Morrissey, el
legendario
("Morrissey,
the legendary")
Interview by Leonardo Tarife�o
Zona 247
Translation by Monica
Original article
(in Spanish), submitted by Alfredge
| NOTE: The included interview never took place and is completely made up. Please read Morrissey's response to the article. |
| The ex-leader of The Smiths comes to Buenos Aires as
part of his Oye Esteban tour. Zona 247 was with Morrissey in Mexico,
which started the Latin American segment of the tour: what follows is a
chronicle of that encounter, interview included. By Leonardo Tarife�o Especially for Zona 247, from Mexico City Morrissey, intimate Morrissey�s Oye Esteban tour is one of the greatest eccentricities of the year 2000�s rockers: it does not stand on the excuse of a new album, nor present new songs, nor produce any stamp of discography (?), and does not even include any monstrous elements of the rock �n� roll business like that of an eternal manager, obsessed & the correspondent, (& malhumored) boss of his industry. This sounds very strange, almost like the proper Morrissey, even though this should definitely be the most natural thing. Three months ago, in the same Four Seasons Hotel of the nation�s capital, a journalistic date with the members of Rage Against the Machine had to pass the customs of two dark, armed figures, one karate bodyguard, and one press agent well known to cellular phones -- reminded one of the technowarriors of the Matrix. And since the world is backwards, the eminent threat of violence made everything seem logical and normal. Now it is difficult to know if that is logical or not, but the only ones that await in the hall of the Four Seasons are a few fans and three journalists camouflaged as unconditional followers or enamoured ones that would pass the test of flying bullets. The scene does not compare with the hysterical policing that revolved the Ragers (justified in Mexico by the admiration that the band expressed again and again toward the Subcommander Marcos and the EZLN), but to talk to Morrissey can be the same as this or even more complicated. And not because he�s a star that�s especially inaccessible -- he comes in and out of the hotel without any protection, has dialogues with his fans, signs autographs every time one asks -- but because he detests the idiocy of the worst journalists. So then, now in the Latin American segment of the tour that started on the 1st of February in Washington, Morrissey cancelled a Mexican press conference, did not interview with local media, and only granted a few reports disguised and ambulant to two web pages, one to a Los Angeles magazine and to a teenage fanzine of Guadalajara. And to all are imposed the same conditions: nothing about his family, nothing about his private life, and everything one wants to know about the concert, but only after one has seen it. This signifies that the dialogue, if there is luck, is promised for some moment of the aftershow, after midnight, who knows where. Morrissey, live The concert was scheduled for 8:30 and starts at 9 on the dot. The last sound one hears before the lights are out and a gigantic screen - where a �Morrissey� projection shines, written in the same typography that Elvis used in his comeback concerts of the 70�s -- is �My Way�, the ultra-epic version by Frank Sinatra. The band lands and immediately rocks without being able to decipher; the audience is burned by every riff and Morrissey appears dressed in a PVC black suit from head to toe, a shadow of Elvis, and shouts a tender �hola� while exploding, now, into �Boy Racer.� The show is potent; Morrissey moves on tipped toes, fights against the music and turns the microphone�s cord into the whip that hits the backs of his songs. From one side to another of the stage, strong but fragile, the singer comes closer to his fans as if seeking refuge, hungry for admiration, and with the noisy tenderness that the audience gives, mouthing the lyrics of �Billy Budd,� the second bomb that explodes in the Auditiorio Nacional. Not one show is the same as another: in Minneapolis and in New York he opened with �Ouija Board, Ouija Board�, �Billy Budd� was for the end... here, will he also perform Bowie�s "Drive-in Saturday", or Suede�s "My Insatiable One"? Morrissey runs and his footprints are those of an eternal adolescent, a playful and sensible divo, the only rocker capable of inventing the asexual seduction. Effectively, he does not look gay, nor a slave to virility, much less bisexual or androgynous than the Prince, David Bowie or Mick Jagger types; at moments he reminds one of Bryan Ferry or Nick Cave, but more like Elvis and always to his own self, the postpunk hero that seduces and is sexy, even though we don�t know how or with what. His movements