Review: Morrissey in Buenos Aires

As the plane descends after 11 airborne hours, the land below appears surreal, a puzzle of earthy greens and clay reds. Flat for miles, with no discernible end, Argentina stretches massively and, from 25,000 feet above, looks nothing like any other place I’ve ever travelled to. With its vast spread of dust and rust, the landscape is reminiscent of scratchy Van Gogh brushstrokes; or, is this visual poetry derived from 29 hours of sleeplessness? Nico, 1988 plays in the corners of my mind; I watched the film in the sky somewhere between icy Toronto and central America, and Christa Paffgen’s low, warbling voice is my landing soundtrack.

While far in distance travelled, my journey itself has not felt long; it never does when you are on your way somewhere you want to go. Returning home is, of course, another story. This is my first time crossing the equator, and again, I have Morrissey to thank for yet another first. It strikes me as odd I am nearly 40 and have never been to the other end of the planet, but then again, some people never even leave their own hometown.

Morrissey in Buenos Aires

We are supposed to have a hired car waiting for us at Ezeiza International Airport, as alarmist posts on internet travel forums warn “taxis are corrupt!” all over South America. However, if one were to follow tips posted on most travel advisories, one would never even leave the safety net of bed. As we finally clear customs, it appears everyone else got the same memo, and there must be at least 3 dozen drivers standing with last name placards. Through a Kafkaesque procession of rickety luggage carts, business dads, screaming babies, and shivering lapdogs, my name is nowhere to be found – taxi it is.

My rudimentary Spanish is put to the test early, as our driver no habla ingles. I feel ashamed of how broken my once far more fluent tongue has become over the passing ... decades (yikes). We race along the highway towards downtown Buenos Aires, and the city’s looming police presence becomes obvious early. Flashing blue lights and bold text “Policia” blaze on white cars parked haphazardly across lush green islands, and bulletproof vests and gun holsters – are everywhere. It is a slight culture shock, and predictably, extra security generally serves to make one feel more insecure. However, nothing seems to be happening and I drink in the scenery.

High rise living complexes line the roads and motorcycles weave in and out of lanes, kicking up balmy late Spring air. The buildings are etched with time’s grime, but look well-loved and lived-in, complete with clothelines sagging with colourful laundry and balconies hosting requisite air conditioners. The cab driver murmurs something in Spanish... it is hard to make out while the radio is playing, or perhaps I am that inept, so I assume he wonders where we are from: “Somos canadienses,” I reply, slightly anxious someone will assume I’m American and bring up the orange president. As we near Palermo, familiar notes hug my ears, and like magic, by chance, The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get comes on the radio. I can’t help but beam a little; South America loves Morrissey.

“I’m going to see the one I love... so please don’t stand in my way.”

Buenos Aires Street Art

Resisting the jet-lag fuelled temptation to crawl into bed for an afternoon nap, I decide to tackle the business of acquiring some Argentinian pesos and my concert tickets. However, it is Saturday and nothing appears to be open. The streets bustle with people speaking singsong Spanish and I catch myself devouring snippets of words and sentences like a guilty eavesdropper, trying to re-familiarize with the language. Tiendas and street stalls pour with bananas, frutas, and colourful beads and mirrored hearts. Stalls sell everything from plastic wrapped computer magazines to prayer candles, and the delicate scent of incense wafts everywhere. People, even in the heart of downtown, are incredibly friendly and helpful. While it is a busy jungle of concrete and bricks, Buenos Aires has no shortage of trees and greenery, unlike many large US cities, which stand entirely grey and manmade. Buildings are painted with roaring jaguars and psychedelic cats, and colour is an integral part of life. On the main street stands a massive billboard of Morrissey, crooning in all-white. Yes, South America loves you.

Billboard in Buenos Aires

Having been unable to obtain a Brazilian visa in time for the Sao Paulo gig on Sunday, our first concert stop is Paraguay, and we fly there Monday evening. The venue is nearer the airport than downtown, and we stay in the lone hotel adjacent to it. I feel anxious about picking up my will call tickets for the concert, as there seems to be absolutely no information about where the tickets can be found on my order printout. I have heard panic-drenched tales of GA shows where people have queued all day long only to discover the box office doesn’t open until doors, and as any seasoned Morrissey concertgoer knows, those extra minutes will absolutely spell disaster for making the barrier.

We traipse over to the venue, beside the football museum, outside of which stands a massive 30 foot tall football. Mostly deserted like the hotel itself, no one seems to be around except a man wearing a black and white uniform, sitting in a hut down the road. Metal gates surround everything... but I really want my tickets, so I shrug and push on one gingerly – is it unlocked?- and it creaks open. Perplexed, I scan the area for the venue entrance, but it seems sterile and signless, with no box office in sight. I’m so concerned with trying to find my tickets that I don’t notice the uniformed officer making his way towards me, scowling with military sternness. Uh-oh.

“Documentos” he demands brusquely, his eyes shielded by mirrored aviators. I fumble for my passport and try, in creaky Spanish, to ask if the box office is open because I would like to pick up some concert tickets. He speaks quickly, and I can feel my bogus veneer of calmness cracking, as he doesn’t seem terrifically thrilled we are opening gates and wandering around on his turf. I understand enough words to piece together that today will not be our day for ticket acquisition, and slink off like a rejected alley cat longing for treats.

