Morrissey’s Right, It’s Time
Reflections on my first Morrissey Tour
Preface: I write this in hope I may be a poor man’s Lester Bangs to his Lou Reed and while I have no Cream or Rolling Stone pedestal; I do have this volatile internet which offers a faint hope of these words connecting with the likeminded. That is all.
There is a new era dawning in the world of Morrissey.
I am of the new age. Introduced to his music through my fiancés’ life-long dedication and intrigued to explore after so many of my idols cite him as inspiration.
Since accompanying her to my first show last year in the UK and being blown away, I’ve drank the kool-aid and have dived deep into the lore, life and world of all things Morrissey.
It’s been a blast. The typical gate-kept old-guard of other artists are shamed by the inclusive, warm-welcoming arms of the Morrissey faithful. A few hours queueing at a couple of shows saw me swap names and social handle exchanges. Everyone my age or younger was excited to be part of it; everyone older was excited to see new generations discovering and becoming part of it anew.
12 months in, I’m all in. Life is a Pigsty is now my life’s anthem, yet every show I’ve seen has exposed me to new deep-cut wonders that threaten to replace it, how is there *so* much good music? How is the delivery of said music so good live? Why wasn’t I born sooner? How soon is now? So many questions.
Unlike nearly every modern artist who offers the same boring soft-serve, the more layers I pull back, the more brilliance I find; like the millions of outsider before me who found refuge on this island of sonic poetry, I have found a light and joy in the shared love and pain.
All of this in what appears to be a new era; after long years of typical legal nonsense preventing greatness, Make Up is a Lie is born and riding the wave of release and shows around this time has felt like an incredibly special time to be coming on-board.
What a record. Show me any other artist who can open with a masterpiece, close with a masterpiece and cover everything from dark-synth pop about cathedrals, rock with vocal runs about an 70’s gonzo-journalist, vaudeville west-end numbers about sidewalks and a nursery rhyme in defence of cats, dogs, bats and frogs along the way. I’ll wait.
Naturally, the more I talk, post and enjoy discovering all corners of this world; I am inevitably met with the ghosts of the last decade I’ll assume you all know too well; comments here and criticisms there, baseless and lacking context at every corner it seems.
As a newbie with independent thought; I looked at the whole picture with no bias and see clear as day these culture vultures attempting to create a corpse on which to feast, an all-too-familiar pattern in art that dares to be different than what is easy to sell.
The more I was warned about the “problems”, the more I quickly felt a sense of duty to defend, not because of the decades long love many of you have, but simply because it is cruel, cowardly and the attempt to bash brilliance to sell more mediocrity.
Which only confirms & proves these review interns must have never actually been in the room of one of these shows. I hope the promise of promotions in return for click-baits is a price worth paying to die with your hands tied.
How do they have the nerve to pretend? Do they not know that just a few weeks ago Morrissey lamented the jealous bitches who had tried to oust him to a sold out 02 arena in the most-guilty’s capital?
The irony was not lost on me that night while the 10,000’s screamed every word to both the classics and the just released, that the industry’s biggest pantomime was taking place a couple hundred miles north in Manchester.
“Im here, my god I’m here” Morrissey had said as the opening words a year ago when he sold out that exact massive hometown arena too. All of this on his own terms. With an In-house team. The whole spectacle is a testament to standing firm, staying steadfast and not playing to the gallery.
That’s inspirational. That’s award-worthy, applause-deserving and the least one is owed after sticking to your principles. No regime can buy or sell him. That’s why I’ve been converted.
I’m clearly not alone. One of the most impressive things in all this is that at each and every show, all round the world; the crowds are undefinable.
Not old, nor young, not one demographic or another, or any sort of label for that matter; a true diverse mix of kooks, freaks & lovers; from the barricade devotees who he name-checks and hand-shakes as they attempt to beat the security gauntlets, to generations of families (across the continents that I’ve now trekked to see him) singing in unison to anthems that bring tears and joy to fathers and daughters and all in-between.
