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There is a light that will never go out: Two perspectives on the Morrissey phenomenon
Sean: The biggest surprise of the festival was Morrissey mania. A staggering number of people attended the event simply to see Morrissey perform on Day 1. Moz owned this crowd. Countless cars in the parking lot blared old Moz and Smiths tunes. Inside the venue, maybe four in 10 people were wearing Morrissey-oriented T-shirts. When he took the stage in the early evening, the crowd went absolutely out of its mind -- which has to encourage a guy who hasn’t released an album in about two years and who is currently “between labels.”
Truthfully, Moz just doesn’t do it for me like he used to. Back in the day (say, sophomore year of high school), I would’ve killed a family member for a chance to get as close to him as I managed to get at Coachella (gotta love that photo pass).
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| Morissey: who knew he was still so dang popular? |
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It would’ve thrilled me to bits when he played “Meat Is Murder” and “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me,” two smoldering classics from his days with the Smiths. I confess to a slight pang of anticipation over pre-show rumors that he might reunite with estranged Smiths songwriting partner and guitarist Johnny Marr. (Their pairing did not occur; Marr, one of many no-shows at Coachella, did not even appear to play his new role as Beck’s guitarist.) However, as a 20-something who’s finally comfortable in his own skin, it interested me more to eat some dinner, drink a beer and grab a few moments to myself on an uncrowded expanse of grass than it did to watch Moz run through the same shtick you see him run through on videos from 1991. Still, I have to marvel at the man’s Latino fan base, which is as devoted a throng of idolaters now as it was 10 years ago.
Eric: Bad memories don’t particularly come rushing back to you while standing for hours in the hot sun. They prefer to circle like vultures just outside the periphery of your vision. The 800-pound bird of prey that was Morrissey’s impact on Coachella hovered above me before I even got there, though it took me a while to notice it stalking me. On the bill, Morrissey was linked with the Chemical Brothers, and a friend horrified me by suggesting that the big-beat maestros might actually team up with Morrissey’s mordant melodrama. Egad. Thankfully, that unholy pairing never occurred. The first car in the Coachella lot we passed should have clued me in to the gaggle of fans awaiting the call of their master’s voice, but it wasn’t until walking past an absurdly long line with more varieties of Smiths and Morrissey T-shirts that I thought possible that I discerned the army of followers that Morrissey’s appearance inspired to endure the torrid weather.
My past experiences with the Mozzer have turned me bitter. In college, I spent over a year with a roommate whose play list consisted exclusively of the Smiths and Morrissey. Said roommate would extol the wit of songs like “Frankly, Mr. Shankley” and attempt to torment my carnivorous soul with “Meat Is Murder.” I tried not to feel too contemptuous. Everyone has their own tastes, and though I feel that most of Morrissey’s material is most appropriate for self-absorbed high schoolers (not that I didn’t go through the same stage; I just got pissed off at the world and bumped NWA), I kept to myself my real feelings toward those who wore black T-shirts -- or worse, black fishnet stockings to go with their black Morrissey T-shirts. I thought of the torment that surrounds adolescents east of Orange County, Calif., (I myself spent three misbegotten years in Riverside) and understood for a moment. Then I heard the bass thumping from a DJ tent and followed my bobbing head to a different beat.
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