Hmmm how on earth am I supposed to get my concert tickets?

Paraguay

An internet search leads us to believe our best chance might be to go to a nearby shopping centre to see if someone there will print them. A taxi ride takes us past orchards, street vendors, and stalls, and we zoom past waving palm trees. Class division is unbridled here, and the mall, with its designer shops and overpriced boutiques stands in gaudy contrast to the weather beaten shacks on the town’s outskirts. The rich must profit and get richer, and the poor must stay poor.

Americanization also haunts everywhere, as noxious KFC fumes steam the air, and gluttonous whopper Murder King posters line the shopping mall’s walls. Ugh. I try to stay focused on task, and luckily find the ticket kiosco and fumble my way through the order – success! Snagging tickets and a bottle of Malbec, we make our way back outside to hail a cab. This particular cab has no back windows, its seat belts are merely dangling ornamental straps, and as I sit on the sun-bleached back seat, I consider my fate of possibly dying in a taxi in Asuncion. I shrug carelessly, but notice the driver pulls his seatbelt on as we accelerate to over 100 km/hr on the blustery highway, as my hair flies into my mouth.

Later that night, while sipping the Malbec, a message from a friend in Mexico appears on my phone. The Spanish stands starkly before my eyes; no translation necessary. Tomorrow’s show in Paraguay is cancelled due to food poisoning. Is Morrissey okay? What is happening? Concern and sadness knife me, erupting through the wine’s fog, and I crumble into tears.

36 hours later...

We land again in Argentina – I’m a bundle of nerves, but thanks to some friends I am nurturing a little thread of hope that Friday’s gig in Buenos Aires will happen. I am, of course, a serial pessimist by nature, but I try to keep focusing on that magical moment Morrissey walks on stage, and that it will happen Friday, rather than the looming black cloud of ending up crying in bed. Distraction is a must when you are an emotionally messy person trying to cling to optimism, so I am pleased to learn of a beautiful cemetery nearby: La Recoleta. I spent many younger years terrified of cemeteries, but now I find them calming for the soul; there is a peacefulness about walking in silence amongst decades-old tombstones and mausoleums, devotions to lives once lived, air one breathed. There is also an undeniable sadness to them, but one thing I’ve learned in my 38 years is that attempts to avoid confronting that emotion only drag one below the surface, further into despondency.

La Recoleta

La Recoleta is an urban cemetery, with very little foliage, stone built on stone. Eva Peron is buried there, and to this day people come in long lines to pay their respects, looping colourful rosaries and flowers through the tomb’s wrought iron facade. Evita helped bring the women’s suffrage to Argentina, and was tirelessly active politically, helping working classes gain rights. One can’t help but consider how vastly different she is from American first lady Melania Trump, and again it seems modern times fall hopelessly backwards. Tragically, Evita died in her early 30’s from cancer, but achieved so much in her short life, it is said she is an everlasting part of Argentinian collective consciousness.

La Recoleta

Towering white stone dazzles against Argentina’s blue skies in the form of delicately weeping angels, and as you walk from tomb to tomb, you can often see within. Some mausoleums seem like afterlife parlours, complete with family portraits, candelabras, and chandeliers; many are in a state of crumbling decay, and cobwebs frame their bars like intricate lace. La Recoleta is like no place I have ever been, and time spent there passes swiftly, to the point of entrancement. Sadly, tourists with selfie sticks occasionally make unwanted appearances, but other live creatures are far more appealing, and I am happy to meet a sunbathing cemetery cat.

The day of the concert arrives, and we are scanned into DirectTV arena’s huge property, which lies somewhat out of town. My overwhelmed heart flits in my chest like a startled bird, and all I can do is picture Morrissey’s blue eyes and hope that in a few hours I will be looking into them. I am happy to meet some new friends in the queue, and beaming-with-energy Argentine fans are decked out ultra cool in black Morrissey t-shirts, while others wear dapper tailored floral shirts in the style of their hero.

Is it real that I am at the barrier, looking up at Germaine Greer’s beads and curls once again? I wrap my elbows around the cool, bruising metal as more and more fans rush into the massive 15,000 capacity arena. The show is sold out, and fans have come from all ends of the earth: the US, Japan, the UK, Belgium, and other South American countries like Chile and Uruguay. Adrenalin isn’t everyone’s best friend: some fall running in to the pit, and fights break out early; it might be a rough one tonight.

Pre show videos and then... curtain drops ... and I wait breathlessly for the little flashlight beam which means Morrissey is coming... my eyes dance and dart through the darkness... and then... he appears, wearing a midnight blue cardigan, dark jeans, and a James Dean tshirt that is cut at the neck into a v. Silver flecks in his hair and colourful chains around his neck catch diamond glimpses of light. In this moment, every mile travelled and second waited feels so, so worth it: my love, I’d do anything for you. Soon, my lovestruck joy is thrown into another turbulent mix, and I am reacquainted with anxiety’s pangs as there seems to be a technical issue, and “will the show go on?” creeps into my consciousness. However, the issue is taken care of, and time regains its flow, and the band launches into the first song of the night, William, It Was Really Nothing.

