Vomit alert: I’ve got lots to say. You’ve been warned.
I was super-geeked when I got my tix to see Iggy and Moz, but strangely, once I scored my tix, my enthusiasm waned with the passing days. Chief among the reasons, only months before, I’d seen Morrissey for his birthday show, easily one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen. Moz, the band, the audience; We were all on fire that night. The downside is that I’d placed that birthday show on such a lofty pedestal that any other Moz show thereafter, in all likelihood, would be doomed for failure. Yes, I’m sure many of us have felt similar apprehensions, but for one reason or another, I just couldn’t shake off this feeling.
Another big reason for my waning interest was that, while I genuinely appreciated the eclectic setlist, the setlist hadn’t materially changed in the two previous rounds through So.Cal. So surely, Morrissey would offer significant variations this third time around, yes? Umm...no. The setlists from the East coast swing this past autumn and winter warned me as much. So I could expect yet another round of “fatty”, “paris”, “let me kiss you”, “meat is murder”, et al., in a span of just a few months. (Yes, cry me a river, goddamn it.) Consequently, when news broke of the postponements, and ticketmaster offered us a grace period in which we could receive a refund as an option, I accepted. Alas, no Morrissey this go-around...
Or so I thought. Morrissey obviously couldn’t countenance the thought of me, lil ol’ me, sitting by the wayside while he would otherwise pass through the night. And so he took it upon himself to add a show. Just for me, you see. I know so because he scheduled an intimate show. At Hollywood High School. My freaking alma mater! And he even opened with “Alma Matters”. wink wink; nudge nudge. I mean, hello?! Even Stevie f***ing Wonder could’ve seen that Morrissey did this just for yours truly, right? Right?! That’s what I thought. There being no dissent, onwards...
The evening started with Russell Brand giving a vivacious, humorous and touching introduction as you’ll note from the video in the previous page. Morrissey looked quite fit. Even more so from when I thought the same thing about 10 months ago. Maybe due to his recent illness; maybe not. Nevertheless, one could see that he was really well up for it. A spring in his voice and his toes.
Some highlights: During one number (can’t remember which), he picked up a fluorescent orange cardboard sign from the audience. The sign had pasted upon it a large picture of Morrissey from back in the day. The caption read: “Class of ’77 -- Voted Best Hair”. Morrissey held up the sign next to him in juxtaposition for a good long while. Hearty laughter ensued.
Morrissey offered the microphone to about four different people, the first of whom offered an eloquent, heart-warming but not overly effusive gratitude to Morrissey. Incidentally, I’ve had these thought experiments where I’d contemplate Morrissey handing me the mike, and imaging how I’d feel and what I’d say. Anything and everything that springs to mind is just absolute drivel. On the order of, “Uhh...You rock! Uhh...Freebird!!” Or something equally vapid. So I doff my cap to those of you who’ve deftly met the challenge.
It’s just not a Morrissey show unless you have grown men fighting over a middle-aged man’s shirt, and Morrissey was glad to oblige not once but twice. Lest you think I’m peering down my nose at such combatants or at such an occurrence, I will tell you that I will gladly elbow your kid’s face or step over the back of your scoliosis afflicted grandmother to get a piece of His shirt. As you can see, my priorities are in order.
In introducing the band, Morrissey reasoned that they have to be turned over every 10 minutes. Immediately prior to the encore, the band then introduced themselves on the Mike: “My name is <insert name>, and I play for Morrissey” or something thereabouts. If I heard right, there was a boo or two for Jesse. The crowd whooped it up heartfeltly for Boz in particular.
Morrissey was in a chatty mood throughout. Nothing related to Jimmy, Beyonce or assault to marriage. Or none that I can recall. Speaking to me directly (obviously), he talked about how we were all back at school... because they always pull you back in. Half-mockingly in a slightly bass voice, he exclaimed, “they crush you! they crush you! they crush you!” The headmaster could not have been pleased.
Straddled on the shoulders of his father (presumably) sat this one kid who we later learned upon having been handed the microphone was the ripe old age of 9. His name is Devon. Devon eventually managed his way to the stage where Morrissey gave him a warm hug, and lifted him up by his side during the encore of “The Boy with the [Boy] in His Side”. The crowd gave one of its mightiest roars of the evening.
There were three emotional highlights for me. The first was “Meat is Murder”. I’m not a vegetarian, but the moment resonated with me. As to where before where it would feel a bit too preachy (“Do you even care?!”), this time, amid the ballyhoo particularly within recent days (an appreciable portion of which was cringeworthy on Morrissey’s part), Morrissey seemed to say it with somewhat slumped shoulders: Warts and all, this is who I am, and these animals are who I fight for. I don’t always agree with him, and often enough, I disagree with him vehemently, but I understand.
The second emotional highlight was the acapella of “Asleep” within “Speedway”. Emotionally riveting.
The third was when Morrissey spared a moment to earnestly reach out to the crowd, “I love you. I love you.”
Morrissey’s singing was top-notch. The band was more than capable. Great energy.
The setlist: Well, I was treated to yet another round of the aforementioned, but the lesson to be learned is this: Set your sights really low, and almost invariably, you’ll come out ahead. And this occasion certainly fit that bill. Plus, I was able to rationalize what I had difficulty rationalizing beforehand: This is Morrissey. As a good friend reminds me, he’s a performance artist of the highest order, and his deeply invested performance will, barring certain catastrophes, carry the day. But apart from those concerns, I relished every note of “That Joke...”. Loved “November”. I can’t get enough of “Maladjusted”. “Still Ill” is still dope (is it still permissible to use the word ‘dope’ as a compliment in this new century?). “Please, please, please...” -- divine. And I hate Oliver Cromwell too; I think. “...Thorn...” -- odd choice for an encore; not nearly as rambunctious as others, but I won’t complain too much.
Heavy Latin American contingency in the house. And Morrissey acknowledged them in particular on several occasions.
If there was a downside (apart from what’s already been noted, e.g., organization of the event, no booze *shock, horror*), it was the small section of people around me. What a buzzkill. They had all the expressiveness of people doing sudoku puzzles. Stay at home next time, you wretched bores. Oh, and not to mention the lady next to me that had B.O. Say it with me. It’s one word: Soap! You smelly pig!
A rather extraordinary homecoming, I’d say.
There was so much more, but I'm still recovering.
There. Done purging. My gratitude to Morrissey for reaching out to me personally in the manner that he did. What a touching gesture.