I arrive in Toronto, the night before the first show, feeling like shit. It seems it’s not enough that I suffer from chronic back pain, but I now also have migraines recently thrown in to further test my pain threshold. The medication loses the battle towards the end of the long flight, and I have serious concerns about my ability to get myself from the airport to my accommodation on arrival. My inner confidence and independence, that my lone Morrissey travels have helped me rediscover, wavers, and a few tears escape me as my resolve gives way to a feeling of vulnerability in the absence of the reassuring and supportive presence of my husband to which I have become so accustomed over the years.
However, I have no choice but to soldier on, and once off the plane I begin to feel human again, and make my way reasonably smoothly to the large downtown apartment building that contains my Airbnb room. It is a small room inside a young woman’s apartment, and feels rather like staying in someone’s closet, since I find the room is accessed directly from the living room through a sliding glass door. However, the building contains a swimming pool, which represents post-flight heaven to me, and my swimming gear is the first to be unpacked. The pool is small, entirely unoccupied, and is beneath a glass roof, and I float on my back looking up at skyscrapers. Things are starting to look brighter again.
The morning brings rain, and I am in no hurry to go anywhere, but after another swim I eventually venture outside, and wander the streets, taking it all in, inevitably ending up at the venue. My heart races with excitement when I see the large illuminated signs displaying Morrissey’s familiar face. This is really happening! I take photos, and circle the building like a fox round a hen coop, discovering the stage door, clearly marked, at the back, and I watch with interest as unknown people come and go.
After more circling, and making use of the venue’s WiFi which I find I can connect to from outside, I return to the stage door once more to find two known faces, Morrissey’s personal assistant and personal security, standing outside looking very much like they are waiting for someone.
I thought, ‘Oh God, my chance has come at last!’
I hover a few metres away in a fluster, desperately trying to think what I will say if Morrissey does arrive, and unable to come up with anything I’m happy with. A car pulls up at the kerb, and Damon and Ryan head towards it. My heart is in my mouth……Then they get in and the car drives away. Not this time.
I head south and calm myself with a long walk along the harbourfront. I love walking, and the harbourfront allows me to do so without having to stop every minute to cross a dual carriageway, something that I find so irksome in North American cities.
After a good rest back at my little base, I head out again early evening, with much anticipation, feeling quite sure that I must still arrive before doors open at 7pm.
Following last year’s UK tour, I think I have become fairly adept at reaching the front of a general admission standing Morrissey event, but here enters a whole new ball game for me, and what proves to be a different breed of pre-show stress; The Seated Venue. I have a 4th row ticket, but am fairly confident there will be people standing at the stage, who I hope to be able to join, but I’m unsure as to how it will all work.
Waiting outside the venue, I spot a number of familiar faces just a few places ahead of me at the front of the queue, and once inside I follow them through the lobby to the auditorium doors where we now find we must queue again, since they are not opening for another half an hour. I chat with a guy I’d met a few times on the UK tour, and we reminisce about stressful show entries, and some more people around him introduce themselves whilst the half hour passes swiftly by.
Just before the doors open I mention that I have never seen Morrissey at a seated venue before, and ask them to share their superior knowledge. I am a little surprised to find they have no intention of going to their seats at all, but intend to go directly to the stage.
“Just don’t stand out”, one of them tells me as the doors open.
“You mean blend into the crowd?”
“I mean don’t be the first to run.” he returns as we commence a brisk power walk down the sloping auditorium aisles towards the stage. Halfway down we all break into a run, and a moment later, somewhat shell shocked, I find myself pressed against the stage opposite Boz’s spot. This is amazing! No fucking barrier!
A female member of the venue staff comes and tells us they are happy for us to stand, but if any people with seats in the row immediately behind us should complain, then we will have to move. I am unconcerned at this. Surely no-one would be naïve enough to expect to be able to sit in their front row seat at a Morrissey show. Surely all the people with front row tickets are already here, standing at the stage.
But it seems I am the one who is naïve. During the pre-show videos, the man on my left, after a conversation with the same staff member, bids me a sad farewell and tells me he must move to the other side of the auditorium where his seat is. He is immediately replaced by a couple to whom I say Hi, and ask if they think we will be allowed to remain.
“Not you guys” replies the woman. “Our seats are right there” she says, indicating immediately behind me. “Where’s yours?”
I tell her it is at the end of the row, which is true, but I omit to mention that it’s 4th row.
Ten minutes before the videos end, I am asked by staff to show my ticket and told I must move away from the stage. I am utterly dismayed, but my protests are only met with an invitation to stand behind the now several rows of people at centre stage. Glued to the stage, I offer to move to the left and make space for whoever is complaining, and I gesture to the couple on my left to take up this space, since I suspect it is them who have caused the problem. The man takes up the offer immediately, but the woman seems hesitant, sensing my own reluctance. However, she eventually does so, and this seems to placate the staff member, who thankfully now disappears.
It is the first time I have seen Morrissey since Brighton, over a year ago, a long, long wait for me, and my feelings when he first walks onstage are simply indescribable. My desperate thirst drinks in the sight and sound of him with immense pleasure and relief. I am even close enough to smell his perfume when he comes near. I remain in a constant state of delight at the novel absence of a barrier, and things remain civil and pleasant between the late arriving couple and myself, as we all reach together for Morrissey’s outstretched hand and exchange frequent looks of mutual enjoyment and awe.
I am in heaven, and when the first familiar notes of That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore are heard, it is all too much for me, and for the first time at a Morrissey show, I find myself in tears. One of my first pieces of 7” vinyl, I lay in awe on my bedroom floor as a teenager, listening to this song over and over. I never dreamt I would be leaning on the stage, 34 years later, listening to this song live for the first time, and I’m not sure if it’s this, or the pain of youth that the song evokes for me, that is causing such a state of emotion for me.
The woman next to me can’t help but notice my state, and expresses concern. I try to tell her I’m fine, it’s just a very special song to me, but I don’t think she can hear me, and she keeps glancing quizzingly at me until I recover my equanimity during The Bullfighter Dies, only to be bowled over again straight away by Life is a Pigsty. Does it get any better than this?
At times, I reflect on how easy it would be to get on the stage, and that this could be a rare chance for me, but fear of making a fool of myself, and the consciousness that footage would inevitably end up on social media, holds me back. What would you do if you weren’t afraid?
After the show I decide that, since I actually know where the stage door is, I should try going to wait to see Morrissey depart the venue, something I’ve never done before, and always wondered if I really should. I arrive to find a tight crowd of people, phones ready, gathered around a small van parked on the sidewalk, with its open side door aligned with the stage door, just one step away. It seems a fleeting glimpse is all that can be hoped for, and yet I have spent the last 90 minutes gazing upon the man in close proximity. The wind is cold and I don’t recognise anyone there. It all seems a bit silly and a bit Paparazzi, and I eventually slope off back up Yonge Street towards my apartment, happy in the haze of my first Morrissey show of 2019.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 