The crowd cheers, “We love you Morrissey” and Moz takes the hand of a young woman teetering on her friend’s shoulders. Fans build towers with their own bodies to get a better view of the man who wrote the songs that saved their lives. They also undoubtedly want a treasured moment where their idol sees them – a precious acknowledgement of mutual existence. Outpourings of love come from both the verbal and physical, with outstretched arms, “I love yous,” and “marry mes” springing from the crowd. Joy, catharsis, bliss. A rush and a push from behind forces me into the rail, but it is not painful, and strangely offers athletic exhilaration.

“It’s my life to destroy my own way,” Morrissey sings during Alma Matters, flicking the microphone cord with whip-like precision. These words continue to soothe even at this time in life, as my parents continue to judge my very existence. Fans sing along, loudly, and mostly out of key, but warmly with love and excitement. Many hold letters, presents, flags, flowers, and at one point a stuffed animal of some kind tumbles plumply onto the stage from the depths of the crowd.

Moz dedicates I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris to the people of Paris, as the city is currently burning in the midst of riots and protests against Macron’s government. A towering back drop photo displays a masked, yellow vested protester waving the French flag with clouds of heavy black smoke framing the Triumphal arch. Morrissey reaches for our hands, singing, “in the absence of human touch” and I’m again part of a tower of people, as second and third row fans climb towards the stage, on top of one another, filled with dreamlike admiration and unbridled devotion.

The air wavers in my ears as a wall of sound - cheers, chants – welcomes the first notes of How Soon Is Now? Guitars crunch with delicious force, and strobe lights flash. It’s nothing short of pure rapture. Morrissey softly sings My Life Is An Endless Succession Of People Saying Goodbye over the instrumental, his voice haunting and smooth, in near-whisper merging two songs, decades apart, into one. As How Soon Is Now fires into denouement, Morrissey kneels in front of the drumset while the band plays with furious on point passion, and Matt thrashes a giant golden gong. The floor vibrates, part with musical rhythm, and part with excited arena feet. Morrissey, South America luffs you so.

First Of The Gang opens with its strumming guitar chords, and the audience claps in time with the rhythm, cheering as Morrissey croons, “we are the pretty, petty thieves, and you’re standing on our streets...” The lights engulf him like moonlight and rosaries looped around his pants sway enchantingly as he moves. One lucky girl is pulled on stage for a hug and a burst of intensity from rows of people heaves forward once again. If You Don’t Like Me, Then Don’t Look At Me is a strong middle finger to talentless tabloidists incapable of writing anything beyond boring, soulless slander pieces and to the complainer ‘fans’ who never seem to go away. But - right now the arena beams and throbs with supportive love, and there is no better place to be in the world than at a Morrissey show.

Ripper in Buenos Aires

The tempo slows and lights drop, then pour fiery red for Jack The Ripper, and Morrissey ties his cardigan around his waist revealing his toned upper arms. I cannot even still my heart as he toys with his cardigan sleeves whilst singing, each note phrased with emotional force. He stretches his arms, singing “crash into my arms,” and at other times points with passionate, punctuating gesture, “I know you.” Jesse's guitar solo soars as Morrissey falls back into the fog, laugh-singing rhythmically: is he perhaps momentarily transported into Ripper himself? It is mesmerizing madness. 

Then... those chords... so dark, and deep... Life Is A Pigsty. “It’s the same old S.O.S... but with brand new broken fortunes... and once again I turn to you...” Morrissey sings, his voice smooth and strong... and I do turn to his words, his lyrics, his spirit, when times are hard: lifeguard save me from life. Percussive tears drive like raindrops, lights dance, and at times Morrissey holds his hand to his head. I wish there were some way to return the help he has given me in life – and, even in this room full of people climbing over me, pushing into me with urgency - in this moment - I feel completely safe and serene in his presence.

Life Is A Pigsty in Buenos Aires

It is getting near the time to say goodbye, my love, as Everyday Is Like Sunday’s chords stretch and dance in the air; we have reached the encore. Last chance for now limbs clamour for his hands and fans sing along ardently. During the last verse, Morrissey moves the microphone stand over to our side of the stage, and I am again devoured by a sea of bodies, but my eyes won’t leave him even under the hurricane force of countless other humans – when will I see him again? He tears his shirt off, dabs it on his torso, and throws it into the air, and we pounce with catlike dexterity to claim a coveted piece. The battle is rough, sweaty, and semi-savage, and my finger gets twisted into the fabric and nearly snaps. But ... then the reward, a beautiful, slightly damp incense-scented cuff, complete with two little buttons. I hold it close to my heart as I return into the darkness of a warm December night, 11,000 km away from the question mark of home.

"No pisar el cesped"

Review: Morrissey and Starcrawler in San Diego - and a 2018 Tour Fashion Poll

I’ve had Blue Dreamers Eyes stuck in my head for days. Two lines especially stand out and my innermost thoughts are yet again revealed to me with much more clarity through someone else’s words: “I wanna go somewhere, where nobody knows me” and - “I’m scum and I’ve always been scum.” It’s a relief to hear these thoughts outside of my own head ... and I feel less lonely, less confused. I admittedly feel trapped by my daily life right now, and long to escape from the streets of the town where I grew up, and its looming suburban checklist where any divergence from the ‘norm’ simply blacklists one as a “loser.” Meanwhile, I drown in pessimistic snags and insecurity – shouldn’t I have life sorted out by 38? My soul feels 80; my soul feels 18.

