November Spawned an Update

 

For someone who tends to work rather slowly, I may have been a little too ambitious thinking I could finish my reviews of the UK tour while simultaneously planning travel details for the US tour over a 3 week time span. That's not to say I haven't been writing: I have a few thousand words written of my rough draft of the next section and many, many notes, so I expect to keep going through my wonderful memories and working on it for publishing one day...  

In the meantime, it’s a VERY exciting time to be a Morrissey fan and we wish to offer our congratulations on the upcoming release of Bonfire of Teenagers on Capital Records!

With much excitement, we look forward to the release of the new album and the upcoming US tour dates!  See you all soon!

UK and Ireland Tour Review: Part 1: Killarney, Blackpool, and Doncaster

 

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 3^rd 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

Review: Viva Moz Vegas and Bonfire of Teenagers

 This review features a special section dedicated to the new, unreleased tracks from Bonfire of Teenagers.

Las Vegas is one of those cities I probably shouldn’t like, but I do. I’ve travelled there about 10 times in my adult life, and 3 of those times were to see Morrissey. There’s something semi-comforting about Las Vegas that, on the surface, grates against my introverted ideals, but on further inspection, it makes perfect sense: it’s easy to disappear into a crowd. It’s great – you can be a complete weirdo, or a loner, and no one would ever notice – or bother you – it’s the opposite of nosy small town nitpickery. If you can’t be alone, be alone with everybody.

Maybe I like that Las Vegas feels quite glamorous too, albeit somewhat trashy at times, but I like a bit of trash with my glamour, and a bit of grime with my glitz. When I was growing up, my grandma spoke about Vegas as if it were the fanciest place on earth: a glittering desert oasis filled with feathery showgirls where you could see the Rat Pack, and more specifically, the man of her dreams, Dean Martin. She never quite accomplished that feat, but in her TV room, she proudly kept a framed photo of Dino, Sammy, and Frank, laughing in a black and white world of fedoras and cocktails.

Fast forward many decades and I am standing on the 25^th floor of Caesar’s Palace, looking out at a sprawling sequined skyline against velvety blackness, on the eve of Morrissey’s 2^nd Las Vegas residency. These shows are promised to showcase songs from Morrissey’s latest album, as of yet unreleased: Bonfire of Teenagers. A heady mix of anticipation and prosecco already has my head spinning for the next night: I can’t wait to see him and wonder how many new songs he will debut!

Walking through the hotel and casino to the venue, faux-Michelangelo sculptures and roman pillars tower over swirling jewelled carpets, and I continually find myself walking in the wrong direction. Sense of space and time are distorted, and it’s virtually impossible to gather what time of day it is, as crowds of people wander in dad shorts, bikinis, tuxedos, and ball gowns. Aspects of the pandemic linger, with hand sanitizer dispensers conveniently located near elevators; a small minority of us still wear masks in the casino, and I observe some be-masked patrons hunched over at slot machines, pulling down their paper surgical masks to take long drags on their cigarettes. Vegas must be one of the last places in North America where one can smoke indoors.

Crimson Viva Moz Vegas screens tower throughout the casino and in front of the venue, and even on the streets, the airport, and on taxi cabs. The one I love is everywhere... and I hungrily snap photos every time I see one. In the promo photo, a circa 2000 Morrissey is wearing yellow tinted sunglasses, and leaning against a slot machine, his hand on his chin. There’s also a shop filled with Mozzer merch adjacent to the venue, with everything from Bona Drag tees, to Vegas tour hoodies, to coffee mugs, to little lapel pins shaped like TV sets animated with the International playboy himself.

This year, with overbearing travel restrictions finally beginning to wane, international playboygirls from all over the world queue up to see Morrissey: some fans have travelled from as far as Australia, as well as fans from Belgium, France, Canada, and the UK. There are many happy reunions, and every gig night, as time ticks down to doors, we are wrist-banded while pre-show jitters and excitement nip our heels, and slot machines purr chaotically in the background.

