambourine seems to spontaneously disintegrate in his hand, bits and pieces falling to the stage floor. He looks at it quizzically, and flings it over his shoulder. Clearly, Moz is too hot for the tambourine to handle.

No tambourine malfunction in Brooklyn

The encore is full of “I love you’s,” and many fans rush the stage for a chance to hug Morrissey. A friend of mine makes a particularly elegant invasion, and hugs him gently, with adoration. The little girl, with help from her father, also makes it on stage for a hug, and I’m sure she will cherish this moment for the rest of her life. Morrissey is an artist of the people.

...

The next morning, the train heaves on to Philly, and I gaze out the window at brick buildings, graffiti, and barren winter trees rushing past. I am happiest like this, travelling from gig to gig, city to city, and it feels like home to me, to the strange girl who has always lived on the same island her entire life. Stifling suburbia never really understood me, and I never really understood it, so it wasn’t until my 30’s I really found anything that spoke to me. I also understand how lucky I am to have found this, and I in fact become homesick for tour, whilst at home. I know tonight I want to work on a letter for Morrissey, and I hope I can find the words to express how much this year has meant to me.

I have rented a little apartment near the venue, and I like walking down the chilly December streets of Philly as the late afternoon sun retreats. I never, ever want to go home, but yes, the reality that tour will be ending soon is indeed with me, and brings pangs and pecks of sorrow to bemark my joy. Everything looks quite beautiful, even the cracked bits of pavement, and when I get like this life feels like a poem, and the sensory takes new meaning. That night I sit at the small desk in the apartment, and write my letter to Morrissey.

Who put the M in the Met? The theatre marquee is alight, and inside us regulars gather at the stage, taking in our surroundings. The lower balconies boast gilded “M’s” and from the heights of the ceiling, a massive, sparkling chandelier hangs. One venue security guard informs me the chandelier weighs 2 tonnes, and to my eyes, it looks like a beautiful exploding star, frozen in time. I’m clutching my drink while familiar pre-show music teases my ears, when a fan I don’t recognize shows up and squeezes in beside me to claim her front row spot. She tells me it is her first ever Morrissey show, and apologizes in advance if she screams too much. I reassure her I am very used to screamers.

The MET Philadelphia

The New York Dolls blaze onto the screen, and Lypsinka indicates that Morrissey will soon take the stage. My heart rises to my throat, pounding. Every time feels like the first time, and every time induces emotions I can never quite describe; a nervous excitement bites my fingertips, and there is a complete absence of weight in my body as it’s overcome with bliss.

Screams, cheers, claps, and luff greet Morrissey as he takes the Met stage. It’s entirely exhilarating, that first glimpse. He bows to us, and says, “I dare you, I dare you, I dare you, I dare you” and the band takes off with Your Arsenal’s We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful. It’s incredible how a 30-year old song sounds so fresh, but it truly does, speaking to the timelessness of his music, his own agelessness, and the vivacious, tight band he has behind him. On guitars, Alain is bold with rockabilly energy, and Jesse exudes infinite coolness, and together they make a gifted team of players. The rhythm section is spirited fire and precision, with Juan Galeano on bass, and Brendan Buckley on drums, and mutli-talented Gustavo Manzur is brilliant on keyboards, acoustic guitar, and trumpet – and he even plays the harmonica.

“I come to see you!” Morrissey, says, pointing at the audience, and I think of how he holds our hands, accepts our letters, and actually interacts with us on a human level and what it means to us: quite simply – it means the world. When Morrissey sings I Am Veronica tonight, I am reminded of its debut in Phoenix back in May, watching him with friends who had travelled from afar: the UK, Belgium, beyond... Hearing the live debut of a song is beyond breathtaking, and I feel blessed to have witnessed so many live debuts this year. In Philadelphia, Morrissey stands before a backdrop of noir film icon Veronica Lake, and he sways with the music, his voice phrasing each note enigmatically. It’s hypnotizing to watch him: the rosary swinging against his chest catches snippets of light, and he is almost playful when he sings, “dolphins swim to rescue you, schools of fish will keep your throat afloat, owls bow their learned brow, so slide me into your pocket now...”

“I think we’re all completely well aware now that idiot culture has taken over the world... Idiot culture has taken over politics, sports, and I’d say music, but there is no music industry, there is no music scene now. May it rest in peace, it’s gone, it’s gone. But, if you feel crushed by idiot culture on television commercials... on television commercials, if you feel crushed by idiot culture, please remember, in your aloneness, you are not alone. You are not alone. And one day, maybe in about 1000 years, common sense will return.”