Morrissey in San Diego

The strange streets of LA are the perfect place to forget about my hometown. There’s an anonymity to city life that strips away layers of judgment; part of me wants to disappear forever into this concrete jungle. As I walk around Hollywood, I'm enamoured by the glam trash atmosphere of vintage shops pouring with 70’s tassels and corduroys, and the vinyl shops where you can actually buy tangible records. Lingere-clad mannequins pout on street corners and the tinted-out windows of psychics lure you to find out your fate (I’m too afraid to ask). Scum and glitter taint pink-starred sidewalks, and I happen upon blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield’s star and snap a pic. Men wear hot pants and women have beards and all the 'basics' back home evaporate from my memory as every intersection screeches “there is no such thing in life as normal.”

Hollywood

Morrissey albums at Amoeba Music

I’m in Hollywood for the James Corden show, where Morrissey will sing Back On The Chain Gang. Prior to the taping we are sent a detailed dress code, best followed by wearing something black and sophisticated. We wait to be seated by TV staff, and it feels unnerving - like waiting to be selected for a pageant, as seating seems neither random nor based on arrival time. In the same holding area congregates a gaggle of garish extroverts, waiting for the Price Is Right taping; most are dressed in atrocious Christmas sweaters. Clearly, they were given a different memo for dress code.

After Corden, I’m on to San Diego for the last concert of the California tour, and I realize these two weeks have raced by with such brevity that my memory grasps desperately to hang onto every detail, and I feel completely unprepared to say goodbye. The concert, at Copley Symphony Hall, is seated, and I have managed to snag a front row ticket at the last minute. Oddly, seated shows offer a panic dimension all of their own, as venue security can be very strict about the audience remaining in their seats until the moment the band hits the stage, and things can get rather messy. Further, rather than focusing on the queue list or racing to and from your hotel to get ready, for most of the day you are left to your own devices, meaning you might just end up being eaten alive by nervous butterflies until the rush of doors.

Copley Symphony Hall

The Symphony Hall is located directly below our hotel, and we take a few jitter-fueled jaunts past the venue, trying to make sense of where the entrance is, amongst pink marble and gold donor plaques. My hunch is this venue is far more familiar with french horns and orchestras than electric guitars and rock concerts, and I can’t help but wonder if they will be unprepared for a passionate flood of bequiffed Morrissey fans. While trying to find a sense of order externally by scoping such things out, internally I am a churning mess of moods: the inevitable post-tour crash is starting to haunt me. I am already missing Morrissey and my friends before the night even begins, and all I can do is stare at the ticking clock and feel increasingly overcome by the strange mix of emotions tugging at my spirit.

We wait with tense excitement, across four rows at theatre doors. More international playboys have arrived for this final date of the US tour, with Belgium, Mexico, and Texas marking the map. While politely smiling, I slowly wilt and die inside as a lovely elderly usher with fluffy white hair tears my ticket stub, seemingly in slow motion. “It’s a seated gig,” I remind myself – but tranquility is futile as I skip down stage steps and already find a number of people standing against the stage. However, there is a little gap of light where I’m meant to stand, directly in front of my assigned seat – and I am safe. Tonight’s stage is extremely low, hitting waist level for me, and there is no barrier. I rest my elbows on the lacquered wood of the stage, ready to settle in for the evening, but venue security has other plans, as they begin a policing prowl in which they demand we sit down in our assigned seats. Sigh... clearly they aren’t used to Morrissey fans, and I feel in no rush to let go of my coveted spot. Yet again, I’m convinced seated shows pose a unique kind of stress.

San Diego Barrier

Finally, venue staff is successful in ordering us back to our numbered seats like unruly schoolchildren. I perch on the very edge of mine, anticipating a jump back to the stage at any instant. Inside I’m a churning storm of highs and lows, but on the outside I’m a leaping cat ready to pounce. Again, my scattered and tattered heart is no match for this external sense of ‘order’ and structured seating plans feel hopelessly impossible, artificial. But ... before I can succumb to overthinking, opening act Starcrawler takes the stage. Time to pounce.

Starcrawler is the best new rock band I’ve heard in ages, refreshing in a 21^st century where most new acts tend to be reality show rejects. The band members are straight out of high school, and I could easily be their mother, and I find myself momentarily fretting over stage lights highlighting any dowdy crows feet around my eyes. But... I hear a voice...“age shouldn’t affect you, you’re either marvellous or you’re boring, regardless of your age” and Morrissey’s words come to my rescue once again. Phew... and I’m able to redirect my consciousness towards gig excitement. I am forever learning and relearning how to stay in the moment and drag myself out of the murky quicksand of self consciousness.

Starcrawler

The four piece opening band is an LA-based glam punk rebirth, featuring heavy Black Sabbathesque walls of layered guitars fused with Ramones-quick tunes. Frontwoman Arrow De Wilde slinks on stage, seemingly barely alive while simultaneously being far too alive all at once, in moments creeping insect-like and barely moving, and in others shuddering in spasmic bursts of energy. An ectomorphic blonde, she wears what looks like a rhinestone jock strap and crawls on all fours, periodically spitting on the audience. During one song she chokes herself with the microphone cord as her eyes fully roll into the back of her head.

