by
William Harris
So
the Morrissey show in Raleigh, NC, was on Sunday.
On
Friday at around 5:30 PM, I walked into Flash Magazine in Virginia Beach, VA, to
turn in my last articles for the upcoming issue. As I was getting ready to
depart, I mentioned to my editor that I'd be incommunicado on Sunday because I'd
be out of town, and I reminded him as to why.
"Dammit,
Will, why didn't you remind me about that?" he asked me. "I told you I
could get you a photo pass if you'd just remind me?"
"Well,
I forgot about it, too," I admitted. "No big deal."
"Well,
now, hang on," he said, quickly. "It's what time now, about 6:00
PM…? Maybe if we call someone's office in California…? What label is he
on?"
"Polygram."
"Hang
tight." He flipped through his trusty label guide, spotted the number for
Polygram's California offices, and dialed away. Within seconds (and that's
literally, mind you, not figuratively), he'd scored me a photo pass for the
show.
My
only problem: I have two cameras -- one a really crappy one which I won from the
Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes (no, really) and is totally manual with no
flash, and one which has proved extremely successful in the past but which has a
flash that can't be turned off. (What do you want from me, I'm a writer, not a
photographer.) The latter would be my choice to carry, but I know full well that
flashes won't be allowed, photo pass or no photo pass.
I
check with some friends, but only one can provide me with a decent camera with a
flash that can be switched off, and she admits that, without a tripod, the
pictures are more than likely to turn out blurry. I decide to buy the highest
speed film possible and bring the crappy camera, assuring myself that the film
will make up for the camera.
When
I arrive at the venue (the Ritz), three of my friends in tow, I ask at the front
window for my photo pass. The woman knows nothing of this, but admits that
no-one from Polygram has given her anything as of yet.
Moments
later, a security guy from the club hustles me aside and asks for some
credentials. I can offer none. (98% of my interviews are done by phone, and the
2% that aren't are with local bands.) He asks for the name of the publicist I
talked to. I can't tell him. I explain that my editor did the fast talking to
get me the pass. He seems highly skeptical, saying that Morrissey's rep is the
one who's going to have to make the final decision as to whether or not I get
the pass. I argue that the label put me on the list, and I point out that I have
ID to prove that I'm the one whose name is on the list. He drops the bombshell
that there is no list per se, that I just have to show my credentials.
To
this, I offer him a quivering bottom lip as a response.
Okay,
maybe not. But I was clearly straddling the gap between being horribly depressed
and extremely pissed off. He says that he'll have to hold my camera for the time
being, but to meet back at the front area at 9 PM, where he'll point me to
Morrissey's guy, who'll take people to the designated area... IF I pass muster.
And
he makes it quite clear that he thinks I will not.
At
all.
I
go to where the rest of my friends are waiting for me. They've been joined by
Keith, an acquaintance of ours from Virginia Beach, one who has met Morrissey on
several occasions (and has the photos of himself with Mozz to prove it) and who,
as far as any of us can tell, is pretty tight with him.
"What's
wrong with you?" he asks.
"The
damned photo pass. I have no credentials to prove I write for the paper, and
there's no list to confirm that I'm supposed to get the pass."
Keith's
eyes grow hard and cold. "Wait a minute. I'll take care of this." And
he pushes past me.
Two
steps later, he turns around me, smiling, and says, "Nah, I'm just kidding.
I'm not THAT in the know."
While
I now concede that it was pretty funny, at the time, I was ready to throttle
him.
But
I resolve not to worry about it until 9 PM. I relax as best I can and enjoy a
fine set by the Smoking Popes, who, amongst their consistently excellent
originals, also performed a lovely version of "Pure Imagination," from
"Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory." They only play until 8:35.
Then, time begins to pass dreadfully slow.
Finally,
at 8:50, I can wait with my friends no longer. I walk over to near the area
where I'm supposed to meet the security guy. In fact, as I get there, he rushes
past me into the crowd. So I wait for him to come back. And I wait and I wait.
Finally, at exactly 9, he returns.
"Erm,
I'm here to meet for the photo pass," I say.
He
looks blankly at me. Then, he glances around. "I don't see the guy. He was
here a minute ago. Hold on." Fortunately, it only takes him a few steps to
locate the guy. "Go talk to him," he says, "and I'll go get your
camera."
I
walk over to the guy, who already has one other photographer waiting with him.
"Who are you here representing?" he asks.
"Flash
Magazine, in Virginia Beach, VA.”
"And
who'd you talk to?”
"Publicity
at Polygram.”
He
looks me up and down. Then, he says the one word I couldn't imagine he'd
actually say:
"Okay."
He's
handing me the official "Maladjusted" photo pass right as the security
guy comes up with my camera. It feels good, and, clearly, the security guy is
amazed that I've gotten the pass, but he has the common decency not to say so to
Morrissey's rep. Which is good for the security guy, because, clearly, if he'd
screwed things up, I might very well have slain him where he stood.
