1994 03 26 Morrissey NME

'THE BEAUTIFUL MORRISSEY LOOKED AT ME'

The tears! The screams! The bizarre marriage proposals! For the first time ever in Britain MORRISSEY took the plunge and ventured out to meet his devoted public... Nearly 5,000 of them turned up last week, in London and Manchester, queueing for hours in miserable weather, all for an autograph and a heart-stopping glimpse of their idol. Lacing up our red DM's, the NME joined the heaving crush at the crash barriers. Over the next four pages, we document these emotional meetings and delve into the minds of his adoring legions: do they think 'Vauxhall And I' is better than The Smiths7 Do they know who the mysterious Jake is? How do they feel about Moz’s flirtation with nationalist imagery at Finsbury Park? ANGELA LEWIS in London and STUART BAILIE in Manchester join the melee for a fan’s-eye view of the spectacular love-ins.
PICTURES: KEVIN CUMMINS and ROGER SARGENT

TUESDAY, MARCH 15, LONDON

THERE ARE 20 people on the pavement outside HMV in Oxford Street. It is eight in the morning, drizzly and dull. Seventeen-year-old Sarah has travelled down from Chesham, Buckinghamshire with her school chum, also called Sarah, to meet Morrissey and. as both stand getting gently wet in their red Doc Marten's, they are convinced this is going to be one of the best days of their lives.

"We got the first train down this morning, says the first Sarah, proudly "We should really be at school, but well, I told my mum I had to come. I’ve only had about two days off school in my whole life, but she let me come because she knew how important it was to me."

The second Sarah is flushed with the adventure: "I'm supposed to be ai the Houses Of Parliament for a politics trip. If I see my politics teacher, I will be violently sick."

Sarah first got into Morrissey when she heard ‘Suedehead'. She was 11 and had never heard of The Smiths but she's got all their records now, including an original This Charming Man which cost her £20.

“We've got all the originals, the ten-inches, everything," she enthuses. "But we don't play any of them, in case anything happens to them, so we bought them all on compact disc as well!"

To pay for their Morrissey habit, both Sarahs work in Waitrose from six in the morning until three every Saturday.

"It's hard but it's worth it." says the first Sarah. “Morrissey just has something about him. We go home and we just have to listen to him. My 15-year-old brother claims to hate Morrissey, but if I leave a tape downstairs, you’ll hear him singing away, and it's like, ’Well, how come you know all the words, then?'"

They say their love for Morrissey has made them outcasts.

"Everyone hates us at school - we have no friends. We put on our Walkmans and sing his songs out loud. The others tell us to turn it down, but we tell them to get lost and go to the library!

“I don't think I would actually want to know Morrissey that well because he's supposed to be aggressive and horrible but I think he's probably just excessively shy. I just hope meeting him isn’t going to ruin things. However horrible he is to me, though, I still don't think I could stop loving him.”

9.20 and the queue grows steadily, there are four policemen at the doors and the weather's still rotten. Stuart is one of the fans who’ve been queueing all night. He's soaked and dying for the doors to open. A civil servant from Blackburn, he has the obligatory black Moz quiff and bears more than a passing resemblance to his idol. He's good pals with Darren, 22, a printer from Carlisle, another Moz-like dude in denim. They always run into each other while following Morrissey around on tour. Oddly enough, like the two Sarahs, they're both wearing red Doc Marten’s.

"I’ve met him a few times," says Stuart, "but none of us really know what he's like We never will get to know him properly. I met him by accident at an antiques fair in Lancashire. I was as shocked to see him as he was to see me. I didn't see him buy anything. On the album it says. ‘Special thanks to Jake', and we all think it's his boyfriend. We are extremely jealous."

Other people in the queue say no. that's not how it is at all. Jake's just a musical friend - he used to be in the band Big Hard Excellent Fish. They released a record on the One Little Indian label, called 'Imperfect List', which had the Scouse character Josie Jones ranting all over the top of this dance beat. Most people seem to agree, though, that it’s Jake's hands around Morrissey’s shoulders on the sleeve of 'Vauxhall And I’. Very strange... Darren's been a Morrissey fan for nine years. “He's a good role model, better than someone like Charles Manson. But The Smiths were by no means infallible. We are not stupid about him, we know when he makes mistakes."

