I Ushered for Morrissey: Now My Heart is Full

By odd coincidence (or maybe because he read the book), much like Charlie in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, I was introduced to The Smiths when a junior high school teacher made me a mix tape of their works. “In order to be an eighties fan,” said my teacher, for lamentably, I once claimed that title, “you’ve got to like The Smiths.”

Hesitantly, I put the tape in my portable tape player, pressed play, and at “There is a Light that Never Goes Out,” I felt some switch deep within me click. Thus, at age twelve, with my interest in music piqued (having lain dormant with the worsening state of popular music at the start of the millennium), a lifelong adventure ensued.

All of my indie flames taken into account, my lengthiest musical love affair has been with Morrissey and The Smiths (the band he once led). The iconic singer has long provided the theme music to my life. In High School, Viva Hate and Strangeways, Here We Come spun round and round on my turntable. In College, I mourned to “I Know it’s Over,” celebrated with “A Swallow on my Neck” and wandered around Boston to “Late Night, Maudlin Street,” wondering about the whereabouts of loved ones lost. More recently, I spent my 24^th birthday – still shell-shocked from losing Glasgow – ambling around Manhattan to “Why Don’t You Find Out for Yourself?”

In addition to all of his erudite lyricism, often tailored to empathize with his listeners, Morrissey made me feel less lonely about my decision to abstain from meat. I became vegetarian at age nine. When I discovered that Morrissey had similar anti-meat reservations – enough to write a song about it and even entitle an album “Meat is Murder” – I felt infinitely grateful.

***

While browsing his songs on YouTube, I discovered that Morrissey would soon be performing at the very place in which I ushered. I yelped around my apartment. This was simply surreal: I had the opportunity to watch my musical amore perform, and I would get paid for doing so.

Immediately, I sent an e-mail to the head usher, wondering how long in advance I should request that shift. I was told to wait a month. These things take time. When it became time to sign-up, I mistakenly sent my request to the wrong e-mail address. I did not discover that I had done this until a week before the gig. Fortunately, remembering how I felt about the man (she knows I’d love to see him), my manager added my name to the shift. Cue Natalie Merchant:

On the day of the gig, I felt an unbearable mixture of excitement and anxiety, as if my shift were some mixture between a hot date and the interview for the perfect job. I spent hours preparing: showering, grooming, making sure I smelled alright, double-checking that my black ushering clothes did not magically disappear, etc. Once aboard the subway, my muscles and viscera started seizing-up: taut as steel knots. “Panic” indeed.

I arrived fifty minutes before call, so I decided to pass the time by talking distractedly to fellow ushers. Eventually, the sign-in sheet was brought out, naming our stations. Mine was far up in the balcony: our theater's nosebleed section. What difference does that make? It makes none.

During our pre-show usher meeting, I found myself grinning in blithe disbelief throughout the head usher's introduction to the show. No attempts at composure would hide my happiness as she ran-down the details. She was presumably unfamiliar with Morrissey and bemused by the unusual protocols surrounding the show:

• In case we weren't aware, Morrissey has a highly-devoted fan base. Despite being a ticketed event, and despite being sold-out, some of the people in the lobby had been there for over three hours, just happy to be in the same building as their musical hero. On a related note, this would be a high-security gig and extra measures would be taken to keep order.
• Morrissey is a vegan (has he gone vegan?) who is "into PETA," hence the PETA stall in the lobby and the absence of meat on the first floor. However, should a patron ask for meat, there were turkey sandwiches available in the mezzanine café.
• It is not unusual for people to leap on stage and try to hug Morrissey. Four guards would patrol the stage to keep people from doing this.
• The water bottle incident was mentioned. Patrons would be discouraged from bringing capped bottled into the theatre. However, as the ushers reasoned, this was a difficult rule to enforce, and damage could be done with an uncapped water bottle if thrown correctly. The head usher agreed, adding that slips from water spillage were more of a priority anyway.
• Kristeen Young was the opening act. She would perform for the first thirty minutes. There would be a thirty minute intermission in which an anti-meat film would be screened (this did not actually happen: music videos – including those starring Nico, the New York Dolls, The Sparks, David Bowie and a couple of sixties/seventies European pop musicians – were instead shown during the break).
•  Morrissey would come on stage at around nine and play until ten thirty, “but Kelsey, the devoted fan in our midst, would probably like to see him play until midnight." You guessed it, Ms. Manager!

