The Journey To Morrissey (Unedited)

One would not necessarily understand why Morrissey, the legendary singer and songwriter, disagrees with the notion that he "performs" when he is on stage until one gets to experience the enchantment of his work as it nature intended- front center, ribs pressed against the barricade, the heat of the crowd pulsing from every corner, stench of desperation, stretching to reach and connect- from both the audience and the object of desire alike. Morrissey stands naked in front of the crowd, metaphorically speaking (of course, there is the shirt-ripping, a metaphor within itself, really), vulnerable, honest, simply there as he is. That is not performance, what he does every night of the tour takes courage and strength. One cannot call his events "shows", the word "concert" is too lighthearted to describe it, "event of epiphany" might be going too far- but I think "spiritual sharing" should cover what truly goes on between the creator of the music, and the crowd that stands before him. The reciprocal love and respect, sharing of true emotions between the two is astounding, and most likely a rare occurrence, especially in today's world. To many, the crowd is a faceless mass, to Morrissey, each and every one of us count.

On May 22, Morrissey decided to spend his 48th birthday in St Louis, singing to people who are there to listen. I, like many modern-day pilgrims of the chanteur, traveled from a different country, Canada, in order to see him. As the old proverb goes," if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain", so I ventured off into the wild, wild Mid-west on foot, with my walking umbrella, and a bag containing nothing but a few coins and an old copy of Arthur Rimbaud's Illuminations, to keep me safe on my quest to be entertained and understood (an odd choice, perhaps, but then again, what in life makes sense?). Through my journey, the pain and suffering I neatly tucked away by thinking what the end result of my trip would be like, and that the thirst I was feeling is in fact, creative thirst, rather than anything else physical real and boring. By the time of my arrival, 8am sharp, I crashed on the pavement of the train station, seemingly delirious to the bystanders, but actually never more composed and aware of my true self. And of course I should mention that some notions and details of my journey may or may not have occurred, but the true message and emotional value of this narrated story is unharmed by these miniscule alterations.

St Louis is no place to have fun. It is a place where some are born, others rot, and third ones, positively die. Aside from a couple of places on Earth I've heard of, most other ones follow a similar demographical pattern. Not many move to St Louis willingly, or because it has been their eternal, lifelong wish to live there (unless they want to model their lives after famous movies done by Judy Garland, in which case, may God be with them, however, I have my doubts that such people do not in fact exist)- like an unexpected pregnancy, it just happens. My first night in St Louis I spent sleeping by the river, under a bridge where I met a few other fellow Morrissey pilgrims. The town was swarming with my kind, and even in a random city, in the middle of the bible belt, I, a practicing communist, vocal vegetarian and shameful sodomite (the word itself makes me all warm and fuzzy inside), felt more at home than ever. Maybe because He, with a capital H, was cuddled neatly in freshly ironed linens of an expensive hotel, smelling of frankincense and myrrh, I felt that through him, I was sleeping in same conditions. In reality, after dining on dry instant oatmeal, I wrapped myself in a spread-out cardboard box and rested my head on a solid piece of wood that washed up on the riverbank. I intended to take a bath in the river, in the morning- an event that proved to be near-fatal. After that incident, and clearing things up with the ambulance, police, firefighters (ironically, the latter showed up as well), I proceeded to go to the Pageant, the lavish-sounding concert venue, in what I've been told is the nice part of St Louis. To me it seemed very average- even their Starbucks was really dirty. And Starbucks' are usually relatively clean. Ah, what do I know.

If I had the time to describe every person in line, waiting to see the man, I would probably be a very lucky, or unfortunately screwed over person, depending on my life circumstances and place of habitat. Even though I lack time, I will still not resort to stereotypes. Sure, there was the sad black haired goth kid with fountain pen slices on his arms to prove his love, or moms who used to be cool but are now pathetically dragging themselves through the bumpy roads of menopause in sweats and flip-flops, the old guys who get told they resemble Morrissey (those who make the remark usually omitting "...if Morrissey weighed 70 pounds more and had his face in the microwave for 34 seconds"), the usual "concert goers" who really know nothing but are just there, the lonely 30 so year olds who lost all meaning and purpose in life (I sort of fit into that category, only 10-ish years younger than that)....the rest of the crowd is just filler, and they need not be mentioned such as the quiet guy, the loud girl, the faceless cluster, the fat guy, the fat girl. Just usual, at first sight, is this crowd. Now once inside, things get ugly. Or beautiful. Or ugly. Life is a circle anyway. It is the same thing.

