The Road to Coney Island

As I walked the road to Coney Island welfare office (I walk to avoid paying the metrocard fare), I thought about a recent debacle involving a job offer. It was with an "alternative," private employment agency that was looking for youngsters with strong social sciences backgrounds. The interview went about as smoothly as a jalopy car on a pebble beach, but my interviewer liked me enough and I was offered a clerical position the following week. I accepted. Then, and only then, I decided to research the company and, with horror, I discovered that it was founded and run by an anti-welfare right-winger hell-bent on using state money to undermine our country's meager asssistance programs. I sent them an embarrassed, frustrated e-mail rescinding my acceptance.

The experience reified the major personal dilemma which will inevitably haunt my twentysomethings: are there any jobs out there for which I am qualified that both pay a living wage and mesh with my ethical principles? Unfortunately, “business ethics” is an oxymoron, and most jobs in the private sector will involve undermining or hurting someone else: the end result of competition is one winner and a sinkhole-full of losers. Not slipping on a tie and acquiescing to this state of affairs ensures starvation, and yet, my attitude to joining "Corporate America," at least for now, remains similar to that of many anti-fur activists:

And so, with my savings slumping inward like a dead man’s eyeballs, I panicked and began looking up food pantries and homeless shelters. This is, for the most part, an overreaction – but there is something to be said about the Alphaville lyric: “preparing for the best but expecting the worst: are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”

Although budgeting is always on my mind, I am keen on “keeping up appearances,” as in meeting friends at bars, buying rounds and tipping appropriately. Such admittedly-irresponsible behavior probably relates to my Jewish upbringing, as the stereotype of the “cheap Jew” persists, and my parents always emphasized tipping heartily, probably as a direct result of this stereotype.

Little luxuries are also essential. These include the occasional $1.89 can of seitan. In truth, I could probably survive on four or five $0.75 cans of beans per day, but such a miserable, gaseous fate would appeal only to the rare Le Pétomane among us.

Coffee, whether instant, tinned or in the form of an airtight brick, is another one of those necessary luxuries. Along my aforementioned walk, a jovial, mustachioed gent smiled at me and said, in the type of more-Italian-than-American Brooklynese accent reminiscent of those found in (forgive me) the Super Mario Bros. franchise:

“The diner. Over there. For you! For the coffee!”

“Uh, thanks!” He walked by quickly. I did not have my morning coffee – how on earth did he know? Clearly, this encounter was kismet, downright magical: the heavens themselves wanted me to get a cup of delicious, home-style coffee. I peeked through the diner window and saw somewhere warm, old-fashioned and wood-grain: the kind of place where all the customers order waffles, and where all are served by a smiling, red-lipped waitress who always carries an expensive-looking pen. I perused at the menu. A coffee would cost me $1.30: not much more than in any given bodega. I hesitated, thinking that, if I had the money in change, I would buy the coffee. I had only a few dimes and a quarter, but fate wanted me to buy that coffee, and so I broke my own set of conditions. 

I told the young waitress about the happy customer and handed her a five dollar note.

“Yes, we know him. He sat over there,” said the waitress, gesturing over the partition where she poured the coffee.

It was good coffee: slightly burnt, but certainly worth one-thirty. 

Kale Tries Zumba

I was six years old when I first expressed an interest in dance. Knowing it was deviant – but not quite knowing why – I told my parents that I wanted to try ballet. Ma, likely bothered by the thought of wee Kelsey in a tutu, forbade this, which could explain why I am about as limber as firewood today. Who knows what would have happened if I enjoyed ballet and became a dancer? Maybe I would have become a world-class ballerino, in that stunning physical shape which always accompanies dance talent. Damned heterosexism.

Throughout High School, I assumed it was cool to dance like Ian Curtis:

And throughout College, I thought Thom Yorke had all the right moves:

In truth, I probably resembled Mark Corrigan:

***

Very recently, when given the option to either try dance or exercise at a local studio, I chose both, in the form of Zumba. I looked-up some clips on YouTube before going. The various dances looked complicated, but I believed that the instructor would teach us the basic moves as we went along. This was not the case. As our instructor explained, she would bellow out the occasional instruction, grunt or sound effect while dancing, but we were mostly advised simply to copy her moves. After assuring my fellow tyros that any movement at all was valid, she cranked-up the volume on her yellow boombox and suddenly started dancing. Everyone joined in. I gave it my best shot.

There were wall-length mirrors directly in front of me, reflecting the moving Zumba instructor; behind her danced the class, slightly delayed, like a string of incompetent back-up performers. I was the worst. While the instructor’s arms appeared to be wooing a potential lover with martial arts, violently declaring amoré, my own flailing arm gesticulations must have resembled one of my old, Israeli uncles trying to haggle-down the price of a used car. My lower body, attempting to imitate the instructor's sexual, feminine struts, instead jerkily frolicked about, a bit like a bunny winning the lettuce lottery, or a young child who really, really needs the bathroom. Hence my attempt at Zumba'ing.

12 Classic Youth (Un)Employment Songs

I like to think of the following as coming-of-age music. They all highlight that pivotal point in our lives when we confront the impracticality of our greatest aspirations: an inevitable, albeit difficult part of growing-up. If you're in that proverbial boat, may these songs - angry yet empathetic - lend you some comfort.
***

“Career Opportunities,” by The Clash

Emphasizing the whole youth thing, here's the version on Sandinista!, sung by Mickey Gallagher's (the keyboardist from Ian Dury and the Blockheads) two boys.

“Ghost Town,” by The Specials

Reckless driving through deserted streets... written after a visit to Glasgow.

“Living with Unemployment,” by The Oppressed

I was first introduced to the Newtown Neurotics version of this song, but The Oppressed, an anti-fascist skinhead band, wrote it first. Both versions are excellent.

“When You’re Young,” by The Jam

"Swallow your youthful pride!" belted The Jam to a bunch of teens, live on Something Else. And then the end credits start rolling.

“The Government Administrator,” by Eggs

Indie rock song about deciding whether or not to apply for a job you don't really want, while waiting among a sea of other nervous applicants, with that demon on your shoulder reminding you that time is running out.

“To Have and Have Not,” by Billy Bragg

Leave it to Billy Bragg to powerfully-link youth unemployment with the structural defects inherent in capitalism:
"At twenty one you're on top of the scrapheap
At sixteen you were top of the class
All they taught you at school
Was how to be a good worker
The system has failed you, don't fail yourself"

“What’s Happening Brother?” by Marvin Gaye

Coming home from the Vietnam War to a country in socio-economic mailaise.

“Young, Gifted and Skint,” by New Model Army

There's probably a Nina Simone/Lorraine Hansberry reference in that title... About being fresh out of university and heavily in debt: how relatable!

“Bastards of Young,” by The Replacements

A rallying cry for anyone experiencing the various quarter-life crises, (un)employment included.

“1 in 10,” by UB40

As in, one out of ten people unemployed in the United Kingdom during the time the song was written. A testimony to the apathy with which society regards the unemployed poor. The band itself is named after a claim form for "the dole."

“Wham Rap! (Enjoy What You Do?),” by Wham!

George Michael sings something vaguely political, but not politically-correct (I have full confidence that you’ll detect the lyric to which I am referring…)

“Hand in Pocket,” by Alanis Morissette

We'll end this entry on a note of cautious optimism: "I'm young and I'm underpaid, I'm tired but I'm workin', yeah!"

Indeed, as Alanis consoles:
"No one's really got it figured out just yet"

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.