The first hour was chaotic. People entered and exited at their will during the opening act, which meant that I had to guide rushes of people to their seats, in darkness, on the steep inclines of the balcony level. I also had to remind people to keep their tickets with them as they left for concessions.

Soon, the intermission ended, and the screen on which the aforementioned music videos were projected went dark. A disembodied voice had started reading from a list (was it a list of 20th century new events?) and a light show commenced. People were still trickling in. I was momentarily worried that I wouldn’t find a position from which to enjoy the show before it started, but the announcer's bizarre list droned on. Thankfully, with the trickle quickly slowing, I took my place, and as I rested on a post between two emergency doors, Morrissey and his band emerged from stage left. Even that far up, I recognized him: the stage lights caught the contours of his face.

My job during the show was reduced to shining my flashlight at the floor, helping patrons see whenever they ascended/descended the stairs. That, in addition to keeping an eye out for the special instructions of floor managers (which I did by glancing over my shoulder every few minutes), I was able to enjoy the performance.

 

Morrissey began the show with “Action is My Middle Name,” a newer song that he's been performing a lot lately. He followed with “Everyday is Like Sunday,” which resonated through my bones like a religious affirmation. I shouted the lyrics along with my comrades in the audience in spite of myself. I was only singing.

At first, I tried to keep a mental playlist, but my memory has not held up. Instead, I’ll run through some highlights:

• “How Soon is Now?” finished with killer drumming from a most splendid drum set.
• There was one apparel casualty: a pink shirt was sacrificed following a magical performance of “Let Me Kiss You.” Morrissey tore it off and threw it to the ravenously crowd. Three shirts were worn overall.
• I regard Vauxhall and I as a flawless album – his best solo work, even if Viva Hate has personal significance to  me – and so I was thrilled by his stunning performance of “Speedway.”
• In between songs, Morrissey brought out a sealed envelope. "...And 'the best musician award' goes to..." This was how he introduced his band: "Boz Boorer on guitar..." etc.  "...And the winner is," said the singer, opening the envelope to the sound of the audience chanting his name, "Taylor Swift?" He flicked the envelope into the audience. Trash.
• During “November Spawned a Monster,” the first person to successfully jump up on stage embraced Morrissey at the lyric when the Mozzer requested to be hugged. I found this incredibly touching (much more so than the couple next to whom I was standing, who seem to have found romance in this song about a disabled child).
• A female audience member was able to climb up on stage and hug Morrissey. I get the impression that this is rather rare. Usually the men do the hugging.
• “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” was performed like a prayer, answered in the end.
• The show finished with “Meat is Murder,” in which Morrissey gesticulated to graphic factory farm footage, asking “Do you care? Do you care? Do you care?” Some of the lines were changed, most memorably: "K. F. C. ...MURDER." The song concluded with Moz kneeling in front of the screen as the guitars shrieked like screaming knives.

At the end of "Meat is Murder," Morrissey bowed with his band members and left the stage. The audience and I applauded wildly until they agreed to perform an encore. He chose “Still Ill,” a favorite of mine. Here the audience went wild. Several who got on stage were thrown violently back into the crowd by the security guards, who were now lurking behind Morrissey like failed back-up dancers.

Then Morrissey and his band left the stage permanently, and no amount of applause would bring them back.

***

With our love-drenched feelings mutual, I enjoyed my interactions with Morrissey fans. Noting my status as an usher – an enforcer of theatre house rules – a bearded gent jovially grabbed my arm, albeit unexpectedly, and informed me that he wouldn't stop dancing even if I told him to do so. After all, this was a concert. Smiling, I told him that I wouldn’t stop him unless my superior said I should. He wasn’t in the aisle, so this wouldn't have been a problem.

After the show, a different fellow shook my hand, noting that he had seen me clearly enjoying myself in the corner. He expressed happiness that I did, being that there were probably several shows that I had to see and didn’t like (this isn’t really the case; my venue puts on amazing gigs). I awkwardly shook his hand for the second time and thanked him for his positive regard.