Their songs are high-speed and intensity and they play loud, as the guitarist, decked out in vintage clothes, Chuck Berry duckwalks along the edge of the stage, the soles of his shoes barely missing our faces. Their set list includes I Love LA, a love anthem for the sprawling city of misfits, and criminally vulgar raunch-fest Pussy Tower, the topic of which begs no further explanation. Another highlight is Chicken Woman, a horror-show bass driven crawl during which Arrow shakingly draws a bloodied cross on her forehead, apparently possessed by some demonic force the rest of us can’t see. The set ends as abruptly as it began, with Arrow diving headfirst into the crowd, leaving people wondering if she is “okay.” Brilliant.

Morrissey’s pre-show videos start up, and venue security begins a second assault, demanding we must sit back down, although naturally we just can’t hear them. The guards strobe flashlights into our eyes, and ignoring them becomes an act of pure will. It feels as though Lypsinka will never arrive... but then... like a miracle... she does...

Curtains drop and crumple, and now... now... I’m carrying my pounding heart in my hand. Out walks Morrissey and the band, which is donning smart black button-up shirts, suspenders, and grey trousers. My love drunk eyes drink in Morrissey, who wears a dark blue cardigan accented with pins, a cut up merch tee, and a rosary of white skull beads. This new cardigan and cut-tshirt combo is very handsome devil!

The band launches into William It Was Really Nothing, and my mess of moods melts into pure in-the-moment bliss. I want to feel like this forever: I like it here can I stay? Morrissey is timeless and ageless as he thrashes the microphone cord around the stage, his even-bluer-in-person eyes surveying the crowd. His voice fills the symphony hall, from pillared walls to gilded ceiling, and every inch of atmosphere transcends supposed reality into someplace otherworldly.

“I left the north, I travelled south,” sings Morrissey, and I remember my own journey from Canada to Southern California, two weeks earlier. I’m torn between wanting to take snapshots with my phone, and snapshots with my memory... and I realize either way, I will be living off of memories for a while after this last date of the US tour. To me, it seems strange I only discovered him 4 years ago, as I feel he has always been with me in a sense, a lifeline, anchored in my heart, and such a solid part of my foundation. In between songs I want to shout “I love you,” but only little shrieks slip through my lips, and while he is in front of me I long to jump on stage to hug him, yet my feet feel welded with shyness to the symphony floor. I don’t know why I am so shy, or trapped inside my own self consciousness in such moments, because my heart beats fierce, flooding love and gratitude through my veins. I feel overcome, and wish I had a way to convey such love to him, to thank him for all he’s done for me.

Next up on the set list is Hairdresser On Fire... “can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary and psychologically save me... I’ve got faith in you...” Fitting – as I am in dire need of such salvation myself. We sing along, and Moz playfully tugs at his cardigan, leading to excited squeals. At the end of If You Don't Like Me, Don't Look At Me, he adds a cheeky "so don't get your knickers in a twist"... and - as any Morrissey fan knows, one of the coolest things about live shows is the lyric switches. We reach towards him, a stretching sea of lovestruck limbs, as he flips the microphone cord to the rhythm of How Soon As Now? and strobe lights dazzle in time with guitar riffs. Before singing newest single Back On The Chain Gang, Morrissey brings out a 7-inch record, its cover emblazoned with feminist icon Germaine Greer, and playfully teases us with it, dangling the new release over our heads, and like kittens we reach up, til he passes it as a gift to one very lucky devoted fan.

Jesse Tobias in San Diego

Jack The Ripper’s smoke machines evoke London fog in 19^th century knife-plunging back alleys, and no matter how many times you see it live, such mystique inspires awe. As the fog erupts towards the audience in volcanic billowing clouds, Morrissey disappears, snaking into the floor of the stage with the agility of a dancer. When he re-emerges, his quiffed sihlouette stands in semi-mist, and he stretches his arms towards us, contorting, and wrapping his cardigan around the microphone, his waist, at times over his shoulders. “Crash into my arms...”

Jack The Ripper in San Diego

We are blanketed by semi-darkness as Morrissey and the band disappear backstage, and wait in thunderous anticipation, begging for their return with all the voice and applause we have in us. Encore-time is approaching, always tinged with the sadness and desperation of goodbye-for-now. On his return, Morrissey addresses the crowd, dedicating the next song to “our friends in Thousand Oaks.” The Southern California city had been through multiple tragedies over the last week, including a shooting that killed 12 people. Even with over 300 mass shootings throughout the past calendar year, many Americans claim gun ownership is a ‘right,’ blaming everything and everyone except the guns themselves for this unending rampage of senseless violence. In the same week, wildfires ravaged the Thousand Oaks area, undoubtedly afflicting numerous innocent non-human animals as well. Simply put, the increasing frequency of fires is undoubtedly linked to climate change. As we see a planet engulfed in despair, with many humans are unwilling to change behaviours based on greed and arrogance, it’s undeniable that we are the most destructive species this planet has seen.

Photo by @basia_ana

Morrissey stands before us as dark, accented piano notes fill the room – so melancholic, cathartic. Then, awe strikes, as I realize which song he is about to sing... “It’s the same old S.O.S....” he begins, and my heart clamours against the cagey walls of my chest like a startled bird... Life Is A Pigsty ... I have longed to hear this song live since I started following the Morrissey tour in 2015. My eyes tear, yet I am too entranced to fully cry – and my senses hungrily grasp onto every surreal moment of being here, in person, to see him sing the song that made me sob the first time I heard it on Ringleader Of The Tormentors, because it so completely reflected my own feelings. Pigsty has guided me through the darkest moments of my life, so many of which piled on through my 30’s: the unmoving depths of depressive episodes, the loss of my cat, the decay of relationships - and during all that pain, I felt as though Morrissey was there holding my hand, because he understood. And somehow, I could find my way out of the fog, because it was okay to admit life is a pigsty, and I didn’t owe it to other people to lie that I felt differently, because many times in life it is more painful and certainly more exhausting to feign happiness than it is to say: “Life is a pigsty... and if you don’t know this, then what do you know?” This in itself was freeing, life changing ... everything.

