As my dissertation draws into a close (at this point, the thing is printed, bound and submitted), I realized that my odyssey can be recounted in five songs. It’s more the feeling (and title) of the song than the lyrics, but enjoy away.
May-June
No class! I can do whatever I want! It’s sunny, I can research outside! Mum and sister are in town, I can take some time off!
June-July
Things aren’t going quite as I anticipated…
July-August
As the deadlines draw nearer…
16 August 2012
The thing is in…and I am so tired…it’s a cold and its a broken hallelujah…now to recovery and celebrate with the friends I’ve been ignoring for the last few weeks.
And as it finally sets in…
FREEEDOM! Now I’m off to enjoy the sunny weather, the Fringe, and time with friends before I become a responsible adult.
When I was at the two Morrissey gigs last weekend, I saw plenty of Smiths and Morrissey shirts. I felt a bit out of place, wearing a teal shirt in Manchester and a black and white one in Edinburgh. A Morrissey gig is the one place that if you aren’t wearing a shirt or badge you are ‘that guy (or girl).’
In Manchester, I had my sketchbook, and spent the time before the gig drawing pictures. One t shirt I saw and liked was just his silhouette, filled with song lyrics. I liked the silhouette. Amy has a cool shirt with the gladioli (a favourite prop of Smiths-era Morrissey) and I thought I’d combine the two.
This is just the first draft, I’m hoping to smooth out his profile and fix the quiff a bit.
I really want to get this screen printed. I’ll have to play around with the placement. I’m thinking having it really large on a v-neck shirt.
‘What would Edinburgh be without the rain? Who knows, but it wouldn’t be Edinburgh!’ Morrissey proclaimed during his show Monday night at Edinburgh’s Usher Hall.
If it wouldn’t be Edinburgh without the rain, it wouldn’t be a Morrissey gig without the legion of devoted fans. Amy and I got there pretty early, several hours before the gig was set to start (a note to our professors and families, we did bring work with us). Turns out that we weren’t even close to being the first people there–some had been camping out since 3 am, the hardcores, of which a few of my friends would say I belong to, but which I fervently am not. Though, if I were returning to the States this autumn, I would definitely try and get to his Boston gig and at least one of the NYC gigs.
Yes, I have been bitten by the Moz bug, and after that show it isn’t difficult to see why.
Edinburgh was the gig that Manchester should have been.
The audience was mixed. There were those who have followed Morrissey since The Smiths, hipster kids in skinny jeans and knotted hair, parents and children, everyone else imaginable. Whilst queuing, we swapped stories of the Manchester gig and discussed vegetarianism–I am not a veggie and probably couldn’t be one, I like chicken too much. I did attempt it for the weekend, though.
I ended up in the second row, which was fantastic! The floor was far more subdued than in Manchester, filled with energy but not nearly so dangerous. There were still flying arms, all grasping to reach Morrissey’s hand, but the elbows and bodies did not fly around so much.
Morrissey himself was brilliant. Witty, engaging, his voice even stronger than in Manchester. You would never have realized it was the last night of the tour. He sounded fresh (though looked a little knackered to start).
As I’ve said earlier, there is something visceral about his music. It hits me in the gut. I find that I can relate to his lyrics, perhaps more than any other musician. Seeing him sing live, with all of the emotion in his voice–there was nothing else I needed. It was the sort of show where time stood still, life was on hold. Captivating, entrancing, wholely part of something.
That’s the thing I love about fantastic gigs. The music transcends social barriers, and together, the audience, the musicians, become part of something bigger. United for a few hours by a common love–the music.
Edinburgh captured this more perfectly than any gig I had previously been to–and I’ve been to some fantastic gigs. The sound, the power, the emotion.
The encore (“How Soon is Now?”) was incredible. People launched themselves over the barriers, keen to hug Morrissey, to shake his hand, to be a more active participant in the night. The chaos, the excitement, the cheers, the voices raised to match Morrissey’s, could never be described perfectly, only experienced.
Who knows if I will ever have another weekend like this one. But I certainly will be at another Morrissey gig, standing on the floor, my hand raised to shake his.
Whilst queuing for Morrissey’s Manchester gig yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice that there was an open McDonald’s on the premises of the Manchester Evening News Arena. A bit strange, given that we were waiting to see Manchester’s most famous vegetarian.
“I’m not a veggie,” I said to my fellow adventurer/Morrissey fan Amy. “But I haven’t eaten meat in over 24 hours in preparation for my pilgrimage.”
Though I flippantly termed our trip to Manchester as a pilgrimage, in a sense, it was. Though Amy had been to Manchester before, it hadn’t been with a Smiths fan. We didn’t have much time in Manchester, arriving yesterday late morning and leaving first thing today. We did, however, have enough time to make a couple of important stops.
First on the list was the Salford Lads Club. The Lads Club is not, as I originally assumed, a strip club. Instead, it is a rec center, like the Boys and Girls Club.
The Salford Lads Club is about a 30 minute walk from the city centre, located in Salford. It’s down this row of little brick houses. Tucked just off of a main road, it’s one of those places you wouldn’t know was there if you weren’t looking for it.
Salford Lads Club has since cleaned up a bit since the famous photograph was taken. Throngs of fans go there each year, to take their photo like The Smiths, Amy and myself included.