Running down velvety carpeted aisles through the theatre to the pit, I stop in my tracks and look up, up, up – the stage is confusingly high – much higher than the previous year – and stands a daunting, massive black wall. I snag my spot at the front, but looking ahead, see mostly blackness unless I tilt my head upwards, for there is no barrier. It’s a slightly odd setup, yet somewhat comical, and I overhear many utterances of “what is with this stage?” as more fans arrive.

Pre-show videos always give a fascinating glimpse into Morrissey’s interests and inspirations, and the screen fills with blazing images of The Sex Pistols, The New York Dolls, a very lounge-y come hither Keith Christmas, and the extremely catchy Why Can’t We Be Friends by WAR. Lypsinka begins her howls, and cheers erupt, and then... Morrissey appears. My eyes drink him in, in glimpses, as whenever he moves behind a monitor I have trouble seeing him; I stand on my tiptoes, full of anticipation for what he will bring to us. Life feels alive again, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on earth.

“Viva Las Vengeance!” he shouts, and the band rises into We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful, to energetic chord whips and twists. Morrissey is wearing a dark suit with sparkly buttons and a dark shirt, looking elegant and ultra handsome devil! The 1992 opener from Your Arsenal has the crowd dancing, singing, laughing, and finally living, and limbs stretch above the darkened depths of the pit, reaching for Morrissey with adoration.

On the backdrop, a giant Frank Sinatra appears, decked out in a smashing suit, and as Morrissey twirls the microphone cord, the band launches into Our Frank, a dazzling rarity not played live since... 1991. Cheers explode to the opening notes, as the younger blue-eyed crooner sings and stalks the stage and the older one gazes out, frozen in film and time. “Won’t somebody stop me... from thinking all the time?” Some nights, during the “give me a cigarette” line, Morrissey will grab a cigarette offered from the crowd and tuck it behind his ear, giving him a devilish look, like a 1950’s bad boy: he is entirely mesmerizing and keeps songs that are over 30 years old sounding fresh, with a spirited 5 piece band keeping impeccable time.

The setlists span delicious decades of Morrissey’s impressive catalogue in minutes, jumping from I Am Not A Dog On A Chain’s Knockabout World and a live debut of My Hurling Days Are Done, to Smiths gems like Half A Person, to catchy newest single I Am Veronica, featuring backing vocals by Miley Cyrus. A number of Years of Refusal rarities, not played live in almost a decade also make appearances, including the unrequited longing of Black Cloud, and the life lessons of That’s How People Grow Up. In between songs, Morrissey jokes about the height of the stage, which I’m sure must have also looked quite funny from his view, and refers to hiding in his hotel room in “the city that never naps.” One night, he wears the little owl pin I gave him and squeezes my hand, and every second of my life to get to that moment feels worth it. As Morrissey sings and moves across the stage, fans hand him presents, letters, and reach out to touch him, and one fan passes him a “Moz for President” poster. Despite what any click-bait paper will lie, he is loved, and brings art, song, thoughtfulness, and joy to so many in this often-empty, stressful modern world.

Between shows, 2020’s stressors unfortunately lurk. Covid fears bubble to the surface as a number of fans fall ill, and I realize I am hopeless at dealing with such anxiety in real life, for on social media I have muted everything to do with the pandemic, as I have with many other news topics I just can’t bear to face on a daily basis. Even though we are freshly boosted only 2 months prior, a hotbed of covid hysteria triggers hypochondria, and every hangover twinge or hoarse voice from screaming leads to concern, scrambles to find rapid tests, and mask upgrades to N95s. To top that off, gun anxiety lurks, as there is a reported shooting at a 4^th of July parade in another state. Being Canadian, 4^th of July festivities don’t even register for me, but as we walk out of the hotel for dinner, enormous crowds are gathered with no escape route, and as we try to weave through an impossible sea of people, I notice numerous men in bulletproof vests, hear an explosion, and shriek, soon realizing it is simply fireworks. Regardless, I have problems dealing emotionally, and it is complete culture shock. There is no love in modern life...