One such mistake, almost everyone here agrees, was the Finsbury Park incident a couple of years back when Morrissey took the stage wrapped in a Union Jack and was bottled by an audience of skinheads waiting to see Madness. It was a theatrical miscalculation that led NME to question whether Morrissey was irresponsible in his use of nationalistic imagery - an issue which, to this day, has not been resolved.

Stuart has the Finsbury Park Union Jack at home: “Morrissey threw it out and it’s on my bedroom wall but I am not a fascist. It was very sad. He played well and looked smart, he was trying very hard, then he had things thrown at him. That wasn’t just about Morrissey - the crowd just wanted to get at the band on before Madness. The Farm would’ve got a f—ing kicking...”

ITS NOW 11 am, the doors have opened, and there are several hundred orderly fans in the store with the hardcore Mozheads still at the front of the queue. The girls’ moods swing violently, while the lads have been through this waiting rigmarole before and exhibit a healthy streak of cynicism about the whole affair.

“I was here at 10.30 last night,” says Darren, "and I wouldn’t do that for anyone else. We did the last Morrissey tour as well, and got treated like shit most of the time. Occasionally we got on the guest list, if we were lucky. We tried to get to see him, but most of the time he just didn’t want to know. We followed him for ten dates, and he couldn’t even manage a hello! It pisses me off, but we’re still here, so he must be doing something right.”

“We moan about him a lot,” says Stuart. “We slag him off for doing these sort of signing things in America when he doesn’t do them here. But now he is and we’re still moaning about it.

“He plays onstage for an hour-and-15 minutes, then it's thank you and goodnight. If you're lucky, you’ll catch a quick glimpse of him walking through the stage door with 1,800 security men around him. What does he think we’re gonna do - rip all his clothes off? You can forget it. But at the December '92 Astoria gig, you could tell he was really disappointed no-one got up onstage to dance with him. But then what were we like in '92, Darren? We went to a gig, we found out his hotel and asked. ‘Can we speak to Morrissey?’ And it was ’No, he doesn't want to, he doesn’t feel like it'. There was only two of us, he could have made an effort.”

“At some point, you have to divorce the person from the music," says Andrew Morgan, a 22-year-old student from Canterbury. "There’s some aspects of the personality I don't like. Especially around '92, when the NME article came out. It really incensed my blood. Some of the quotes about skinheads - he was guilty of gross insensitivity. It's like ‘National Front Disco’ - we want to know what led him to make those comments. If we knew, maybe we could understand. I believe he deliberately says all that to get a reaction. But in the end, you forgive your idols.

"I'm just frightened we’re going to lose the little bit of intimacy we still have. He's got this new management who seem to want him to be an alternative/crossover person, the same as U2. And I know he'll go for it but if he gets into stadiums, Morrissey as we know him will be lost forever.

“Also, when it comes to sexuality, if Brett Anderson has set the gay cause back years by his comments, so has Morrissey by not saying anything. He should come out and declare his sexuality, even if he isn't gay. The very fact he's an idol, by coming out, he will be acknowledging what some of his fans are going through."

“If I meet him today, I'm gonna ask him if he’ll marry me," says Stuart “I mean, if he was homosexual. I'd be first in the queue."

“I'd be around the back!" laughs Darren.

BY 12.50, the store is rammed with fans. HMV management calculate over 2.000 people have shown up hoping to meet Morrissey - more than for Tina Turner! Almost everyone is extraordinarily polite considering the crush, but the security guards are still nervous. Sarah complains loudly and repeatedly that some people nearby are likely to push in. and practically orders the security guards to make them move back. The in-house HMV DJ plays Morrissey's new album endlessly, warning that "Morrissey will not be standing for any posed shots... Morrissey will only be signing copies of his new album, not any back catalogue stuff... No autograph books. No camcorders. If you're joining the queue now, the chances of getting anything signed are pretty slim...”