(C) Bethany Wolfe 2012
Inside the Lads Club, there is a room dedicated to The Smiths. This could potentially be a bit overkill, but working in its favour was the small size of the room. It was a squash court, now a shrine to The Smiths. The entire room is covered with images of The Smiths, of fans standing outside the Club (I’m going to be sending the photograph of Amy and myself), of articles pertaining to the Smiths, paintings of Morrissey, and notes from devoted fans.
(C) Bethany Wolfe 2012
(C) Bethany Wolfe 2012
Being of an artsy bent, I left a note of my own–complete with a picture of Morrissey. My note is the yellow one with the drawing in the above picture. By no means my best picture of him, but pretty good for five minutes with a ballpoint pen! I would love to return in a few years and see if the note has been glued to the wall.
After leaving the Salford Lads Club, we wandered to the arena. Amy and I had floor tickets, so we wanted to make sure we were there early.
We weren’t in the first thirty, but were definitely in the first 100 people at the arena. We watched as more and more people piled in, complete with quiffed hair, Smiths or Morrissey shirts, big glasses. I looked rather out of place in my teal top and black cardigan, decidedly unhipster (or, at least, unlike the rest of the fans my age). Whilst waiting, the BBC interviewed a few people. I wasn’t, but I think I ended up in a few shots–I was drawing pictures of Morrissey to pass the time.
Finally, it was time to enter the arena, still a good hour and a half before the show was due to start. The excitement was palpable. I couldn’t help but jump up and down, shaking with enthusiasm.
When Morrissey arrived on stage, there was a great ‘rush and a push’ as what felt like the entire floor lunged to the stage. Everything I said about Balkanarama being the most insane concert situation I’ve been in has been taken back. Morrissey, playing in his home town, wins.
The floor was a hot, sweaty, undulating mass of bodies, of arms, of getting far too close to absolute strangers. Yet it was incredible. Everyone was there for Morrissey, everyone was (mostly) respectful, and it was mad. Though, as a very tiny girl, the second row probably wasn’t the best place for me to be, I’m rather bruised and battered and very thankful to still have some of my painkillers from my back injury!
Morrissey himself was on top form, physically a bit out of shape (the man’s 53 years old, we can cut him some slack), but his voice was just as powerful as when he was in The Smiths. Whilst he doesn’t bound around the stage anymore, his stage presence is dignified and commanding. There’s such passion in his singing.
I’m to see him again tomorrow night in Edinburgh. Am hoping to get front row this time. I do imagine that the crowd may be a bit more subdued than Manchester.
And as a final note…Morrissey biscuits at Salford Lads Club.
Music. It calls to me. There’s something visceral about it. It grabs me and twists my gut, weaving its way into my subconscious. Songs stick in my mind, they refuse to leave, perfect ear worms. The above song, “Speedway” by Morrissey is one of these songs (I can’t help it. I move to the UK and I develop a love of the Smiths and Morrissey’s solo stuff). I listen to his stuff while working; I find it to be just the sort of thing I need to get focused.
But enough on Morrissey (for this post).
Music in itself. I find myself drawn to it, perhaps more than any other art form (strange, for a writer/painter/graphic designer). I’m stopped by its sheer incredibility. The range of emotions, the sense of calm, fear, love evoked by notes expresses the human condition more than words or paintings ever could.
To quote Aldous Huxley, “After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
The past few months have been difficult ones for me. The coursework has been particularly strenuous in a different way from last term. My health hasn’t been the best (nothing serious, just atrocious colds and uncomfortable back injuries). Things haven’t been going as I had hoped–not poorly, but not as well as my internal narrative wanted.
The other day, I went into St Giles Cathedral to look around. A string quartet practiced for the evening performance. As the violin sang out, the cello setting a steady pace, my heart soared, leaped, fell, felt, repeated. The starting and stopping as the musicians ran through their piece struck me. It was, in its imperfection, exactly as I felt. There was joy, frustration, repetition.
Words failed me. Visual arts failed me. Yet music fit where no other expression would. It was fleeting, yet permanent, the memory to be one of the strongest I have.
My strongest memories are tied around music. The two best concerts I’ve been to have had moments of transcendence–from the Who, when Roger Daltrey sang portions of Tommy, a medley that meant so much to me, given that I had listened to that album ad nauseum the summer before. The second was the Swell Season, when Glen Hansard got the audience to join in on the chorus of ‘Back Broke.’ The effect was haunting, uniting, beautiful. For moments at both of these gigs, the music transcended. That’s all that mattered.
Before today, I hadn’t picked up a paint brush since July 24th. How do I know? That’s when I did my painting of TE Lawrence.
Sick of not painting, I decided to reconcile the situation. My folks gave me a moleskine watercolour sketchbook for Christmas, and I am determined to fill it before I return to the States.
I paint portraits primarily, and portraits of those who fascinate me. Given that I’ve listened to the Smiths pretty much non-stop since getting here, it was only logical that I paint their front man, Morrissey.
Morrissey, (C) Beth 2012
Needless to say, I’m thrilled with how this portrait turned out. There are a few issues, but considering I haven’t painted in months…pretty damn good.
I hope to share more paintings with you as I complete them!
Ned Wolfe 