Welcome to this Knockabout World

As the lights fall, I stand in transfixed awe, as the opening notes of I Live in Oblivion fill the theatre. A gentle darkness of notes envelops me, and Morrissey’s voice sings, with beautiful sorrow: “I apologize I grew old, I apologize I grew tired.” I’m torn between wanting to film part of the song, and wanting to be entirely present, but I feel I need to capture it to take with me, and hold my phone down quite low so I can still absorb the stage with my eyes. It’s the first time, I believe, that Morrissey has sung I Live in Oblivion since his Las Vegas residency in the summer. Oblivion is incomparable to any song I have ever heard, and to channel such heartbreak and human vulnerability into art, standing upon the stage, is a complete act of bravery. Part of me wants to embrace Morrissey, somehow console him, and another part of me is with those I have lost after a slow decline. For life at its end can be inconceivably cruel, and this is rarely spoken about: the last days in a hospice or care home, as the spark fades. During the refrain, Morrissey sings “open wide, there’s a good boy... down the hatch... there’s a good boy,” a piercingly poignant observation of how the old and dying are inexplicably treated like children, their dignity shuffled away. The woman beside me, the new fan, is so moved she is sobbing; I have no idea how to console her, or what to say. Her response speaks to the power of Morrissey’s music and lyrics: I Live in Oblivion is so intense and so painfully bleak, it’s almost frightening because it addresses these feelings, these final moments, in a very raw way, without the shroud of toxic positivity imposed on us by society, or popular psychology. Rather, he allows us to feel and express, as this terrible suffering is channeled into a beautiful, rare work of art.

Morrissey rattles a pair of turquoise maracas and Juan dazzles on upright bass for rockabilly beaut The Loop. The intro gets the crowd jumping and clapping with delightfully raucous ecstasy. “I just wanna say, I haven’t been away... I am still right here, where I always was...” Morrissey croons alluringly, and swishes his hips to the beat, left to right, and he’s a vision of rhythm, wearing wide-legged trousers with his shirt open at the chest, maracas flung defiantly high in the air, a few droplets of sweat on his handsome neck. I’m completely heart-eyes! The Loop is an invigorating and intoxicating tune, and one can’t help but want to dance, even within the crowded confines of the pit.

The Loop in Boston

...

I have an early morning flight to Boston with a friend, and maybe snag 4 hours sleep. On the plane, we are a mix of excited giggles, and anticipatory sadness, as tonight will be the last show of the tour. Forget airplane turbulence, because we’re an erratic storm of emotion.  Forever teenagers.  I’m quite sure the man in the seat beside us thinks we are insane, which is probably fairly accurate. In Boston, we stay at a hotel called the Verb, which features rock memorabilia on the walls, Marshall amp fridges, and fuzzy zebra print bathrobes, and I snap photos of Lou Reed’s and Kurt Cobain’s autographs. The rooms even have their own record players, and downstairs in the lobby there is a small vinyl collection to choose from. Alas, I find no Smiths or Morrissey, but snatch up Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black and Lou Reed’s Transformer, which I realize, back in my room, is not in the correct sleeve, and in its place is the Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack.  Sigh.

I take one last walk to the venue in the biting Boston air. There’s a slight iridescence to everything; perhaps because it is cold, or perhaps it is something about the street lights. Lining up, I see familiar faces, and meet another fan who is just 18 and beaming with excited energy. We’re mutuals on Instagram and she has a spectacular collection of Morrissey posters, tees, and records. It’s not unusual to see a wide range of ages at a Morrissey concert: not only the expected Gen-xer’s and older millennials, but also children with their parents, teenagers and college kids, and fans well into their 60’s. His music is ageless and timeless, and he is always creating, so his appeal is not limited to a certain age group.

We file into the theatre, afluster and aflutter, and I feel like a schoolgirl as I hop down row by row to get to the front of the stage. When I arrive at front row, I’m asked to show my ticket again, fumbling, I find it, and as I walk down the long line of chairs, I eye the seat numbers til I see mine, stop, and then turn to face the stage: Morrissey’s microphone stand is almost directly in front of me – centre stage. I knew the ticket was good... but it’s an altogether different feeling when you are there, in person, and you suddenly realize that in a couple of hours, Morrissey will be standing at that microphone, singing right in front of you. I grip my double vodka and cranberry, and swirl my straw, a security blanket to lightly numb my nerves, anything to fiddle with so I don’t dissolve into a mess of tears.

I could try to describe the venue, the other fans, the pre-show videos, how the band walked on stage, but I’m not sure that would be true to my own experience of the concert that night, which can only be described as intense. In a strange emotional mix, I wasn’t only excited, I also felt a sense of dread for the show starting, which may sound odd, but I knew as soon as it started, the clock would begin ticking down, and then tour would be over. When would I see him again? I wasn’t ready for it to end, and as I looked up at Morrissey, with the first notes of Alma Matters rising through the theatre, I started crying.

Alma Matters in Boston

Can you please stop time? I’m not ready to return to “normal life,” whatever that is, where I feel unseen and unheard and out of place and weird and lonely. He stands in front of me, flicking the mic cord with his own unique elegance ... “so the choice I have made, may seem strange to you...” we’re all singing along – outstretched arms, and he sings back to us. Massachusetts-born poet Anne Sexton surveys us from the backdrop, reclining with an ashy cigarette between her fingers, her dress swirling late 60’s fashion, her eyes knowing-ful, almost looking somewhere beyond. Morrissey introduced me to her poetry; his influences, particularly writers, have made a major impact on my life as well, and everything is a piece I cling to, partly out of fascination, and partly as I untangle more elements of my true self. “Anne is with us! Anne is with us,” he adds at the end of Alma.