Suddenly,
out of nowhere, Keith pops up. He walks over to Morrissey's guy, and, pointing
to me, he says, "Hey, you treating this guy alright?"
"Yeah,
yeah, he's good," says Morrissey's feller.
"Cool."
Keith grins. "Have fun, dude."
I
can't resist grinning back. "I certainly plan on it," I reply.
"So
here's the deal," says Morrissey's guy. "You can take pictures during
the first three songs. Don't take any pictures until he starts singing. No flash
photography whatsoever. At the end of the three songs, take your camera,
equipment, and whatever out to your car. At that point, you're welcome to come
back in and enjoy the rest of the show. If I see your camera at any point after
that, we confiscate the film."
I
think to myself that my camera is easy enough to stash in the inside pocket of
my coat after the three songs, so that I don't miss any of the concert. Besides,
after those songs, I'll be walking back to where my friends are, I'll want to
concentrate on the show, and I won't even be thinking about taking more pictures
on the sly. (This theory proves to be accurate, fortunately.)
Then,
he says several words that take me a few seconds to comprehend.
"Follow me, we're going to situate you between the stage and the barrier that holds back the audience."
Erm...what?
You're
going to put me WHERE?
Precisely
two inches from Morrissey?
Two
inches away from the man whose lyrics have gotten me through every depressing
moment in my life? Two inches away from the man who has been, quite frankly,
important enough to my life of music appreciation to be ranked second only to
the Beatles (which is really saying something)?
Oh,
dear.
I'm
escorted up to the area where I'm to be taking pictures. A virtual wall of
Morrissey fans lay behind me. I look at the crappy camera in my hand.
"Okay, camera," I think. "It's just you and me. You're the only
thing I've got to record this moment. You had better not fuck up."
Then,
smoke begins to billow on stage.
It
turns out to be a false alarm, the stage hands merely testing things out before
the show. I realize that, despite this, my heart is beating a mile a minute.
Oh,
great, I'm an inch away from a heart attack during the false alarm, I'm going to
have an actual coronary when he finally comes out on stage.
It's
right around the time of this realization that the lights drop, the smoke begins
to pour for real, and the drum solo from "The Operation," from Southpaw
Grammar, begins to play in the background.
And,
then, he emerges.
I'm
torn between two frames of mind. One is, inevitably, "This is one of my
heroes, and I'm currently in a position where I can literally touch him."
And the other is, "I'm a not-very-professional photographer with a crappy
camera who got his photo pass by the skin of his teeth, and if I look for one
second like I'm just a fan who managed to get a photo pass through a bluff
(which would be VERY easy for them to argue), I'm risking being thrown out of
here."
I
opt for the second mindset.
The
band leaps into "Boy Racer." Morrissey poses around the stage, making
for some brilliant shots. I'm clicking away, making sure to keep moving the film
forward manually after each shot. He stops about two inches from me (once again,
this is LITERALLY) and leans forward to touch hands with the crowd.
I
wonder at this moment if it's worth throwing aside the camera, shaking his hand,
and then leaving, taking a memory with me that'll last longer than any friggin'
pictures.
I
opt to keep taking pictures. I also opt to feel like an idiot for doing so.
To
the surprise of virtually everyone, the band next leaps into "London,"
by the Smiths, and the crowd goes NUTS.
"Oh,
LORD," I find myself muttering, grinning all the way.
It's
brilliant, and I find myself pausing a bit longer between photos this time,
simply enjoying where I'm standing. A SMITHS song. It just doesn't get any
better than this.
The
crowd goes wild upon the song's completion, and Morrissey leaps into "Alma
Matters."
Within
about 30 seconds, I realize I'm out of film. Knowing I have another roll in my
pocket, I try to rewind the film, and it proves to be a struggle. As the song
continues, I realize it's inevitable that I won't be able to reload in time to
take any more pictures. So I stash the camera in my pocket and leave the area.
The
rest of the show was brilliant. Every song he played was either a Smiths song
(he also did "Paint A Vulgar Picture" and "Shoplifters Of the
World Unite") or from Vauxhall & I onward, which means that it was the first time I'd
seen him play any of the songs live. (The last time I'd seen him perform was on
the Your Arsenal tour.) Even the songs from Southpaw
Grammar, which is probably my least favorite Morrissey album, sounded great.
So
I get home, and I take the film to a one-hour developer.
The
end result...?
NONE
of them came out.
None.
Not
a damned one.
Either
the light was too bright for the crappy li'l Clearinghouse camera to handle, or
the film was too good for the crappy camera, or something…but, at best, there
are a few blurs recognizable as a very near-by Morrissey.
Sure,
I cursed a bit. Okay, a LOT, actually. But the more I think about it, the less
it bothers me…because, when you get right down to it, I certainly wouldn't
trade the moment for anything.
Well, maybe for some good pictures. But you know what I mean.
(The photo, in case you're wondering, appears courtesy of J. Spencer Holm, who also attended the Raleigh show...but who clearly had a far better camera than I did.)