Stuart helps to straighten Darren’s quiff, while Darren's face has gone a luminous pink. "Every time it's the same adrenalin." he swoons. “I’m a grown man! I've seen him 25 times, on every British solo date he's done, and I always say, never again. Yet I always come back.” He lays his head, with dramatic weariness, on Stuart's shoulder. Nearly there...

At 1 pm, the doors at the back of the store open. There's a bustle of men in suits, and... here he is! Morrissey! Cheers, yells and applause. Flashes go off like crazy. The Moz behaves like a total star, smiling a lot, shaking hands.

He's looks dapper in a three-button jacket with a badge on the lapel that reads 'Famous When Dead'. The gold chain and chunky bracelet look like the kind a rapper would wear.

Up on the platform, surrounding the table where Moz is to do the signing, there are many, many men in suits - from the record company, from the store and security. Amongst them, looking very out of place in his red Doc Marten's and denims (are these a Mozfan uniform or what?), is Jake, the suedehead. Totally silent, very watchful, very protective.

Morrissey kisses his own poster. Everybody squeals. He signs it 'Bigmouth’, with an arrow pointing to his gob on the photo. Such a comedian...

MOZ DOESN’T like the photo Darren has brought as a gift for him. He jokingly makes like he's going to be sick and chucks the huge framed photo on the floor. He finally accepts it. Stuart gets on a bit better. “Do you remember me from '92?" Stuart asks hopefully. Morrissey says he does, replying. “This is what you bought at the antiques show, wasn't it?" as he signs a His Master’s Voice board. He and Stuart hug affectionately. Queueing fans cheer.

One boy asks how he is, if he’s happy? “Of course," Morrissey replies.

“Please don’t tell me that,” splutters the disappointed boy.

“OK,” says Moz. “I’m not.”

Then it’s NME's turn. I ask him to sign a CD of ‘Vauxhall And I’ for Mark - a friend who got pushed out of the queue. “With a K?” he enquires politely. I haven’t a bloody clue what he’s talking about. “I said his name's Mark,” I repeat, then adding, “Oh yeah, with a K!” Damn. I’ve discovered that being next to Morrissey, you lose your mind and act like a buffoon for no reason.

As he scribbles Mark's name, I regain some composure to ask, “So, do you still not want your fans to read NME?" (After NME’s coverage of the Finsbury Park incident, Morrissey has repeatedly told his fans to stop buying this paper).

He looks up, wrinkles his nose, shakes his head and, smiling serenely, says, “I hate the NME," his voice soft but firm.

What, even though they gave your album a really good review last week?

“It’s not enough - I want more.” He’s still smiling but his tone is slightly smug.

I walk off. I am the only one so far who hasn't shaken his hand.

1.30PM. THE Sarahs are ecstatic, Moz has signed their T-shirts: “It was amazing!”

Stuart returns. He's been for a walk, "just to be alone for a while”. His eyes are very red and he can’t stop wiping them. He doesn't say a great deal. Even Darren’s happy, despite the less than welcome reception Moz gave his photo. “It’s all been worthwhile, every minute of the waiting, everything,” he enthuses. “We'll be up in Manchester, too...” 

Morrissey has told the DJ to take off ‘Vauxhall And I’ and play some Moz favourites. So we get ‘Beat On The Brat’ and 'Let's Dance' by The Ramones, Nice’s ‘Chelsea Girls’, The Crystals, and The New York Dolls' 'Jet Boy’. Later in the day, Morrissey requests some Angelic Upstarts and gets someone from HMV shuffling through the racks for an Oi! music compilation.

Fans are bearing the strangest gifts (an antique tea pot, a volume of ancient fairy tales, many flowers) and asking him when he's playing London again. “He told me be wasn’t doing London," says one fan. “He says he's doing the Fairfield Halls, Croydon instead!”

