u s e y o u r h a n d s

I had never seen him perform before, but I’d loved Morrissey’s music, both the solo work and during his time with the Smiths. And so, I flew to Los Angeles to see him live, and up close with my friend Deanne.

She has known me since I was 14 and was the person who I’ve shared my Smiths-Morrissey joys with, playing those tapes over and over while traversing from UC Santa Barbara to our hometown four hours away. There she’d be, singing softly, pronouncing all the Britishisms in the music and I’d listen very hard to all the lyrics, trying to dissect their total brilliance.

The doors of the hyper-Deco Wiltern Theatre opened at 8 p.m., but because we had General Admission tickets, I got in line at 2:30 behind 60 other people. The line snaked down the block, in front of the windows of a nearby Denny’s. These people had obviously prepared better than I, bringing deck chairs, books, and lots of lots of cigarettes. Dressed for comfort? Not many of them. Most of these hard-core Morrissey fans wore their best rockabilly duds, old Smiths-Morrissey t-shirts, and pompadours. It was cute, like drama class come to life. We, this band of misfits, made a fine tribe of worshippers. What’s that I smell? Cloves? Cloves? Yes, cloves.

I look right to find the source of bickering. And just outside the Denny’s entrance, I find two women, totally middle-aged if not older bickering and pointing. One of the women is screaming in Korean and pidgin English and the other one is goading her, “Bring it on, bitch!” A bewildered gal, putting out orange cones to mark the entrance, mutters “I do not have time for this shit at Denny’s today!” This little episode delighted the crowd, and many gathered around to take pictures with their phones.

Deanne joined me at 4:30 and we switched off waiting in line. At 6-ish, it really hit me just how stupid it was to stand/sit on concrete for five and a half hours. Between my numb bottom and aching feet, I feared that I wouldn’t get through the concert. And intermittently the line would surge forward, taunting the tired, eager throng. I, too, did not have time for that shit at Denny’s.

Finally, we were let in promptly at 8 and quickly found our places at a rail only 20 feet from the stage, away from the packed area in front of the stage. The pre-show music, presumably a vanity CD burned (by Morrissey himself?), was fucking annoying. Here, pretend you’re at the Wiltern. Get a Kurt Weill CD and intersperse it with ’60s French songs and FUCKING blare it. Then, stop the CD, put on a shoegazer Elephant 6 wannabe band, have them play for 20 minutes, then put the CD back on and turn it up to 11.

Oh, I must mention this. The majority – the vast majority – of fans at the show were Hispanic. And this is odd and not really what you’d anticipate. It seems that listening to Brit-pop is some SoCal latino form of rebellion. It goes hand-in-hand with the rockabilly thing. There were some white bepompadoured men (and some dykes as well) but mainly, the latinos were really into it.

Finally, Morrissey!!!

Wow. I’ve been to concerts before, I’ve seen famous people up close. But this was different. Morrissey was completely magnetic and electric. Flipping around his microphone cord, perfectly coiffed graying pompadour, sweat soaking through his western-tailored shirt. He was fabulous, as is the music from his upcoming effort, You Are the Quarry. It’s sort of like Bona Drag, actually. In fact, most of the set was tracks from Bona Drag, with a few Smiths tunes added in causing nostalgic hysterics.

And though he’s “celibate” or gay or what the fuck ever, I’m quite sure everyone left that show thinking, “I could – nay – will date Morrissey!” I never thought that I would be in a concert, crying, and convinced that the singer was crooning to me alone. But that’s Morrissey. Nothing has ever been better and I’ve never felt more connected with a crowd of people than when we all sang “Crash into my arms/I want you/You don’t agree/But you don’t refuse me/” Oh, and how we all wanted to crash.

What is it about him that inspired the level of crazy histrionics present at the Wiltern? Maybe it’s because he’s utterly private and rarely tours so fans never really O.D. on him. Or maybe it’s because most of began listening to his music at painful times in our life, when our own personal metamorphoses matched his. I have given up trying to figure it out. The surging desire to eat up every atom of the moment was both frightening and intoxicating.

Sure, there are things I’m leaving out, like the horribly crushing dancing of the guy behind us, who, when we asked him to chill, went fucking OFF. And I’m leaving out the crazed crowd-surfing and near-riot over Morrissey’s cast-off shirt. I leave them out because if I didn’t, they’d almost ruin the show. And I don’t want that. It was amazing, and it renewed my love for his music, which I’ve listened to since I was 16.

Now, two weeks later, what am I listening to as I finally write this entry? The man himself.