As the crowd emptied, a woman who had enjoyed the show asked me whether I knew much about Morrissey. I confessed my enthusiasm, which I hope paralleled her own.

I would have liked to talk to other patrons about Morrissey, but alas, I had to hop a subway and head back to the old house. A fellow usher was seated next to me on the subway. I found myself speaking loudly to her about the show (which wasn't her thing), hoping to catch the attention of a rather attractive concert attendee seated across from me. It didn't work. The said concert-goer had earphones in and alighted only a few stops down.

Regardless, after finally witnessing the splendor of Morrissey in concert, Now My Heart is Full.

Welfare, American Style

On my current budget, it would be impractical for me to buy many of the foods that I like to eat, such as fruits and vegetables. I consequently applied for Supplemental Nutritional Assistance, or “food stamps,” as the program once was called (and as everyone still calls it). If Ayn Rand believes that this makes me undeserving of love, so be it.

My nearest benefits center is in Coney Island. The area has a strange still to it this time of year, likely exacerbated by the lingering, spectral presence of Hurricane Sandy. Inside the building, the walls are painted off-white, with a mauve color rising like a cheerful water-stain about three feet off the floor. Triangles of this mauve paint have peeled, exposing the sad concrete walls underneath.

Those seeking benefits are an extraordinarily diverse lot. When glancing at their faces, I can’t help wondering about their respective countries of origin, and which regimes they survived.

She must have survived Mao. He somehow endured Stalin. That shawled woman with the waddling child might have fled Assad…

I have also noticed that a significant number of the workers at the benefits center appear incapable of smiling, empathizing or betraying any other sign of their presumed humanity. Those with Russian or Western-African accents are usually beneficent; it is, unfortunately, my fellow Americans who tend to treat people the worst. This rude, apathetic and, in some cases, abusive treatment is the inevitable result of my country’s individualistic, pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps mindset. Often, when someone in need of assistance points out some procedural injustice in their case, those in the position to help instead respond by repeating themselves, only louder and more slowly: e.g., “YOU NEED TO HAVE AN EMPLOYMENT VERIFICATION FORM.” Vitriol fills their eyes as they speak. You would think they were dealing with an infamous paedophile from a television news story.

Perhaps apathy and suspicion are meant to safeguard against benefits fraud, even if the grounds for these suspicions are largely stereotypical and not reflected in actual fact:

http://www.addictinginfo.org/2012/10/08/center-on-budget-and-policy-priorities-defends-government-assistance-programs-from-gop-scorn/

I requested a fair hearing trial after my initial application for food stamps… er, “Supplemental Nutritional Assistance” was rejected. However, the date on which this was scheduled clashed with a dentist appointment (Medicaid was surprisingly easier to attain: I first assumed that the price of the program would make acceptance a novelty, but then I realized that, as a publicly-funded health care program, it’s probably cheaper than private care…). I asked if I could reschedule the date of my hearing. I could not. What should I do?

“You’ll have to decide which is most important to you,” said the woman at the desk, with a strange smile ticking-up the corners of her mouth.

YouTube Randomness for a Rainy Day

Some hilarious, some serious and some plain bizarre... here's a mixture of YouTube randomness for your next rainy day (or for every day should you happen to live in Glasgow):
***

Breakdancing Facial Expressions, or whatever you want to call this:

When I first saw this one, I probably laughed harder than I had ever laughed in all my life.

 Just Say Yes

An ancient video mash-up of Ronnie and Nancy Reagan promoting drug use.

The Max Headroom Broadcast Intrusion Incident

A television signal getting hijacked by a video pirate.


Awkward PSAs aimed at kids, such as:

For an equally fun list of anti-drug PSAs, check this out:
http://vegetablejam.blogspot.com/2012/08/12-awkward-anti-drug-psas.html

Vagina Power

An unnecessarily graphic rant from an Atlanta-based public access program... whenever I introduce this to people, they either stare confusedly or laugh until they change color.

Protect and Survive videos

Part of a dated, flatly-wrong but nevertheless eerie British public information series about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. For the rest of the videos:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6U9T3R3EQg

BBC coverage of the Tiananmen Square massacre

Journalism that leaves a mark.

