Happy fifty-third birthday, Steven Patrick Morrissey!
You would might think he was dead, with all the tribute bands and karaoke nights and even a whole convention in his honor. The real fans, of course, will be at an actual concert, like tonight’s show in San Diego, where the venue will be filled with lonely misfits who spend a lot of time in their bedrooms. I have been a fan since 1993.
Yes, I was an odd third grader, but we can blame my older sister for that.
In 2009, while my pal uber-fan Dagenham Dave was looking for a friend in Seattle he spotted the Mozza and did what each Morrissey fan does when they meet him. He asked Morrissey to sign a part of his body so he could later get it tattooed. I haven’t gotten there yet; I’m a little rusty on my stalking tactics since gas prices went up. I should start contacting the Arab side of the family.
The most anal people I have ever met are Morrissey fans; you have to know every tidbit about him or else your love is questionable. Someone once quizzed me in line about the lyrics in a song. Serious? No manches!
One of the best parts of a Morrissey concert is crowd watching. I personally have spotted Big Sandy, Pete Yorn, Noel Gallagher, Chloe Sevigny, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, J.K. Rowling, Sarah Silverman, Adam Carrolla, Nancy Sinatra and some of the New York Dolls.
It they’re not just stock concerts — the shows are big productions. Usually it goes like this: Opening band: 30 minutes (has been Kristeen Young for a while, which I don’t mind, WE LOVE YOU); 15 minutes of a specific playlist by Morrissey (usually T-Rex, Bridget Bardot and Diana Dors); 10 minutes of video clips, another intro song and then he goes on. Do you know how much anxiety that is for a fan??!
And I will finally answer the question that has been plaguing us for a couple of centuries: “Why do Mexicans love Morrissey?”
I feel that every ethnic group loves Morrissey, but we just seem to focus on the shallow cacabillys with the pompadours and the Johnny Cash shirts. I adore him on a deeper level. I gravitate to him because I love his sense of humor. It’s raw, it’s out there and he says what he feels and I can appreciate that.
Today I won’t be at some karaoke tribute or some convention but instead I will be celebrating the life of the man that has filled my heart with joy, laughter and a little thing called Mozzery. Happy birthday, Morrissey!
Uber-fan Dagenham Dave’s essential items for a Morrissey concert line:
- Sleeping Bag – this is as close as you will get to a bed for sleeping for the next three days. This is your home base, your womb, the place you go for privacy, a worthwhile investment.
- Lawn Chair – when you decide to venture outside your sleeping bag and join the rest of humanity upright, a lawn chair is your perfectly portable friend.
- Vegetarian Snacks – Meat is MURDER! And you shall be a victim of it if you are caught eating carnivore food items around other fans.
- Pocket Knife – Wield your shiny blade at any street thieves, lurking homeless or shameless bastards trying to cut in front of you in line. Also good for last minute leg shaving.
- Comfortable running shoes – running shoes are key if you want to optimize your chance of getting to the rail first. You’ll surely beat out the dumb broad in heels demographic. Also cushioned soles are helpful when standing through the two-hour intro and opening act Morrissey insists on. He calls the shots.
Uber-fan Dagenham Dave’s top Morrissey fan fears:
- Venues with multiple entrances – OMG, which door will get me to the front row fastest and free of obstacles?! I demand to see a full blueprint of this facility.
- Inexperienced and over-zealous ticket takers – so you landed that $9 an hour security position? Great. Now point your little ticket scanner thing at my ticket and get out of my way. Don’t let authority go to your head or take time digging to the bottom of my bag for fireworks and wallet chains. Don’t try to cop a feel whilst patting me down either. I reserve those privileges for security officers who make at least $9.50 an hour.
- Having to use the restroom – especially after you have secured your spot on “the rail” or as the average concert goer calls it, the front row or GA at a show. I’d rather piss myself and claim tie dye jeans than lose my place on the rail. Once you have looked eyes with Steven Patrick or secured your first handshake, it’s the only place you’ll ever want to be at a Morrissey concert.