Whole new generations are finding Morrissey’s art, all of us bored of bias headlines and artificial rage-baiting, instead, this seems to be a new era; alive, relevant, iconic.
Each show was epic. Hit-songs from before i was born mix a set with new classics that everyone around me knows all the words too. At every show I attended, I heard at least three new songs I’d never heard at the previous; the variety was exciting and the quality unrelenting.
The word-rambles between the songs are the true velvet of each show; something between a beat poem & intrusive thought, they are often prophetic life wisdom, sometimes an over-the-head joke and frequently the odd grumble to clear the throat while he drapes a handkerchief over his head before the pit-scramble to own a torn piece once thrown.
As someone raised on heavy rock and day-dreaming for the rowdy gigs I never got to live as screens and recording full shows had long become the norm before I was old enough to attend any, it was frighteningly refreshing to witness the feral beasts scrapping, screaming and jumping barricades.
Without a doubt you are a crazy bunch. hooray. Finally a scene where people give a shit enough to have fun, go mad and cause every security front-line from London to Milan, to have a last minute emergency meeting with how to deal with you all.
From the teenagers and lifelongs camping out overnight to get proximity and in prime positions to catch shirts of Kerouac, to the new and incredible videos being made by ‘My Life is a Pigsty’ (@mylifeisapigsty on social media), whose deep-diving & exploring all corners of Morrissey’s career is educating a new generation into what is what, why that picture is on the back wall during each song; without a doubt it’s the most valuable online resource for us new and modern fans, her growing presence proof in itself of my point; an educated, intelligent young, diverse voice championing the ultimate outsider at this special time.
This all truly dawned on me when the final show began in Seville. After Morrissey throws his maracas sky-high (does Matt Walker know when to duck? Do they practice such things in rehearsals?) he spits “soon I will be dead” out with ferocious venom; which while I hope is far from true, as I’ve literally just arrived, holds an important point.
He is not here forever. Legends do indeed stop and recognising and celebrating them here, now, all together, is a very special thing to be part of. I’m late to the game and gratefully chasing and cherishing the present because of such facts.
The reality, if you look at all great artists in history, is that NONE of them sit atop the mainstream during their careers.
From the New York Dolls who never broke out the underground, to David Bowie who was bashed on for every album post Ziggy, all the way back to ground zero, Oscar Wilde himself, who was literally imprisoned for his self-expression.
Conformity is a tale as old as time and there’s good cause to bet that Morrissey will only truly be revered and adored en masse when there is no more to come… this seems to be the curse of being more than ordinary and daring to be a real artist, poet and voice.
Of course, like all of his idols before him, commercial success is a poor metric to judge true legacy by; influence is not contained to contemporary album sales and industry-approved award handouts, especially not these days in our fragmented and online new world.
Instead, it’s in the father singing “I Know It’s Over” while holding his daughter, both in tears. It’s in the tattoos immortalised on signed arms. The tens of thousands of those arms in other’s arms across continents in unison. The stories of these nights passed through generations. Shared online through analysis from young artists.
Legacy lives and moves and breathes, war is old and art is young; too true to be recognised in a world of crashing bores.
He is not one. Thank god. For neither am I, and neither you; instead we are the outsiders, with the problematic, irrelevant “has-been” to cherish as he sells out arenas, creates timeless moments and releases stellar new music that somehow, even with the whole industry slamming doors: charts, sells and compares equally to any of his past.
This is because people are showing up. We know who tried to kill him and we will not be silent. I’ve left the station and shall not be returning, I await the next tour, record and more, eager to attend what I can. What a joy. What a privilege.
The past expectation to apologise for your adoration is dead. Long live Morrissey. In a world of safe drab and endless grey, he is one of the few, true lights left and as we all know, so long as he continues to sing and we continue to sing back; that light will never go out.