"Can you please stop time, can you stop the pain?"

“Every second of my life, I only live for you...” And... Morrissey tears off his tshirt, throwing it into the crowd... and disappears backstage... while I ache for more... and my memory longs to engrave each thread of this night, somehow defying the impossible and making every experienced moment tangible, accessible, forever.

And for one more song, Morrissey returns, this time in a button up shirt patterned with tiny flowers. Everyday Is Like Sunday’s opening notes sound, and the rest is a blur, as bodies tumble and rush over the stage, reaching for contact: handshakes, hugs. Will I try to hug him tonight? My heart pulsates, racing... and yet... shyness... and in split seconds I am stampeded by a fury of feet, and am pinned to the stage by another lunging, frenzied wave of bodies.  But not tonight, my love... and he is whisked away backstage... before I have a chance to say goodbye.

... and a 2018 California Tour Fashion Poll:

Now, before I start packing and preparing for a week in South America, I have some other extremely important business to attend to. With a new tour, setlists, and pre-show videos, comes new fashion. Before every tour, I’m excited to see what Morrissey will wear on stage, and he has certainly brought some dazzling and dashing looks so far this year. I decided to embark on yet another ultra-scientific run of Instagram polls, to see what your favourite look was in California. Here are the results:

For Round 1, we had

Patterned Shirt vs. Cut Tshirt

Tshirt pic by @basia_ana

and

Brown Jacket vs. Cardigan

Results were:

With a total of 74 votes, 37% were for Patterned Shirt, and 63% for Cut tshirt, with the tshirt being the clear winner.

The other poll was a true edge of your seat nail-biter: with a total of 86 votes – 48% were for brown jacket – and 52% for cardigan.

On to the final round...

Cardigan and Cut tshirt Battle

Over a total of 77 votes, cardigan won with 56%, and tshirt was pretty close behind, with 44% of the votes. There was, however, an absentee write-in vote for cut shirt, which changed the final result to 55% for cardigan and 45% cut tshirt. Such fashion drama!

Luckily, we can have both, as Morrissey often pairs the cardis with the cut tees. This has to be my favourite fashion combo of all time.




Places to visit in Ventura, LA, and San Diego:

Ventura:
Ventiki Tiki Bar

LA:
Donut Friend (vegan donuts)
Crumbs & Whiskers (cat rescue and cafe)
The Cat & Fiddle
Amoeba Music

San  Diego:
Soulshine (vegan restaurant)
Sushi2 (good vegan options)
Donut Bar (good vegan options)

Ultimate snuggle person, Kitty Purry
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Review: A Morrissey Adventure in Ventura

The rain has come full circle and I’m back where I was three weeks ago, sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by metallic churns and the rumble of conversations I don’t want to be involved with. Now the trees have thrown down their leaves and only their gnarled arthritic branches claw towards damp November skies. I’m wondering why time is even measured evenly because it stops and winds and rushes and slows to an unmoving halt, always based on feeling. I thought for a moment I might have writer’s block, because I’ve been undeniably moody these days, but within me so many memories exist and I want to capture them, at least for myself... my pencil is coursing its own way.

Was it really so long ago I was leaving for California to see Morrissey?

Morrissey in Ventura

Raindrops hit the plane’s pitted portholes, but soon I will be able to throw myself into sunshine. In Canada, August’s sunbathing lizards have long since hibernated, and I forget how it feels to have warmth on my skin. I want to say goodbye to sadness for a while, and so much of sadness is steeped in environment. At home, streets hold no adventure as grey concrete seeps into greyer skies, and bad times from the past haunt childhood buildings. The morning’s taxi ride is still fresh, and as I heaved my nearly-overweight case into the trunk, I felt relieved to leave obnoxious neighbours and mundane scenes behind.

No more entitled landlords...

“No bus, no boss,

No rain.”

A jigsaw puzzle of LAX gridlocked traffic awaits us as we pick up a friend flying in from New York. Welcome to LA. Years Of Refusal’s never-giving-in chords burst as best as they can through rental car stock speakers as Morrissey’s smooth voice balms any sense of jetlag or stoplight angst. The highway’s pits and crumbles even feel magical as we drive on towards Ventura, because this is the road that takes us to Morrissey.

Ventura is a small surfer town, a throwback to early 1960’s tanned Americana, with pastel huts, motels, and kitschy shops selling seashells and mermaids. Relative to LA, the streets are demure and laid back, and gangly palm trees sway overhead. We take a walk to the beach, which stretches endlessly, with crashing waves still warm enough to walk through even in late October. Frolicking beach squirrels tan on rocks, occasionally looking at us inquisitively, and birds skip along the seafoam.

Beach animal friends

In the evening, we walk down the street near the venue, and sound slowly fills the waiting air: our ears devour, first with surprise, swelling into full-on excitement. Familiar chords, and then... we know that voice... His phrasing pours smooth and touches our ears like longed-for blessings. Morrissey is here. Already.