However, it is not all doom and gloom between gigs, as there is time to giggle with friends over tour videos and photos, check out the merch shop, drink dates and excursions, and time by the pool. I surprise myself by loving the indulgence of stretching out like a cat in the sun, gazing up at skies nearly as blue as his eyes, as birds skip happily about palms. I sip frosted margaritas and dip my toes in the cool water, and I feel my own sense of self coming back in throes of relaxation. And the new songs dance about my sun-soaked head, and I feel immensely lucky to have seen them live for the first time.

The new songs

Leading up to the Las Vegas residency, there is much anticipation over how many songs Morrissey will debut from Bonfire Of Teenagers. On writing this review, I wanted to focus on my first impressions of these songs and the power they hold. As they are currently unreleased, I feel incredibly fortunate to have been there for their live debut, and truly hope there is a record deal in the near future. Now it is my job to write about them, and I hope I can do them justice, as it is difficult to convey in mere words the full sense of awe such music opens up for the ears, mind, and heart.

Imagine being thrown into the blistering heat of the desert and being struck, full force in the chest, with the most compelling new music you could dream of, unreleased as of yet to the rest of the world...

Bonfire of Teenagers

On opening night, Morrissey walks up to the microphone, and says, “This song is new. It’s about England’s 9/11... yes I heard what you just did under your breath... and as well you might. Obviously in jolly old England, most people won’t talk about it, but I will.” He walks back towards the drum kit, the spotlight following him, as Gustavo begins a soft lullaby-style intro on piano. Morrissey’s voice glides smoothly with gentle, restrained power over the opening lyrics, ending with the heartbreaking image, “oh you should have seen her leave for the arena, On her way she turned and waved and smiled: “Goodbye”... Goodbye.”

“And the silly people sing: “Don’t Look Back in Anger”

And the morons sing and sway” Don’t Look Back in Anger”

I can assure I will look back in anger til the day I die”

Bonfire climaxes to an intense crescendo, and guitars and cymbals swell towards the refrain: “Go easy on the killer...” The repetition conveys a blend of anger and sense of despair at society’s dismissive handling of such an evil act, ending with the return of the quiet minor chord lullaby on piano. I stand in awe, eyes damp, completely unable to record the song on my phone or even snap a photo: it is beyond overwhelming to see such power and emotion conveyed through music, so raw, and so brave.

There is no one else in music who approaches Morrissey. He is a multimedia artist: painting a picture, sculpting a troubled, gut-wrenching journey with his words: Bonfire of Teenagers is a living, breathing musical monument to the loss of innocence, and society’s failings in the face of inconceivable terror and violence. One sees a vivid image the young girl leaving, excited and happy to attend a concert. A concert: one of the few remaining pure, joyous experiences left in this world. Within hours, her heart beats no more, and innocence is shattered, and the lives of her friends and family, and those of other victims of the attack, are changed – horribly - forever. It’s impossible to imagine. And then... at vigils to hear people sing “Don’t Look Back in Anger” sits oddly, for shouldn’t we be angry? From what is this notion borne? Is it not somewhat insulting to the loss of precious life to simply shrug and virtually sweep this attack under the rug? What can be done to prevent such a thing in the future? But questions and natural feelings, such as anger, seem to be frowned upon by today’s society. This is a tribute to the souls who lost their lives, and a response to the public’s limp treatment of this devastation, and I believe if it were my loved ones who were ripped away from this earth, I would feel comforted by Bonfire.

“Go easy on the killer” is repeated, almost as a chant, for this is essentially what we are doing, by saying “don’t look back in anger.” Morrissey’s voice rises with emotion over the refrain, with anger and rawness striking the soul. It is uncomfortable. It disturbs the peace. It is painfully beautiful. I want art to be uncomfortable. I want to be challenged. There is absolutely no way our world can ever be improved or helped if we don’t question things, if we don’t feel free to express our opinions and feelings, and I believe Morrissey is one of the last people to totally, unabashedly stay true to himself and achieve this, and so beautifully and poignantly through art. I am in awe of his courage. It is a complete act of bravery and I love him for it.

Predictably, some people, including Mancunian photographer Kevin Cummins, who actually blocked me on Twitter, expressed faux outrage towards the lyrics. But the likely truth is these people are trapped in a cage of ‘wokeness’, or simply don’t understand the message Morrissey is conveying. For how lost is the world if we aren’t allowed feel rage at the death of innocence? When did we lose our way? As Franz Kafka once wrote, “start with what is right rather than what is acceptable.”

