1989 01 07 Morrissey, Wolverhampton NME Review (and follow on letter)

DON'T PANIC!

all pix by KEVIN CUMMINS 

MORRISSEY 

WOLVERHAMPTON CIVIC HALL 

THEY’VE COME from as far away as Watford - even further. Sad, innocent faces boarding trains like World War II evacuees. Some have brought sandwiches, some are clutching magazines, some are even wearing hearing aids. But they’re all wearing T-shirts. 

And before the night is through many of these sensitive young souls will bare their claws, they will weep and howl openly and even try their hand at vandalism for perhaps the first time in their lives.
Some might even kill a horse or lose their bags in Newport Pagnall. 

METHOD ACTORS IN MORRISSEY MISERY 

Two bespectacled boys in the twilight of their teens sit across from me on the train, engrossed in the bumper Xmas issue NME, stampeding their way through Len Brown’s ludicrously easy Smiths quiz. 

“Piece of piss, that one,” declares the first, sitting back, arms folded. “It’s Joe Orton.” “Nah, you prat, it’s Shelagh Delaney. Joe Orton was never on a sleeve. Not in this country, anyway.” 

“Yes he was. He was on ‘What Difference Does It Make’.” 

“That was Terence Stamp!” And on and on and on. By the time we reach Birmingham International they are claiming 47 out of 50, and who am I to argue? With the exception of the questionable vote for Orton, these boys are brilliant. 

They’re not going to bother entering, they tell me, not interested in hanging Johnny’s shiny platter on their bedsit wall. They’re heading for the real thing. 

Neither ever got round to to seeing The Smiths live (“never had the money”) and the prospect of a freebie butcher’s at Mozzer - even if they have to go to Wolverhampton - is playing havoc with their fingernails and bladders. 

“We’ll get in all right, bound to,” says one. “Can’t be that many who’d go all this way. It’s a big place, anyway, my brother saw Siouxsie & The Banshees there when they were massive.” 

A capacity of 1,700 means that the Civic Hall is not particularly large in anyone’s book. And when you consider that entrance will be restricted further - T-shirt or no T-shirt - to give the video boys room to set up, it is clear that a vast number, Including our Inter-City chums, will be left dumped on the doorstep. 

The diligent duo don’t want to think about that for now. The train is lumbering out of Birmingham New Street and all conversation has ceased. One of the young men continually runs his fingers through his hair and stares out of the window at the cold West Midlands winter night. His companion’s head is bowed, as If concentrating on some fascinating object on the floor between his knees. 

What are they up to? I’ll tell you what, they’re actually getting into character! They are Method Morrisseys, musing for the last 20 minutes of their journey before they come face to face for the first time with the only man who has ever understood them. But it won’t be long before a large man in a security sweatshirt tells them that their pilgrimage has been in vain. They want the one they can’t have. 

I STARTED SOMETHING ... 

One thousand and four years ago, Lady Wulfruna grew sick and tired of travelling north and south, and decided to settle in a leafy pocket of middle England. Being such a popular lass, many followed her to the settlement, which in time became known as Wulfrun Heanton. 

Fast forward to the 20th century and here we are walking through the damp streets of the now abbreviated Wolverhampton; the first town in Britain to have traffic lights, the butt of a thousand music hall jokes, and home to Enoch Powell, Billy Dainty, Derek Dougan, Tessa Sanderson and Noddy Holder at one time or other. 

Wolverhampton, the birthplace of Banks’ Beers and the Sunbeam car, now has a population of a quarter of a million and was recently turned down In its application for city status. 

Well, that’s the history lesson over with, and who cares? Wolverhampton enters a new era tonight, it becomes a landmark in The Smiths’ very own chapter of popular culture. This is where Morrissey is making his live comeback! 

Mozzer is making a video for his new single, 'The Last Of The Famous International Playboys’, and has chosen this location simply because he felt it was the scene of the best night of the last Smiths tour. 

The Civic Hall is more accustomed to playing host to the Halle Orchestra or big league cabaret stars like Leo Sayer or David Essex. The occasional popster manages to slip through the net of this council-owned venue but usually ticket holders are adequately policed by in-house security and the local constabulary. Tonight, however, there are additional rozzer vans to cope with the Mozzer fans. 

The diehards at the front of the queue have been camped out for three nights and it’s only when the doors open that they strip off their attire and slip in to their pristine Morrissey or Smiths shirts to gain admission. The faithful file in politely, but one girl stalks the outside of the crash barrier with tears in her eyes. She had been queueing for seven hours, asked someone to save her place while she slipped off to the loo, and now she can’t find them. More anxious faces further down the line are beginning to realise that they’re going to be left out in the cold. 