Arguing with an Ibex

I wonder what they'd think of Congress?


More arguing: Vidal vs. Buckley

"Now listen, you queer..."

Mary Hartman's live, on-air nervous breakdown

A 1970s American housewife defends her consumerist lifestyle. The point at which this stops being funny is ambiguous.

Dated Job Training Videos, such as the atrocious “Grill Skills” video put out by the Wendy's fast food chain:

I find this depressing, even if that over-the-top hip-hop song is memorable in its own right.

Drew Droge's Chloe Sevigny Series

"Good evening America..."


Mr. Rogers Defending PBS

One of the more inspiring clips in YouTube. With simple candor, a children's television host is able, quite literally, to save United States public television.

Thatcher getting schooled

It's always a pleasure to see anyone outsmart a right-wing leader.

Future Shock

Bizarre, full-length documentary which assumes only the dystopian from obsolescent, "Look Around You" aesthetics.


The Glasgow version of "Last Friday Night"

 

Speaks for itself.

Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that

I hold the multi-talented Kate Bush in high esteem. Her penchant for experimentation, both musically and lyrically, is one of the reasons I like her as much as I do. Because her lyrical subject matter is quite varied and difficult to keep track of, I have assembled the following list, which I hope will help the next time you wonder whether "Kate Bush wrote a song about that."
***

A panic-drenched bank heist? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"There Goes a Tenner"

 Scooby and Shaggy would have been less paranoid than these villainous characters...

Psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich, his rain-making machine and his problems with the Feds... all told from the perspective of Wilhelm's son? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Cloudbusting"

Epic music video.

The effects of nuclear fallout... on a fetus? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

 "Breathing"

This one previously appeared in a similar post of mine:
http://vegetablejam.blogspot.com/2012/09/17-songs-with-bizarre-subject-matter.html

Sharing a romantic dance... with Hitler? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Heads We're Dancing"
“They say that the Devil is a charming man…”

Asphyxiating to death... on a moon colony? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Stranded at the Moonbase"

 From her early demos. She wrote this song at age 19.

Sex... with a snowman? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Misty"

Moral of the Story: sex with a snowman will inevitably lead to disappoinment. Thanks, Kate.

Addictions... to Kraftwerk-isch computer love? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Deeper Understanding"

Pity OkCupid wasn't around then... 

A B-movie bride on a murder rampage? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"The Wedding List"

This is a fine example of Kate's laugh-out-loud hilarious wit. The song was based on the film The Bride Wore Black.

Spying... on a gay Iraqi? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Kashka from Baghdad"

 She'd have more of a chance with Rinfy the Gypsy.

A mathematician, I guess, with an irrational love for an irrational number? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"π"
3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 58209 74944 59230 78164 06286 20899 86280 34825 34211 70679 82148 08651 &c. &c. &c.

Ghosts from 19^th century romantic novels? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Wuthering Heights"
Recent discovery: I can be wooed by those rare souls capable of seamlessly-performing Kate's famous Wuthering Heights dance. Red Dress version? White Dress version? I'm not picky.

London politician Ken Livingstone? Yes, Kate Bush wrote a song about that:

"Ken"

In all fairness, this one was for a satirical television program that, for one episode, depicted Livingstone as an American-style left-wing super-hero, pitted against Tory party baddies.

Decisions in Footwear Ethics, Part I: Dr Martens

Recently, the toe creases of my trusty, well-worn Dr Martens began to crack. I had hoped to mend my boots, but when I called customer service for advice on repairing “quilon leather,” they told me, with a hint of wounded pride, that Dr Martens are not supposed to fissure; this was a structural defect. I was therefore entitled to trade-in my old boots for a new pair.

Of course, following their offer, the usual stream of annoying ethical dilemmas trickled into my Jainistic brain, starting with the occasionally-lax approach to veganism that led me to buy the leather boots in the first place. On the one hand, by accepting the offer, yet another cow would have to die. On the other, unlike the first time, I wasn’t technically paying to kill this second cow, and besides, Dr Martens supposedly last a decade, and I did pay good money for my pair...