Rebels Without Applause and Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings

Morrissey introduces Rebels Without Applause, saying, “I haven’t been lying to you over recent years when I tell you there is a new album. There really is, and it will be released in your lifetime, so please, don’t die soon.”

Rebels Without Applause has a lighthearted, spirited jangle pop sound, with tastes of Cemetry Gates and some of Morrissey’s early solo catalogue work. It is vibrant and catchy, and the guitar phrases weave magic, playing perfectly off Morrissey’s smooth, dreamy vocals about “the gang” and “bawdy boys of song.” Fans instantly remark how enjoyable the track is, and it leaves the listener with a sweet sense of nostalgia and old friendships: “I loved them all.”

Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings is a gritty pessimistic romp complete with heavy hard rock guitars and biting lyrics. The guitar work contrasts deliciously with that on Rebels, and showcases the impressive stylistic range of Jesse Tobias and Alain Whyte. “Sure enough, the telephone rings who wants my money now?” I adore the structure of the song, and the “Please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now” section is pure Mozzer cynical-yet-humorous brilliance. The guitar solo is wild, unabandoned rock and roll, and Morrissey flicks his microphone cord in time with defiance. I love the song; it’s one to play at full volume, and it hearkens back to the feel of some of the heavier tracks from Years of Refusal and Ringleader of the Tormentors.

I Live in Oblivion

“This passion play, that you call life, when you come to the end, you will be either shoved in a hospice, shoved in a home, or at the mercy of the NHS, which is a fate worse than life, and this song is I Live in Oblivion”

Piano draws us in, and Morrissey sings under the spotlight, his voice filled with beauty and emotion, at times almost ethereal and angelic:

“I apologize, I grew old.

I apologize I grew tired

I apologize I grew old...

And now I live in oblivion

and it suits me very well...

I live in oblivion

and it suits me very well

And the only thing that can kill me is the hospital food

And the only one left to visit me is you”

Lyrics hammer the heart with resigned pain and reflection, and even a touch of black humour. It is a bleak glimpse into the future, and if one makes it to a “ripe old age,” such is the reward. This lament of time and aging is rarely spoken about openly, with unbridled rawness, and the ache of loneliness, resignation, and regret is palpable. Such dark words are sung so beautifully, and musically, it holds an epic beauty similar to Life is A Pigsty, although somewhat more restrained and solemn.

“I knew the best, the worst, the last

I knew them all.

I set the world on fire

And now I’m tired.”

The exhaustion is heart wrenching through reflection: a life lived, now in decay and decline. Yet Morrissey takes something so dark, frightening, and isolating and turns it into the most beautiful poetry. It somehow lets us confront our fate, with complete gut ripping honesty, yet still feel less alone and somehow guided and soothed. I don’t think you’re ever truly alone if you have Morrissey’s music.

The ending, “one more spoonful down the hatch... one two three... there’s a good boy... oh, there’s a good boy” expresses the return to a condescending childlike state that we often, for some unknown, unspoken reason, apply to the elderly. It is at once demeaning and depressing, and decades lived somehow unravel us and travel us to such a fate. Guitars hauntingly close the song, conveying the lonely echo of hospital corridors. I doubt there is a dry eye in the house.

...

On closing night, Morrissey appears for the encore, and it is again goodbye-for-now. Sweet and Tender Hooligan fills the Colosseum, and the pit is jumping and screaming. Morrissey thrashes on the stage with the energy of a man half his age, and exudes youth and vibrance to fill our famished hearts. I long for one last handshake, and try to reach, looking up into Morrissey’s bluest eyes, but it becomes too chaotic, as more and more bodies jump the high wall of the stage. Security guards sprint back and forth, akimbo, trying to manage unruly boys and girls. One final, rather rotund invader roughly tumbles across the stage nearly crashing into Jesse and it is likely no longer safe, as Morrissey is waved off into the darkness. My heart begs for him to come back, but I know he has disappeared into the night, and I whisper a wish that this is the year Bonfire of Teenagers will be released.