Morrissey in Dublin: Under Oscar's Gaze

 

“It’s so hot,” I mutter to myself, staring into my suitcase, which hangs open like a mouth dribbling out half-folded clothing. The air conditioner hums in the distance, a soothing wall of white noise, and I wonder if I should bother packing my rain boots; it is July after all, but forecasts suggest imminent showers. I wish I could simply blink and be halfway around the world, like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeanie, and I daydream of skipping airport queues and straight-jacket-tight economy seats. Even better, I would already be there, first seeing Morrissey in Israel, and then in Portsmouth. Lately, I find myself more prone to daydreams and fantasy than at any other point in my life, except childhood. I shake my head, return to the current moment, and pack my rain boots.

Of course, it’s impossible to think clearly: in less than 24 hours, I’ll be on my way, on a flight to Dublin. A half-world away, Dublin was once unknown to me, abstract, only available in photos, but now, thanks to Morrissey, it is a favourite city to visit, with its cobbled alleys and lively Guinness drenched pubs. In spite of my family heritage (maternal grandfather’s side), and my fascination with Oscar Wilde (since high school), it never occurred to me to travel there. Well... not until I found M...

Our overnight flight passes, blurred but never lagging, thanks to complimentary wine, and before it is even announced, I feel the plane gear down, beginning its plummet through layers of cloud, down, tearing, wisping, until smoky greys and whites part and vibrant, lush greens are borne into vision. Glowing like emeralds and velvety as moss, Irish green is like no other, and even hundreds of feet in the air, one almost longs to reach out and grab the land firmly in hand. The plane lowers again, and every moment I’ve waited up until now rushes forward; I am finally hovering over the right continent. Landing gear drops, and we touch ground, steel sparking concrete.

I awake in the hotel the next morning, lazy as a cherished chonky housecat, and reach for my phone, where messages blurt across the screen, my eyes narrow, then widen: “the queue started: get down here if you can.” Timestamp: 8 hours ago. Oh. Great. Anxiety tightens my chest and tears claw at the back of my eyes. Rumours of a short barrier apparently triggered early queuing enthusiasm: “10 people are already here.” In a hopeless haze of jetlagged drunkenness, I grab my umbrella and pull on my rain boots. Cold summer rain hammers the streets, and we race down to the Vicar Street venue to find familiar faces, soaked and huddling under the one available source of shelter: an awning peppered with holes. Riptides of rushing wind blow rain water into sleeping bags and air mattresses, and I immediately feel very much on the wrong side of 40: how on earth am I going to do this? I envision travelling through England for the next 2 weeks with a wet sleeping bag, while I stand shivering, contemplating my options, as my clothes soak through in less than an hour. In a mix of self-preservation and self-disappointment, we decide overnight camping doesn’t seem wise, and tell the remaining brave queuers to cross us off the list: we’ll come back the next morning.

Lying in bed with a slice of vegan pizza and my travel panda, Dandy, listening to the rain tap the hotel windows, I feel like I’ve let myself down, and even worse, I’ve let Morrissey down, but I decide to chance it, have an early night, and hope I can still score a decent spot in the queue the next day. In the morning, we loiter about the venue and are soon bestowed with bright orange wristbands, and shooed away until late afternoon. Back in the hotel room, with no clear idea of my number on the list, I begin getting ready. My hair, which I carefully straightened smoothly for the shows, is now rain knotted and frizzed, and I tie it into a haphazard bun and dress in a dark blue polka dot blouse, black pants, and the now oh-so-essential rain boots.

Reconvening outside Vicar Street, we learn we are numbers 28 and 29 in the queue, just squeaking in the top 30. Rain hammers on and off, and pigeons and seagulls march up the alley with darting eyes, searching for handouts, while drunken middle aged fellas stagger away from afternoon pub sessions with darting legs. I reunite with tour friends from as far away as Australia, Japan, and North America, as well as locals. Every now and then I remind myself, I wouldn’t know these now-familiar faces, or these now-beloved places, if it wasn’t for Morrissey.