The boots were “Made in England,” and I initially assumed my footwear to be the product of unionized labo(u)r. Although I have not been able to determine whether Dr Martens’ English workforce is, in fact, represented by a union, the workers apparently have the right to form or join one – even those in China.

Essentially, by accepting a new pair, I again reneged on animal rights, but likely supported fair labor. I could have done far better and I could have done far worse.

(Additionally, unless the company changed their policies since I bought my first pair in 2009, I might not have done the best job of researching their environmental-friendliness. Back then, I could swear I read somewhere that Dr Martens are vegetable-tanned, but as it turns out, the company does not disclose details about their impact on the environment.)

I bid my old Martens a sad adieu, for they were perfectly broken-in (save for the part about actually being broken), and as every Dr Martens-wearing ethicist can testify, breaking-in a new pair of those boots is about as painful as an IMF/World Bank Structural Adjustment Program.

The new boots came in the mail within two weeks:

shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather

The Dr Martens people were kind enough to throw in a pair of white laces upon my request. White goes well with oxblood. I was afraid to buy white bootlaces when I lived in Glasgow because, in 1970s UK skinhead culture, bootlaces carried political connotations, and white bootlaces were once aligned with white supremacy; according to the occasional random website, that is. My Glasgow flatmate laughed away my concerns, never having heard of this nonsense before. If I’m not a 1970s UK skinhead, and if I’m not white by British standards (even if I am by American standards), why should I worry?

I nevertheless wore black laces when in Glasgow. Red and black: I could deal with being mistaken for an anarchist, even if not an animal-friendly one.



(In case you're wondering, "Decisions in Footwear Ethics, Part II" will be posted when the Macbeths I've been waitlisted for finally arrive...)

Kale Migrates South for the Winter

Not long ago I realized that my racially-ambiguous self looks more Middle Eastern in some contexts than in others. In the airport, before and during flights bound south of the Mason-Dixon, I look incredibly Middle Eastern.

My initial discomfort among Southerners prompts me to imagine all sorts of awkward in-flight scenarios: suspicious frowns from Texans in Stetsons the size of an oil tycoon’s gut, or one of the many nervous, squat, secretarial gentlewomen in the waiting area turning to me and asking, apprehensively: “are you Muslim?”

Although nothing quite like that has yet happened to me, I have gotten selected for "random" searches before, and once, I even got my hair patted-down. This was in Texas. I laughed about it as it was happening. What else could I do? Who's heard of such a thing? I then realized that this laughter probably made me look even more suspect, which caused me to nervously-laugh a bit more, against my will and better judgement.

To assuage possible suspicions, I turned to the woman who flattened my wavy black locks and told her that I've never had this done to me before. Her response was: "that's why I just love them curlicues, heh heh!"

***

During my flight to Atlanta, I sat in the aisle seat, next to two women that had boarded together. Naturally, in an attempt to be social, I asked them if they were from our arrival destination.

The woman in the center seat smiled. “We’re from north Georgia.”

Uh oh, I thought: a place with a reputation! The other woman in the window seat looked slightly disconcerted by something; I hoped not my presence.

As I reflexively do whenever someone tells me that they’re from a certain place, I blabbered everything I knew about Georgia:  Peaches! The Appalachian Mountains! Farms! The women joined me in describing their beautiful countryside, and the conversation rolled on through the rest of their state. When I mentioned the obscure Atlanta suburb from which my very best friend comes from, southern or otherwise, both of their faces lit up in recognition. “We’ve been there,” they chirped, and nothing more was said about the place. The same friend would later describe his town as “a church and a strip mall,” but I think he’s holding-off, as I distinctly remember him mentioning that his town boasts a well-loved rock.

I asked them if they enjoyed New York. They lit up again. I began wondering if the disconcerted Georgian in the window seat probably had a slight fear of flight, not Middle-Easterners. A big, blue turbine was blocking her window seat view. Going south from LaGuardia gives airplane travelers a gorgeous image of the New York City skyline. The woman revealed that she never had a window seat before, and she had been looking forward to this one.

Fortunately, once the plane took off, a sliver of skyline was still visible. The two women excitedly snapped photographs of what they could. I was happy for them, I told them so, and I meant it.