are rough but measured, born out of a cold heat that is a definite mark of his ambiguity. Like his idols -- Oscar Wilde, James Dean or Elvis-- Morrissey gets lost in an image cultivated by the public�s mystery; his myth is on it's way of becoming the most obscure musical icon of his time, and seeing him in action does not reveal the enigma: it turns into something more profound. The vertigo is so recent and such that during the third song -- �November Spawned A Monster� -- one notices that the band members are wearing Mexican charros. In Argentina, will they go dressed as gauchos? This question is inopportune because the stage rages �Hairdresser on Fire,� from Viva Hate (the same album that includes �Everyday Is Like Sunday�... Does he dare to touch that song?), one of the night�s highlights. �I might be depressed, but I�m remarkably dressed...� At this height, the platforms of the Auditorio Nacional shoot fire from their ignitions. Morrissey�s lyrics were never melancholic, though it�s true that they work out a celebration of a past that�s been hurt by a certain pulsing love-in-vain. ("Everyday Is Like Sunday", "Late Night, Maudlin Street", and so many more); drowned in that very same subtleness, this concert is not commemorating a monument to nostalgia, in spite of what the thousands of thirtysomethings might be suggesting as they hug and jump and howl to the first stanzas of �Is It Really So Strange?� by The Smiths. Guided by Morrissey, the night is a sea of festivities that pay homage to a time that�s disappeared forever, and now all the vibrant ones in the Auditiorio Nacional are ready to brilliantly fail, to get lost at sea. But no one needs to lament, much less miss: that�s the lesson the poet is beginning to leave, now in his forties, with �Now My Heart Is Full� and, most all, �Break Up The Family� (I�m so glad to grow older/ to move away from those darker years...�). The backdrops: West Ham Club gates, British Martyrs, and finally a Steve McQueen that points to the artist and to its audience. The star disappears and returns wearing torn jeans and a West-Ham T-shirt, the first of the three that he will give to the ones in the front rows. Steve McQueen continues without throwing/missing. The one that is pointing and attacking is Morrissey, onto the section that is the most delicate and sensible of the concert. First, one long and tense version of �I Am Hated for Loving�; then, one after another, falls �Half a Person,� �Alma Matters� (more languid and less pop than in Your Arsenal), �The Teachers Are Afraid of the Pupils� and...�Meat Is Murder�! The band pounds out in a dramatic echo. Morrissey shows his back to his audience and looks at the bassist, almost immobile. To his back, no one else wants to move, a rare magnetism that announces a trick that is worth being prepared for. Those are the beginning chords of �Ouija Board, Ouija Board,� the beginning of the end of the concert. Morrissey, Oral Given this impression, the Oye Esteban tour serves, more than anything, to let Morrissey breathe again. Seeing him live is to be a witness of his mixed apotheosis, to be a part of the energy, the impulse, that moves toward the shadow (or like front steps) of an abyss that is the Applause. In respect to the audience, the reactions are preconceived. The fanatics come out more fanatical and the sensationalists come out reproachful because he didn�t play hymns like �Suedehead,� �Everyday Is Like Sunday,� or �Bigmouth Strikes Again.� No one leaves unhappy after the end unravels with �Tomorrow,� �Shoplifters of the World Unite,� and �Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me� (with the last change of clothing, as a mariachi), but almost everyone agrees that the 75 minutes of the show only permit something like a romantic trace of a star changing positions. Perhaps to continue with their addiction, about ten fans and the same three journalists that have been following him since the morning come closer to the disco where Morrissey retires, shortly after midnight. It�s the same bunch that served the aftershow for Gene Loves Jezebel, a few months ago, even though the situation is now different: that night, the musicians wanted to know the Mexican intimacy, today Morrissey will return to his hotel at any moment. Before that final fuse of the star is gone, an interlude acts like a lace [or union] between the fans, the journalists disguised as fans, and the artist. Almost alone with him, he seems larger than life and grandiose, and he does not seem too tired, but the insolence of the DJ is playing dance music. �My God, this looks like England� he says, and behind that complaint pulsates the opportunity for the following interview:
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