Singing Morrissey: A Blog Excerpt

Hi, all... (smile) I wrote this a few evenings ago for my blog and thought perhaps you'd enjoy it...

J.M.

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The tickets have been bought, V.I.P. status has been conferred. The Mapquest route is printed out, and the past concert t-shirt waits patiently to be donned. The venue is the Star Plaza Theatre in Merrillville, Indiana — to my mind, one of the most unlikely spots for a Morrissey concert. But there it is. If the man is in the Chicagoland area, I have to slip on the pilgrim’s shoes. Saturday evening, we travel to Canterbury.

As with Suzuki-roshi (see my last post), it would be difficult to talk about what kind of influence Morrissey has had upon me. And by that, I don’t mean to say, as again with Suzuki-roshi, that the influence has been a profound one. It’s been more of a surface-y deep one, if that’s not too oxymoronic. His music -- The Smiths, the solo work -- has been something like sonic wallpaper accenting the various rooms of my youth, and his vocal phrasing, his lyrics, the quality of his ‘otherness’ has always been appealing to me, aesthetically. Something of his style, I imagine, has crept into my own, but I’d be hard pressed to isolate it and identify it.

The first show of his I attended was not even my idea, but it was in July 1992 at the Great Woods complex, outside of Boston, near where the N.E. Patriots play, and it was an event I won’t ever forget. Legions of screaming fans throwing flowers — roses, lilies, and what I eventually learned were gladiolas — the press of hundreds of sweaty bodies to the front of the stage, and me twenty-odd rows back, dead center, completely amazed, perhaps even a little aghast, at the religious mania of those assembled, like a congregation of Pentecostals, testifying and speaking in tongues. The music was memorable enough for the surprising flavor of rockabilly that tinged its edges, and the yodelings and howlings of Morrissey were an amazing compliment to his odd body contortions, all of which were topped by a tremendous quiff of slickened hair. I had been converted…

Not too many shows (The Orpheum, Boston in 1997; Avalon, Chicago in 2006; and Bank of America Pavilion, Boston in 2007), CDs, downloads, and bootlegs later, I approach my thirty-eighth year and my fifth Morrissey show with anticipation, excitement, and confidence that the two of us, come this Saturday night, will each play our particular roles with perfect pitch: Morrissey as the song, and myself as the singer.
 
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the press of hundreds of sweaty bodies to the front of the stage, and me twenty-odd rows back, dead center, completely amazed, perhaps even a little aghast, at the religious mania of those assembled, like a congregation of Pentecostals, testifying and speaking in tongues. The music was memorable enough for the surprising flavor of rockabilly that tinged its edges, and the yodelings and howlings of Morrissey were an amazing compliment to his odd body contortions, all of which was topped by a tremendous quiff of slicked back hair. I had been converted…

nice, thanks for sharing.
 
vicar, thanks for the kindness! Cheers, mate...
 
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