I befriended a quiet Alaskan, feeling we're really in the same mindset. I didn't ask for his name, because names just take up space, and I needed all the memory I could get in order to remember the event that was going to take place 11, 9, 7, 5, 3, 2 hours, 30min from now. We sat through the day, wasting time, as if no time was needed. If there and then we were asked by the Grim Reaper if we would give up the rest of time in order for that one and a half hour in pure heaven with Morrissey, adorned with a green carnation and a glass of absinthe, we would have said "whatever, take it, now that we've waited this long, it would be such a waste not to get to see him!" . And we would have died and it would have been worth it.

It is such a crazy stampede once the doors open. My heart which usually beats slowly and insecurely, gets its annual workout at events such as this. The guard picks up his walkie-talkie, and tells us to line up. Everybody knows what is going to happen. You look around, nobody's your friend anymore, it's a competition. Brother against brother. It's a bloodbath. Realization that your perfect place in heaven depends on not only how fast you run, but whom else you leave behind you forces even the purest of heart to play dirty. "Ok, let them in". It's a blur. Now or never. Gather your assets, show your claws, the race is on. I run, I run, I run, my legs are doing a modern dance more passionate than Isadora Duncan could have ever choreographed. I advance. At the corner of my eye there are people, there are people, people and more people, their faces showing strain and pain and genuine anguish. Will they make it? What do I care. Fend for yourself....

Until you reach the cold steel, catch your breath, look up to meet the watchful eyes of a security guard, who understands no love, or passion, whose currency are not emotion or words or compassion. How can you, who operates on such a different level, ever reason with such a creation? Many have tried, myself included. It is like trying to communicate with someone who speaks a different language. But what if you don't reach the steel barricade? What if you are behind someone who was faster than you? Well, you stand there, wondering how wonderful it must be to be that person. You stand there, and you wait for your chance. Who knows what kind of a sinful beast you may turn into once the lights go down, the smoke rises, and your deepest emotions surface to the top.

The wait inside kills the most. He's there, you're there. We're all ready, come out already. You stand through the opening act- she could be the most wonderful singer in the world, a talent incomparable to any other of her time, an opera star highly acclaimed by the likes of famous Italian composers whose names I do not care to remember.....- but you can't wait for anything other than him. You're unable to. On any other day it would be different but now, you just must concentrate to prepare to absorb the most of him, when he comes. And he will, he must. He will, he must. For you're here, and his name shines above the door. It's a perfect match So it can't be a mistake. Could it be? No it certainly cannot be. You're not that much of a fool.

The lights dim even further, it is either anticipation or deadly acid mingling in your abdomen, unsure of the way your bland body reacts to excitement you hope for the best, expect the worst....the anticipation rises, rises, the music tearing you one note at the time, builds, builds, the crowd is shivering, you pick up the shivers too, tears? it tears? could it be, no it, yes it, oh, there, here, maybe, now, I'm not ready, ok, I am, I think......- crash!!!!! There. He walks on stage and you've completely slipped into "dream" mode. You will wake up the next day and believe it was all a fragment of your vivid imagination, which can both be a curse and a privilege given the situation . It is impossible, the man on the picture beside your bed, he cannot be here, in front of you. And all mental preparation to remember as much as you can is thrown out the door. It is all about the feelings baby, that's all you get to remember.

To try to describe your most cherished memory is hard. I remember the woman behind me, saliva dribbling out of her mouth, diving back to catch a piece of cloth he threw into the crowd, no, I don't dive back for it, I want to absorb as much of him as I can. Read the expressions on his face, feel the sound. It's here, now. You've heard it before, never like this. As she dives back, an opening for myself is before me- the steel barricade. My ribs are neatly placed over it, I am on my toes. Pilates instructors cannot stretch this much. He glances at me. Shrugs his shoulders...there is hell behind me, a whirpool of hyenas tearing up his shirt. No, it can't be. Next second the look is gone, nothing happened. No, it can't be. There is an open wound on the right side of my chest, but it really could be from anything. Even now, I still don't know what side the heart is on...nor do I care.

And so he sings, and he sings, and hours feel like seconds. The end is nearing. I realize that subconsciously, my hand, clutching Illuminations, has been trying to reach him for the entire duration of the night. "Here I am, here I am". Did I look pleased? He kneels, and extends his arm, with a smile. A connection. He has it. Eyes connect, it burns. Imprinted on my memory, somewhere, very vividly, but I will have to figure out the access code later. He stands up. He mouths words to you. You can't believe it. You stand there and it is over. And you can't believe it. Then you get the encore after the show. Even closer. Even more personal. We said nothing to each other, but, as those cheesy novelesque expressions go- we spoke through our eyes. I am sure that those 4 seconds in some distant cosmos are worth a lifetime, that we were transported there for that duration, and exchanged something profound, because I haven't felt the same since then. Food has no taste, people all look the same, I can't fall in love (but what else is new?), nothing equals that moment. For me, of course. He is a whore, he shook so many other hands the next night. I have yet to wash mine.

I lie. I tried. I failed. It is now clean.