Dublin birds

“Beep!” tickets are scanned, the line begins to move, and with a rush and a push it lurches forward. Adrenaline makes me want to run (not allowed) or pass to the front (not very nice), so I wait, shuffling forward in my place, eyes darting like the pigeons’, with my ticket in trembling hand. A voice from somewhere bellows “Go right!,” and we are all herded not into the theatre, but rather into some sort of holding area, with rainbow-painted picnic benches. “Sit down!” another voice booms, my eyes widen and take in other fan’s faces, equally perplexed, like frightened, frustrated schoolchildren. “Sit down or you won’t be allowed into the theatre!” I perch on the edge of a bench, as many raise objections. In all my years of gig-going, I can’t remember ever having to do this. The once-carefully ordered queue is now randomly dispersed around the benches. With a huge and sudden creak, the theatre doors open, and in a chaotic chorus of screams, people frantically race forward. I notice a familiar Japanese fan has been pushed back, and guide her ahead of us, for she had camped overnight; then, in moments, with one final bottleneck lunge, we blindly race into the venue. I grab the nearest spot I can find, and my hand meets the metal barrier. Touch precedes thought, and I then it dawns on me, by some miracle, I have made front row, right near the speakers. My heart pounds with rapturous relief and I gaze towards the stage, which is quite close, and not too high. I blink – and once again, I’m in my favourite place on earth.

And once I’m there, at the barrier, every prior stress dissolves: the airport, the rain, the picnic tables – are no more. Even my ever-gnawing moods and antidepressant fog clear: there is a light. Hopelessness is a thing of the past, at least for now, and I blissfully absorb all I can here, in Dublin, with Morrissey about to appear on stage. I survey the instruments, cords, microphones, objects waiting to ascend to the otherworldly plane where sound meets air and creates magic. The drumhead reads: “live or die, but don’t poison everything,” an Anne Sexton quote.

The lights drop and James Baldwin appears on the backdrop. From the side of the stage, I catch glimpses of movement, and within moments, Morrissey walks across the stage, bowing, as the crowd’s screams dazzle my ears, crackling like fire. Tonight, he wears dark grey trousers, a smart, smooth black sweater, and a large, ornate Oscar Wilde pendant. His hair is styled neatly into a perfect silver quiff, and his eyes flash blue under dark, expressive brows. My heart rushes with love, and I feel a sense of comfort conveyed by his presence, this artist who helps me feel so much less alone in the strangeness of life. It is rare, and beautiful. This is where I’m meant to be.

An eruption of silver lights and sound pulses from floor to sky, as the band opens with How Soon Is Now? Morrissey sings, his voice pure and strong: “I’m the son and the heir, of a shyness that is criminally vulgar,” and some fans push towards the barrier, in an almost magnetic response. Dozens of voices raise from the crowd, “I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does,” and the stifled woes of daily life vanish, as everyone from laddish footie bros to all-in-black goth teens sing along with impassioned defiance. It is completely unifying and electrifying, as only live music can be, and as only meaningful music can be.

How Soon Is Now? keeps evolving and getting better, in my opinion. While always a classic Smiths song, the track has blossomed and evolved into its own, and Morrissey and his band’s current iteration of it is more powerful and fierce, somehow conveying a lifetime of thoughts, feelings, passion. Morrissey growls and contorts, stalking the stage like a black cat, simultaneously wild and emboldened, yet still at heart, a shy outsider. Tonight, he is surrounded by a vibrant new band, exuding equal parts coolness and awe-striking talent. Led by longtime guitarist and co-composer, Jesse Tobias, Morrissey’s band provides textured, dynamic musicality, at times restrained and intricate, at others, all-enveloping and primal. Juan Galeano huddles over his bass, his fingers gliding effortlessly with rolling millipedal fluency, and drummer Brendan Buckley, strikes the glistening gold gong with martial arts precision. Newest band members are Camila Grey and Carmen Vandenberg, and tonight is my very first time seeing them play live: Camila, on keyboards, dressed in all black, plays her solos with warmth and fluidity, marrying the soul of rock piano with classical phrasing, and guitarist Carmen is completely captivating, striking and strumming her guitar with virtuosic ease, often transforming her instrument into a vocal, living being of its own. All 5 musicians are a joy to behold, and have already gelled to create an atmospheric, tight band, brilliant in both its individual parts and as a complete whole.