SWEET AND TENDER HOOLIGANS

“No more,” says the man at the entrance and the doors are locked. Screams ring out from around the corner of the building as the message filters along - but nobody moves. A window is smashed, a couple of doors are given a good kicking but don’t budge. Part of the crash barrier topples over as people press forward. They might not be getting in but they don’t want to go home. 

More police arrive - with dogs - and the street is closed to traffic as the boys from Dunstall Road station do their best to get people moving. After half an hour or so the disappointed, despondent and totally shellshocked start to drift into nearby pubs. 

It’s impossible to see who started the fairly tame fracas, and the police wisely don’t attempt any arrests. Okay, there’s been a spot of vandalism, but pretty minor and curiously polite. Conservative estimates suggest nearly 2,000 failed to get in. That’s more than the Wanderers’ average home attendance a couple of seasons ago. 

NOW I KNOW HOW LADY WULFRUNA FELT 

Inside, Bradford’s warm-up set is all but ignored as gleeful faces congratulate each other on gaining entrance. Hitchhiking stories are swapped, as are bootleg tapes and T-shirts. 

Soon all eyes are superglued toward the stage as Steven Patrick pirouettes into view to the strains of ‘Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before’. The moment has arrived, a frighteningly joyous moment we’ve waited two years for. 

Forget Jacko, forget Bros, tonight the air is swamped with screams that started life in the groin. The man of a thousand wet dreams, a man who has fostered more clones than any British singer ever is actually in the same room as us! This is not sarcasm on the part of the writer, we are witnessing a bona fide musical event. 

Like any rhythm section worth their sale (Watts/Wyman, Fleetwood/McVie), Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke look suitably unimpressed by it all, but Craig Gannon is another kettle of fish. He can’t believe his bloody luck! Tonight he is the surrogate Johnny Marr, for the first time (and quite possibly the last) he is out of the shadows and he’s going for it in a big way. 

Mostly he’s treading frets that have gone before (‘Death At One’s Elbow’, ‘Sweet And Tender Hooligan’) but he doesn’t care. He’s as chuffed as the sweaty faces in front of him that he’s actually here. He manages to leave his mark, though, adding fizz to ‘Suedehead’ and laying down the definitive hookline for the new single. For the first time he actually looks like he belongs. 

Front of stage security is almost laughable. I count at least 30 devotees who dare to scramble onto the planks for a brief smooch with Mozzer, all of them willing to return to the throng after their lips have made contact. 

A rush and a push and a camera almost topples over, Morrissey never has a chance to address us between songs as he is too busy trying to lever loving arms from around his neck. 

Seven songs and a single encore is all we get and it seems to pass in seconds, it’s hard to tell whether Morrissey actually enjoyed himself or whether he’s likely to put together a proper tour for 1989. 

But the logic of the event has to be questioned. Free admission is a nice guesture, but what of those who’ve forked out on train fares and the like who never got in? If Morrissey is so fond of Wolverhampton why did he cause panic in the streets, albeit for just a few hours? 

The town is already starved of pop music and the events at the Civic Hall are likely to make the powers that be think again before granting further licences in the future. After all this, the video had better be bloody good. 

Back at the train station, the tearful are comforted by caring friends and cans of Fosters. 

Not only did they not see Mozzer oscillating wildly, but they had to spent a dreary, drizzling night in Wolverhampton, a depressing experience at the best of times. 

The rain falls hard on a humdrum town, this town can drag you down. 

Terry Staunton

OOPS! 

Feasting my eyes upon the latest issue of NME I read with slight mirth the “review” of the Morrissey gig. I was one of the fortunate ones who managed to get into the curious venue to see THE man of the decade. Perhaps I was at a different gig to the one described by dear Terry Staunton? 

I queued for nearly 12 hours amidst supposedly sweet and tender Smiths fans, who whiled away the time by shouting crude, sexist comments at the bemused passers-by. People were grabbing, devouring, pushing, and shoving and I was kneed in the groin, elbowed in the face and arrived home with bruises bigger than dinner plates in places I didn’t even know existed. 

And yet Terry describes the sensitive souls as “polite”. Did he stand with someone’s quiff up his nose all day in the humdrum town of Wolverhampton? Did some “polite” person steal his sexy, coveted Morrissey badge? I wonder if the man himself would describe the adoring masses so, after being mauled for the whole set? Oh, but was it worth it? Yes yes yes - what self-respecting person worthy of their vegeburgers wouldn’t go through hell and high tide for the same? 

Jayne, Notts 

Weird how all Smiths fans sees to talk in Mozz lyrics isn’t it? Phew! For a minute there, I thought Jayne, that you were really COMPLAINING about having been to the gig of the year. Had me fooled for a bit. Wimpy beanburgers are cooked in the same animal fat as the nasty murderburgers -AC