![]() ![]() In a world that constantly demands obedience to governments and groupthink, that insists adherence to a predetermined dull, formulaic existence, Morrissey encourages us to live and speak our own truths. It’s odd how such a person can be so demonized and misunderstood: this man who holds a mirror up to our souls, whose music helps us, at our very cores know we are never alone, and that we shouldn’t have to change ourselves for anyone or anything. We count down, down, down, because in less than 24 hours, he will take the stage, look into our eyes, and grasp our hands, and in those longed-for moments, we will feel truly alive. We swig wine, cheer, and clap when the marquee letters change to MORRISSEY. And in the mad, sad 2020’s he is our light, our hope, and our artist.Īs night deepens in the queue, we reminisce over concerts past: “remember the show in San Luis Obispo last year? It was the best night of my life!” “Were you at Manchester 2016? He held my hand for the first time!” “In 1992, at my first gig, I got on stage to hug him!” Wearing Morrissey tees, fans show each other their tattoos: his portrait, a signature, lyrics, etched onto skin for life. ![]() Morrissey is not a trend, or a fad, nor is he your typical vapid pop star speaking from a script, and perhaps that’s why he gets grief from those who just don’t understand, because he makes such a keen, truthful impact on the psyche with his lyrics, his voice, and his presence. Everything about him is simultaneously brave and vulnerable, and he does not adjust himself for the superficial and soulless. Maybe it’s his timelessness that attracts us, because as an artist he speaks to something so deeply, innately human, and quells that gnawing sense of loneliness, so typically difficult to shake. He draws us in, a captivated crew, and over 40 years into his career, he keeps attracting new, ardent fans with diverse stories and backgrounds. Old souls with young spirits, and young souls with old spirits, in our own strange ways we are all, at heart, similar, because we are all here for one reason: Morrissey. I call us kids but we cross all ages: some queuers are in their late teens and early 20’s, many of us run mid 20’s to late 40’s, while some are in their 50’s and 60’s. Maybe hope is what keeps us misfits and sad kids going. Like NYC, London is a city that never sleeps, and a few dozen of us Morrissey disciples lay huddled and swaddled in sleeping bags under a towering concrete overpass, counting down the hours until concert doors open, guided and fortified by that strange, rare feeling – hope. It hangs in the grey mid-March skies and wraps around intersections where candy-red double decker buses turn, seemingly all night long. A guest piece written by lingers on the damp, brick laden streets of Hammersmith. ![]()
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