From L to R: Morrissey, Carmen, Juan, Brendan, Jesse, and Camila

“My first complaint tonight is... do you know, I’ve never been invited on Irish television ever...” Morrissey then slips into an Irish accent, “In me whole life... and all I can say is Thank God!” The venue security guard in front of me, clearly well versed in Irish television, lets out a giant laugh.

Irish Blood, English Heart’s opening notes dance through the air, building to the crescendo, “I’ve been dreaming of a time when...” Morrissey sings, lashing the microphone cord with rhythmic prowess. The Dublin audience bounces in tempo, surveyed by a towering Oscar Wilde on the backdrop, half smiling, all knowing, his hand on his chin. In this complete caress of sound, the outside world with all its ‘proper’ behaviours is entirely forgotten; we scream, reach, and sing, reborn if only for a few hours. Lost souls are suddenly found, and between songs, Morrissey chats with us, imparting wisdom, humour, his observations always enthrall:

“This country, of course, gave the world Oscar Wilde, and no one in history has ever been able to match him, to come near him, to touch him... and if you have a television set, pick up the television set, open the window, throw it out – be free!”

Notre Dame

The venue falls into darkness, illuminated by reds and oranges, as an image of fiery skies framed by black gargoyles and gothic spires fills the backdrop. Paris. Smoke. Fire. “Notre Dame,” Morrissey sings his most recently debuted track from Without Music The World Dies. Notre Dame’s instrumentals boast wah-pedal rich bass-driven late-70s funk rock, while Morrissey’s lyrics are simple yet powerful in their directness, repeated like protest lines, at times employing poetic personification of the cathedral: “Notre dame, we know who tried to kill you.” The repetitive, near-chant of the lyrics overlaying intricate music creates a juxtaposed, layered effect which adds to the power of the piece; such an unexpected, innovative combination works well.

The setlist continues with three vibrant gems from Morrissey’s recent catalogue: Low in High School’s I Wish You Lonely, and currently unreleased, but already beloved Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings, from Bonfire of Teenagers, and Without Music The World Dies’ The Night Pop Dropped. I Wish You Lonely is an audience favourite for many of us: a ravishing avalanche of sound and biting lyrics warning of the perils people – fools – give their lives to, including “romance gone wrong.” Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings combines galloping edgy guitar riffs with pessimistic lyrics dabbed with dark humour: “please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now.” Newest song of the trio, The Night Pop Dropped is a nimble poetic jaunt alive with 70’s funk. Even though Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings and The Night Pop Dropped have not yet been released, the audience sings along, word for word, demonstrating the power of live music, and the truth of what speaks to people, for while record companies cloistered in sterile office buildings hold Bonfire hostage and Morrissey (at the time of writing) is unsigned, these new, unreleased songs have etched themselves within the fans’ consciousness, tattooed everywhere from skin to heart. Surely, if these companies were interested in the desires of actual breathing, thinking people, Bonfire and Without Music The World Dies would already be on turn tables, discs, and streaming across homes, but we live in strange times, where thoughtful, intelligent art is suppressed, and pre-packaged, pre-determined pop stars are thrust upon us by the world’s crashing bores. This begs the question, why are we being pushed down to the lowest common denominator? But likely, the question is in the answer, and we are all expected to blindly and happily lap up whatever is fed to us, for fear we actually might otherwise think for ourselves. Authentic art ultimately suffers in such a state, and for many of us, this injects an even more intense hunger for true music, to see it live in the flesh, sacred and tangible in experience. Still, it feels impossible that such powerful music remains unreleased: when will the world listen?