Morrissey wears a dark jacket with a “Defend Truth” badge, a dark shirt, and dark blue wide-legged jeans. The stage lights frame him, almost like a halo, from where I stand. I try to snap a few photos, but I’m overwhelmed and doubt they will turn out: I am shaky, and trying to absorb the moment as completely as possible, feeling the intermittent dampness of tears on my cheeks. Yet meanwhile, a distant film is playing in the back of my head: from my first glimpse of Morrissey back in May after a long winter, to the intensity of Bonfire of Teenagers’ and I Live in Oblivion’s debuts in Las Vegas, to driving through the UK on a winding road trip with friends in the fall. Every moment I’ve lived and loved this year comes flooding back: each handshake, each flight leg, train, and mile crossed, and it feels surreal. I beg inwardly again to some invisible spirit: can you please stop time? But the songs slip through my fingers, note by note, and the minutes ticking down seem faster than usual.

Our Frank – Morrissey deftly catches a cigarette thrown mid-air from an audience member. Early on in the gig, the setlist journeys between a lot of older solo and Smiths songs, like Girlfriend in a Coma and We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful to his most recent work from I Am Not a Dog on a Chain and Bonfire of Teenagers, like Knockabout World and Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings. Fans pass him handwritten letters, and he walks to the far edges of the stage to an outpouring of outstretched arms, grasping uncountable hands. He truly is an artist of the people.

“You were made to be prayed to, for you are a Saint in a stained glass window...” Morrissey sings the latest-revealed track from Bonfire of Teenagers, bathed under blue light, as jewel-toned stained glass window imagery covers the backdrop, reflecting in lacy mosaics on the stage floor. His voice opens with soft thoughtfulness, while weeping slide guitar and faint percussion gently frame his phrases. “You weren’t corrupted, you tell the truth and you face being butchered,” his voice slowly rises with intensity, “I’ve had such a hard time, I’ve been waiting my turn, since the wretched day I was born” and sorrow swells palpably, like a wave. Saint captures the anguish of a person who can’t be bought and is true to themselves in a world that punishes these qualities and attacks the outsider, the independent thinker, the one who speaks up. The lyrics ache with loneliness: “you’ll never find my trace on lover’s lips.” It feels deeply personal: a struggle between the exhaustion of living one’s truth, the self, and trying to somehow find solace in religion during one’s darkest moments. The tired soul searches, in some breaths with desperation, and in others, resignation, for rest or relief, or an end to suffering. Emotion, both in Morrissey’s voice and the music, builds throughout the song, and as he sings “give me rest, give me rest, give me rest...” it is completely wounding, and again I wish I could hug him, or make this spirit crushing world somehow be okay. An immediate masterpiece, Saint in a Stained Glass Window is one of the most beautiful, soul-wrenching songs I have ever heard.

Lights burst into volcanic reds and fog swells into the air, as Jack The Ripper’s opening notes soar to the sky. Morrissey contorts, pulling his jacket over his head, and we are transported to Ripper’s knife-plunging London alleys, perilously dark. “Crash into my arms...” we sing back to Morrissey, our arms outstretched as he moves towards us, drawing us in. "Come to me..."  It is spellbinding. But oh, my head, I know this is likely the last song before the encore... can you please stop time? I feel tears building again, but suddenly a shorter woman appears behind me and drapes her arms around me, and I can’t help but find this development a tad amusing. She embraces me for the latter half of the song. It feels like the entire pit is swaying, seasick yet still docked, a rapture of energy emerging from a sea of people.

“We would like to thank our beloved crew for this tour. I would like to thank you for allowing me to sing, it saved my life, and I’m grateful, I’m very grateful, but I’m saying goodbye to you now, and I might not see you for a long time, but thank you for everything, and thank you for everything you’ve done for me, which is enormous. I’m very grateful. I wish you never lonely, never lonely, shalom.”

I feel I’ve dropped 100 feet into the floor. Will it be a long time? My head and heart can’t process the words, and Sweet and Tender Hooligan’s notes are already pulsating through the venue. “I need to hold his hand once more...” I try to prop myself up on the barrier, and curse my lack of upper body strength “I could almost jump on stage for a hug?” The pit of my stomach tightens with anxiety and longing and I attempt to balance myself upwards again, and out of my peripheral vision I know venue security is between me and the barrier, and that other fans are trying too. I need more time and more strength – can you please stop time? It is almost like gasping or grasping for oxygen. Morrissey sings, walking to the other side of the stage, then he is back in centre. The song is short: I know time is drawing in. The metal barrier crushes into my ribs as I attempt to lean forward, for one last shot at a handshake. I try to reach up, and then the venue security guard pulls my arm down and my heart sinks. Not tonight, my love. The end of the song is a blur: tears and limbs. And then, as quickly as he appeared in front of me, Morrissey turns towards backstage, his cheekbone catching a glint of light, and he disappears into the chilled Boston night.

<3