Later, my friend and I collapse in tears and giggles at the hotel parking lot. After a rough summer, for this moment, life feels too good to be true.

“In my heart I begged take me with you...”

However, important business is about to begin. As anyone who attends gigs in Southern California knows, queuing can begin as early as the afternoon before the concert. We come prepared, althought slightly wilted by Tiki bar hangovers, with sleeping bags, foam mattresses, and hotel pillows stealthily whisked away in shopping bags. Having never been an outdoorsy girl, I will only sleep on the ground amongst cigarette butts and shoe grime for one person: Morrissey. My spot for the night is at least sheltered, under a glamour glare of lights forming the theatre entrance, directly under the iconic watchful eye of a James Dean poster advertising the next night’s gig. My anticipation thrusts itself onto another level... sleep seems unlikely.

Midnight and beyond drags slowly as a nearby club pumps out 80’s club hits, complete with drunken chorus attempts of Take On Me. I nearly doze until I’m interrupted by a long-haired man wrapped in tinfoil who seems to want to make friends with us. So-Cal at night certainly isn’t boring.

In the morning, I curl up with a coffee and continue working on a letter for Morrissey. A bunch of us are writing letters, and in moments the queue is silent except for pencil scratches and contemplative sighs. Part of me wants to write him an entire account of my summer, including cemetery visits, a nice duck I met in Munich, and a trip to Prague, but I feel going over 5 pages would be a bit overwhelming. I’m confused by the contrast of my own shyness in front of him in person, with my relative boldness in writing, where I feel so much freer to express myself. When he stands before me I melt into a wide-eyed puddle, admittedly longing for some sense of approval from him. Writing feels safer, yet my heart is still in my hand. I scold myself at times for being too insecure to jump on stage for a hug or for being too shy to bring a pen for him to sign my arm, and currently the best I can do is summon up all the love I’m feeling and gaze at him.

Shyness is nice... but shyness can stop you...

Later in the afternoon, we assemble at the hotel to dress up in Halloween costumes. While clipping glittery black spiders in my hair I feel the giddy flutter of butterflies. Costume bits are flung over beds and counters and we rush to get ready and return to the queue. An odd team of spider-lady, boxer, and fox, I paint whiskers and a little black nose on my foxy friend as we perch on the pavement across the street from the venue. Suddenly: a commotion, as a car pulls up at stage doors. It begins with cheering, clapping, and a rush of youthful and middle-aged limbs alike, waving sharpies and shouting “Morrissey.” An ever-growing circle of fans accumulates around Moz, as he stands wearing a white shirt and a smart sweater vest, signing arms and autographs. Aviator sunglasses shield his ocean eyes and his silver hair sparkles under late afternoon sunlight. He smiles, interacting with his devoted California fanbase and more and more people rush forward. Across the street, the three of us stand watching, a mix of longing and trepidation, loving him from afar... but already realizing it is too late to run over; we feel strangely frozen to the pavement. I’ve spent so many days and nights imagining meeting him – what would I say? Where would we be? Yet cannot get my feet to do what my imagination wants and walk over there – is it that I want my first meeting with him to be more organic? More random? Have I missed my only chance? The questions hang in the air as he is whisked backstage.

Shyness is nice... but shyness can stop you...

Photo by mozzerie_dean13

Another friend is making the drive up from the LA area with his teenage son, who is also a Morrissey fan. His first gig was Hollywood Bowl last year, but since then life threw them into difficult times, in the form of a major health battle. Resiliency doesn’t even come close to describing the strength and bravery of these two, and today is a day to get back to enjoying the moment. We meet with Jesse Tobias before the gig, and have a nice chat; he is a down to earth guy and it’s a pleasure to talk with him.

7 p.m. doors are met with chaotic confusion, as venue staff seems entirely unaware that there is a VIP line-up. Women are separated from men for security pat downs, which adds fuel to the fire of nerves: as men usually tend to not carry purses – this can only mean the women’s line will move more slowly. Like finely tuned Olympic athletes, those of us who are more accustomed to GA gigging know every fraction of a second counts, and purses add uneasy weight and waits. Rushing into the theatre is a blur of security wands, ticket scanners, beeps and nervous energy. My feet know where to go, even though the rest of me seems not to, and I follow them blindly down time-worn wooden steps, flinging myself onto the solid embrace of the barrier, front row centre. Miraculously, somehow, I have made it!

Germaine Greer backdrop in Ventura

The Majestic Theatre in Ventura has a fairly short stage, so fewer bodies fit along the rail. Some friends are not so lucky and spill into second and third row. Yet again, we are International Playboys: representing Canada, New York, Scotland, and Mexico, just to name a few far off places. As other fans run in, I am finally able to absorb the beauty of the theatre. Built in 1928, the Majestic’s gilded pillars and shimmering aquamarine tiles harken flapper-era glamour. Like a fancy layer cake, panels of dusty rose and sapphire stretch up to a sky blue ceiling; if I wasn’t so squished in, I’d try to get a better look around. Some say the theatre is haunted, and I wonder if any mischievous spirits will appear or play some tricks.