Ultra-trash-glam New York Dolls, leggy and brash, glower down from the backdrop, as the whirling opening notes of Half a Person grace the air. “Call me morbid, call me pale...” Morrissey sings smoothly, and voices from the audience, some low, and some high, sing back. The rapturous sea of voices grows louder, and Morrissey notices, beginning a dialogue with the audience, their arms outstretched; it’s completely magical, spur-of-the moment joy. Morrissey’s nephew, Sam, filming and watching from the side of the stage, is beaming as well, amused by the perfect poetry of the moment. Luckily, at the time, I have my phone out and also captured the moment on film.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but we really are stuck in a completely clueless world and I’m sure you’ve seen television commercials and television in general and the so-called news and so forth and it is very, very depressing and I can’t release music anymore because I’m an individual and that isn’t allowed. Everybody must be the same: sing the same song, say the same things...”

Welcome to this Knockabout World. And how isolating this world is, but I feel so grateful to have found Morrissey. I hope he feels all the love beaming up to him from the audience. I think of the months leading up to the show and how lucky I feel to be here right now. “You’re okay by me...” he sings, and near the end of the song, moves towards our side of the stage, by the speaker. I prop myself up on the barrier, reaching, and he reaches to me and grasps my fingertips, looking into my eyes. Every minute, hour, day, and month I have waited disappears and my heart swells. Every moment and mile was worth it, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else on earth.

As lights drop, an impassioned storm of cheers beckons Morrissey and the band back for the encore. Morrissey returns, wearing a yellow merch tee, bows, and addresses the crowd, “I hope you can continue to deal with the trauma of being alive, because strange as it may seem, these are still the good old days.” Sweet and Tender Hooligan roars through the venue, charging, driving, and arms and bodies flail in final frenzied attempts to grasp Morrissey’s hand. He tears off the yellow shirt, flinging it to the audience, who are rabidly ready to ravage for a piece of coveted fabric. And he is off stage, and the moments I longed for, and adored, are now a precious blink in time.

"To live is the rarest thing in the world: most people just exist." 

                                                                            - Oscar Wilde

Morrissey in Strasbourg: A Review

Morrissey in Strasbourg
All photos my own

It’s been nearly 24 hours since I left Canada, and I’m at Heathrow waiting to board my 3^rd and final flight to Paris. Somewhat cocooned by the blurred sleeplessness of long haul travel, I have completely lost track of time zones, or even which day of the week it is. Eerie lights glow over Duty-Free bottles: giant-sized Beefeater gin and Christian Dior perfume stacked neatly beside Paddington Bears to trigger come-buy-me impulses, and the Costa across the way bustles with apparently miniature people dragging luggage. Jetlaggy loopiness clearly plays with my perception, which in combination with the artificial airport lighting makes everything feel other-dimensional, and I get that strange, pulling, gut sensation of deja-vu, or maybe that just means this is where I’m meant to be.

Perhaps... because I was meant to come to France for the first time over 3 years sooner. Morrissey was scheduled to play at Salle Pleyel in Paris back in 2020, but then... the world fell apart. I try to push the direct thoughts from my mind, but nearly every time I travel, see a concert, or reunite with a friend from afar, I feel lingering tinges of lockdown era attempting to nip at the edges of my experience. So many things I loved to do, things even tied to my own sanity, so abruptly taken away by global chaos and overbearing politicians with far too much power. Framing many of life’s joys is now a sense of trepidation and fragility: how do we know the world won’t slip through our fingers, once more? However, I am careful to make sure this disquiet doesn’t seep into the brushstrokes of my memories, which are my own, and I feel constantly grateful for every opportunity I get to do the things I love.

And I’m tied to life in the skies and on the road, which may be a side effect of still living on the same island, and virtually in the same town I was born in, way back in the 1980’s. I like moving around, and feel ready to make up for lost time in France. As soon as we board the flight, we are in another country and everything feels decidedly sophisticated: the flight attendants have chignons and impeccably made up faces and I fall into a forgetful stupor when they say “bonjour” and offer fancy-wrapped biscuits. Less than an hour and we’ll be there. Light turbulence rattles the plane down through shredded clouds as we hurtle towards Charles de Gaulle.

I absorb Paris in glimpses. An ongoing joke with many Morrissey fans is how we sightsee; by design, all planning revolves around show travel, gig times, and queuing, and touristing is a mere afterthought. Having never been one for the vast majority of tourist traps, this is fine by me, as I’ve always preferred traipsing side streets and hanging out in cafes to overwhelming attractions and excursions. The venue and our hotel is near the Arc de Triumph, and a rush hour dash enables us to take in the jetting, intricate steel of the Eiffel Tower. Vivacious laughter and cigarette smoke spill from outdoor cafes, and even though so many Parisians seem to smoke, they exude healthfulness rarely seen in North America, where such a habit is considered taboo. We seldom go far, and worker strikes make getting around challenging, and the day we mean to visit Oscar at Pere Lachaise, the cemetery is oddly closed to due “high winds.”

Vegan food is also perplexingly difficult to come by, particularly for a larger city, and even as we are kindly armed with restaurant recommendations from locals, plant-based options are rare, and most of us joke that we are living almost entirely off baguettes. I happily skip towards boulangeries, only to realize I have no idea how to order anything and my tongue flounders and flops over the unfamiliar sounds, with Spanish words preferring to escape. On the pavement outside the venue, we munch the ragged golden crust of still-warm baguettes, remarking in peak North-American cringe: “the baguettes really do taste better here.”

In the midst of protests against the French government, travel plans grow increasingly precarious. Friends begin to fret, and with train services dramatically reduced, cancellations ensue, and every email alert triggers anxiety. Parisian streets embody initial unrest, as garbage piles in alleyways beside hotels, bulging in black bags on cobbled streets, and fashionable Frenchwomen carry their shivering lapdogs over the trash to protect them from the grubbiness. At corner shops, fiery protest photos are plastered across newsstands amongst “I heart Paris” tourist trinkets. This could be my own bias as an observer, but there is something captivating about French resilience: a defiant reluctance to comply with ‘rules.’ For how often are we made to part with so many things because others, usually from positions of authority, tell us we must.

“Bonjour,

Votre train... au depart de LYON a destination de STRASBOURG GARE est supprime en raison d’un movement social interprofessional”

Panic ... we are automatically rebooked onto another train with hopelessly short connections. For clueless North Americans carrying far too much baggage, the task feels impossible. It dawns on me that Europeans drive on the same side of the road as us Canadians... perhaps renting a car is an option? Within minutes of booking, we have a rental car full of passengers: worldwide Morrissey fans representing the UK, Serbia, Germany, and Canada.

Lyon was gorgeous

Basking in the afterglow of a beautiful show in Lyon, we meet outside the hotel the morning of the Strasbourg gig, and after painstakingly puzzling together how to fit so much luggage into a European-sized boot, set off around 9 a.m. in our kindly upgraded Mercedes rental - quel luxe!  Even in morning, the sun blazes, conjuring spring; it is uncharacteristically warm for mid-March, and we zoom down smooth broad highways, reminiscing over the previous night. Hills dotted with grazing fluffy white sheep and long-maned horses speed by, and the green sprawling landscape, home to crumbling once-grand villas, is punctuated by pale gothic steeples, blindingly reflective against the virgin sun. Rest stops beg souvenir snapshots, and we take pics outside our car, decked out in Morrissey gear.

As dusk injects violets and greys into the skies, we line up outside the venue, Salle Erasme. I am buzzing with happy nerves, and by chance, my eyes fix on a friend’s ticket while she speaks to venue security. Strangely ... her ticket number looks very familiar. I shrug it off at first, but an unsettling feeling washes over me, and I take another glance at hers, and then pull my own ticket out of my tiny gig purse for inspection. Oh. No. I realize that I have somehow printed the wrong copy for myself after selling her my spare. I scroll frantically through emails on my phone, trying to find my other order, my hands shaking and eyes searching. There is less than an hour til doors. What do we do? My boyfriend races back to the hotel front desk, asking them to print the correct tickets for us. If my friend hadn’t had her ticket out, and I hadn’t noticed... the thought is far too stressful to ponder upon.