1-2-3-4 Ramones fly up on the theatre backdrop, with fringe-in-your-eyes NY punk toughness, and anticipation mounts through a series of videos - many vintage black and white, including Edith Piaf and tuxedo clad dancers doing a rather painful-looking series of splits. Then... the curtain drops – has it really been almost 8 months since I’ve seen him? My pulse rolls up to my fingertips and excitement roars through my typically-lethargic veins, rumbling like drag racing motors. I am alive? Yes, I’m alive and Morrissey is about to walk on stage. Months, weeks, days, and hours of waiting dissolve into timelessness as he walks out with the band.

Thank goodness I have the barrier to hang onto, because I may just faint before the concert even begins. Mozzer is looking beyond swoon-worthy tonight in a navy blue cardigan! Am I dreaming? For a moment I truly wonder... My heart skips and bounces with the agility of a spring songbird – and I feel more 18 than 38. Morrissey’s deep blue cardigan is embellished with numerous pins, and I think I can make out Yoko Ono and James Baldwin. Under his dashing cardi, Moz wears his own tour merch, featuring a quiffed purple and pink sugar skull; he looks ultra-cool. The shirt is customized and cut into a deep V that exposes part of his chest, and being a fan of cutting up band tees myself, I adore this look. As Morrissey bows to greet us – this clamorous ocean of Morrisseys tees and Halloweens costumes - we embrace him with So-Cal shouts, squeals, and cheers.

Cardigan goals: Morrissey in Ventura

Tonight’s setlist opens with the whirling guitar chords of William It Was Really Nothing, “the rain falls hard on a humdrum down...” ah yes... the rain – I’d nearly forgotten. And my town has dragged me down too, and this is why I love life on the road, because for once I feel alive. Morrissey energetically flicks the mic chord, to the excitement of the lunging, loving crowd. After a cathartic visit from Alma and I Wish You Lonely, we are met with the busy busy chimes of Hairdresser On Fire, which hasn’t been sung live since Quarry days. We sing along, some of us remarkably out of tune, but oh-so-lovingly – how can anyone fault us? Morrissey’s voice soars boldly over our much less capable ones, seamlessly stretching up to the high notes, and burrowing lusciously into velvety low notes. “I am depressed, but I’m remarkably dressed” he sings, patting the chest and neck of his cardigan – and I am again catapulted into otherworldly cardi-heaven.

Next on the setlist is Refusal’s Something Is Squeezing My Skull, its growling guitars and galloping drums pummel against the Majestic’s walls. “I know by now you think I should have straightened myself out, thank you, drop dead” is a lyric that has been a continual lifeline for me, as I find myself strapped onto the oft-misunderstood emotional roller coaster ride of mental health that no one really wants to be on. From the outside, perhaps answers seem simple, but when you are living the moods: the lows, the self loathing, the isolation – well, sometimes even getting out of bed is a feat. Part of modern life’s strife is its soullessness, and while others are quick to give advice, they are simply not living in our shoes. As the song tumbles into a chaos of pharmaceutical clutches, fierce rhythms and vocals salvage our numbed-out spirits punctuated by pleas of “don’t give me any more...” We sing along with mutual understanding and the energy makes life suddenly feel much less lonely.

After Spanish-guitar laced beauties First Of The Gang To Die and cheeky-devil When You Open Your Legs, Sunny makes an appearance for the first time this century (last played in 1999), followed by Smiths number Is It Really So Strange? Rarities continue with a live debut of Dial-A-Cliche, which is beyond moving. Dial-A-Cliche explores the pain and confusion of being ordered to hide one’s true self due to socially constructed definitions of what it is “to be.” Parents, society, and other forces tell us we must become what we are not in order to ‘fit in’ and conform to some predetermined formula of male, female, or any other identity that might be imposed upon us... “but the person underneath Where does he go?” How many of us force our true selves into hiding, or even worse, death, to fit into a mold or life we never even asked for? Morrissey’s voice nurtures deep emotion through this personal struggle as he sings, and when he changes the lyrics to “be a cliche...” I get goosebumps and my eyes well. I like to think that it’s not too late to discover your true self, even if you are a little older. For me it took until my 30’s. There is still time.

Setlist: Ventura, October 31^st, 2018 (via Setlist FM)

1. William, It Was Really Nothing

2. Alma Matters

3. I Wish You Lonely

4. Hairdresser On Fire

5. Something Is Squeezing My Skull

6. First Of The Gang To Die

7. When You Open Your Legs

8. Sunny

9. Is It Really So Strange?

10.The Bullfighter Dies

11. Dial-a-Cliche

12. If You Don’t Like Me, Don’t Look At Me

13. Munich Air Disaster 1958

14. Back On The Chain Gang

15. Spent The Day In Bed

16. Hold Onto Your Friends

17. Jack The Ripper

18. Break Up The Family

Encore:

19. Everyday Is Like Sunday

20. How Soon Is Now?

During Hold Onto Your Friends, Morrissey shakes my hand – and it makes me so happy, that time seems to stop. The shared moment is purely beautiful for me, and somehow it goes beyond memory and into eternity. I often hope these best threads of my life are painted or etched somewhere... forever... as vivid as they were when I first experienced them. Right before the encore, another gem from Viva Hate appears, Break Up The Family. “I want to see all my friends tonight.” What could be more fitting? And, as Morrissey tears off his shirt, throws it into the crowd, and disappears into the depths of the night, he leaves our hearts heaving, full, and delicately wounded from being so open; no wonder tour feels like a healing process. There is love in modern life, after all.