Winds pick up and low rumbles taunt an incoming storm. Relieved, and now with the correct tickets in hand, we huddle by doors. “Caw”... I’d know that voice anywhere... a crow catches my attention, circling in wide loops overhead. “Caw... caw...” more crows fly in, dive bombing and winding in and out behind the black gnarled, skeletal trees surrounding the venue’s entrance. Increasing rumbles and rushing clouds signal the arrival of more crows, swooping and flying in what looks like a carefully choreographed yet chaotic volta. Their chatter echos through the trees; “they’re warning of the storm,” someone comments. Nearly subliminal lightning flashes across the velvet sky, throwing more crows into a frenzy. They caw and careen with drunken elegance, fanning their tails, and this has to be the largest murder I have ever witnessed! As a big corvid nerd, I can no longer contain my excitement, and gleefully run over to film; “they’re here for you Marianne!” a friend exclaims. “I feel like the crows are telling us tonight is going to be extra special,” another adds. Personally, I couldn’t ask for a better opening act.

Crows

Doors open, and we race into the hexagonal theatre to our seats. Darting past rows of velvet-red, I grab my spot, near front row centre. My eyes widen with disbelief as I observe the stage in front of me. Breathe... but I half-giggle in surprised awe: the stage is barely knee high. “Umm... how is this going to work? Won’t everyone rush the stage?” The venue staff warns us we must remain seated. I keep giggling: I’m sure I will wake up from this dream soon. In less than 90 minutes, Morrissey will be singing, virtually eye-level with us. The theatre darkens for pre-show videos, and my eyes survey the audience: still, no one is standing up. I wait. As the New York Dolls fill the backdrop, most fans in the front row stand, and many initially nearly topple over; there is nowhere to hold onto if one is pushed. Suddenly, a lovely, warm calmness seems to take over, and the pushing stops as quickly as it began.

Morrissey and his band: Jesse Tobias, Gustavo Manzur, Alain Whyte, Brendan Buckley, and Juan Galeano emerge from backstage. It feels entirely surreal... already. Cheers and screams of adoration light up the venue, and Morrissey bows. Tonight he wears a black blazer, a dark blue v-neck shirt, a rosary, and dark flared jeans, and leans into the microphone to say “Strasboug, Strasbourg... the sanest days are mad!” Poet Anne Sexton appears on the backdrop, and with the opening notes of Alma Matters, Morrissey tilts his head back, and begins to sing, his beautiful baritone voice imparting everything from divine bliss to cathartic comfort. He moves across the stage, dressed in rich, dark elegant colours, like the dusk sky alive with black birds, flicking the microphone cord in time with the music.

Vigorous rocker I Wish You Lonely is up next: a strikingly defiant piece from 2017’s Low in High School, the song has even more bite live, and it’s fascinating to watch all the ways Morrissey switches up lyrical emphasis and inflections when singing in person. “An earthquake... couldn’t agitate, couldn’t agitate” we sing back to him, hands outstretched and fingers fluttering, with the kind of energy only he can inspire in our group of international playboygirls. “Tombs are full of fools who gave their lives upon command...” and he muses on how so many humans, perhaps in an attempt to find meaning or simply for escapism, inevitably throw their lives away for anything from state and monarchy, to love, to drugs.

What amazes me about the show early on, is the beautiful restraint shown by the audience, for Morrissey fans are known to rush the stage, and for once, with no barrier and such a low stage, it would be extremely easy to do so. However, we seem to have a mutual, silent agreement not to, as we know this may lead to an early end to the show ... and remarkably, we remain at least, on the surface, somewhat unfrenzied, and do not jump up, simply beaming as much love as possible to Moz. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt such mutual warmth and love at a gig, and I still feel I must be dreaming as I look up at his purest blue eyes, so close and magnetic to the soul. I would almost feel self-conscious about how near he is, if the entire experience weren’t so blissful, but I feel completely free and happy, unchained to anything, except the moment.

With a diverse mix of Smiths and solo songs, the set continues, including Bonfire of Teenager’s Sure Enough, The Telephone Rings. Unveiled last year, Telephone is a blazing, pessimistic jaunt: “Please be fair, you must tell the little kids they live in hell now,” and while currently unreleased - we know all the lyrics: from other gigs, by word-of-mouth, and youtube - and sing along with famished ardour. Due to the slightly rounded stage, occasionally my gaze notes familiar faces, aglow in a mix of joy and near-puzzled disbelief at our tremendous fortune to see Morrissey at such an intimate venue, as he moves and sings, at almost eye-level.

Later in the setlist, Morrissey sings an even newer piece, The Night Pop Dropped, which is from his latest album, Without Music The World Dies, recorded only 2 months earlier at La Fabrique Studios in France. Immediately pulling the listener into its groove, The Night Pop Dropped is an electric bass-driven 70’s style funk, with catchy guitar riffs and punchy lyrics. “So sad for me, for us, so sad for the universe” strike as the perfect words to the rhythm, and dance in one’s head for days after, a completely hypnotic hook. The song feels fresh and innovative, while still imparting an undeniably cool 70’s vibe. After a sparkling keyboard solo, Pop ends with the refrain: “the best thing you can do is be yourself”: important, and positive words for a crushing world that often demands otherwise; Morrissey reminds us that authenticity and individuality is the truest path.

Upright bass and maracas hint at beloved rockabilly number The Loop, and Morrissey sways to and fro with vigour as the band hops with twangy guitars and driving percussion. We dance, clap, and snap, until the last notes, when Morrissey flings the turquoise maracas above and beyond the drum set, seemingly into oblivion. “I think it’s fair to say that we all do as well as we can everyday, all the time, we do as well as we can... don’t you think that’s true?... But do you really though? It doesn’t matter if you don’t, we can just be conversational... However, we are in a Knockabout World...” and he sings, grasping our hands, and accepting gifts and letters, while some fans approach for hugs with almost poetic gentleness.

As with The Night Pop Dropped, Without Music The World Dies, the title track of Morrissey's most recently recorded album, is already known and loved by fans, who sing along word for word. Without Music is an uptempo musing on music as lifeblood, featuring galloping guitars and percussion, complete with duelling virtuoso guitar solos between Alain and Jesse. The lyrics are rich with Moz gems relating to individuality and rejection of externally-validated notions of ‘success’: “You don’t need to lead a formatted life,” “You don’t need awards, awards, awards,” and digs at the government, who can’t “even govern themselves” and “24-hour news.” Artists are here to disturb the peace, and to be present for the debut of life-changing, impactful music on some of Morrissey’s most recent tours, has been an incredibly moving experience.

And all too soon, as time passed cannot be grasped, we find ourselves waiting for Moz to return for the encore, yet never wanting the show to end. Cheering, clapping, and chanting “Morrissey-Morrissey-Morrissey”, we continue to overflow with joyous disbelief at this night in Strasbourg. It feels completely otherworldy, like being immersed in a breathing, pulsing work of art, and even after 20 songs, I can't absorb it's all really happened. Morrissey reappears in a Cilla Black tee and bows, “Strasbourg, I love you... Now, as we all disappear into the future, I would like to thank you for listening...” and the opening notes of Suedehead catapult us into blissful energy, reaching, hugging, singing, desperate to somehow crystallize these last moments of the concert.

Afterwards, we nearly collapse in happiness, flushed with half-laughter, and half-tears. As we emerge from what might just be the greatest night of many of our lives, the sky is quiet and the crows have gone to bed.

The Queue Will Queue For You: Morrissey in Hammersmith, March 19th, 2023

A review of Morrissey in Hammersmith, my guest piece on gabfest.co.uk:

https://gabfest.co.uk/2023/03/23/the-queue-will-queue-for-you-morrissey-in-hammersmith-march-19th-2023/