A very emotional man at the front of the crash barriers keeps trying to get Moz's attention, howling “BILLY BUDD!" Morrissey looks around, eyebailing him, drawing squeals of joy from the fan. “THE BEAUTIFUL MORRISSEY LOOKED AT ME!” he cries. “THE BEAUTIFUL MORRISSEY LOOKED AT ME!”

The crowd around him cheers and yells "BILLY BUDD” repeatedly, hoping in vain that Moz will look their way. One girl collapses in hysterical tears, and bouncers have to carry her out.

Nobody asks the singer to autograph The Severed Alliance - they know better, although one wild rumour has it that the book’s author, Johnny Rogan, has come to the shop in disguise. A youthful couple ask Morrissey to autograph his old book, James Dean's Not Dead, and he’s plainly embarrassed by their request. First time he pretends to throw the book away, the second time he tosses it arcing into the photo pit at the front.

AS THE two-hour signing drains away with Moz signing UB40’s, Chelsea tickets, even copies of Richard Allen’s '70s aggro bible Suedehead, desperation sets in, and people are jumping the queue, climbing up on the display cases, tearful. On the in-store TV screens we watch one distinctive guy meeting Morrissey. He’s wearing a gold lame shirt, just like his hero wore at Finsbury Park. Moz smiles at the sight, and squeezes the bloke's bicep in appreciation.

Morrissey is escorted to the hospitality room of the store at 3pm. At least 500 people are still waiting to meet him, and the T-shirt racks are smashed up as fans climb high to catch a glimpse of him leaving.

The stage area is also devastated, as anything The Master touched (a wine glass, posters, display boards) are carried off as trophies. On the other side of Oxford Street a file of 20 hungry Morrissey fans are already making their way into McDonald’s for a burger. What was the name of that Smiths’ album again?

THURSDAY, MARCH 17, MANCHESTER

DARREN AND Stuart weren't so heroically on the case for the Thursday Manchester signing.

"We're late-comers this time. We didn't stay here all night — we only arrived at eight,” Darren admits. "We’re slipping up.” They're five rows back from the barriers, still happy, ridiculously excited at seeing Moz again after two whole days of separation.

People started queuing outside the HMV in Market Street at 3am. First there was Lisa and Caroline from Kendal so worked up that they’ve been awake since six Wednesday morning. By the time they meet the man they’ll have been awake for 36 hours. They only had one sleeping bag between them, but say they didn't feel the chill.

They’ve been hanging out with Kristian, an old friend who's studying at Salford University. Like much of the crowd today, Kristian was too young to see The Smiths, even though he was already a fan as a kid: “We lived in Cardiff for a while and The Smiths were playing there and I really wanted to go. But I was only 12, and my parents were afraid I might get flattened. I’ve seen Morrissey play a good few times since then. I reckon ‘Vauxhall And I’ is even better than The Smiths’ stuff, though I’ll probably get hit for saying that!”

Isn’t it a bit upsetting, though, that Morrissey seems so settled in London - or even Los Angeles - these days? That the guy who put so much poetry into places like Piccadilly, Saddleworth and Rusholme, now seems more inspired to write about cockney roughnecks? In short, is Moz a Northern traitor?

“Not at all,” says Kristian. “There’s only so many things you can write about Manchester - and then you’re in danger of just bleeding your subject dry. He’s moved away, but that’s alright, really.”

Darren and Stuart are less forthcoming this time. They’re a bit nervous about how they’re going to sound in the paper, and a few of their mates don’t like what the NME has written about Morrissey. "We’re not supposed to talk to you,” they giggle, as the queue breaks up into equal measures of cheering and booing - passionate reactions to their favourite/most hated music mag. Ask everyone where they learnt about the signing though, and they all confess that they got it from NME.

We produce copies of Darren and Stuart’s pictures taken in London on Tuesday, and the rest of the crowd are ribbing them, a little jealous. “Look, you can see the autograph there,” Darren yells, pointing at the shot.

“And that's my new jumper in the photo.” says Stuart. “It looks good. Not so sure about the person who's wearing it, though.”

BY MIDDAY there's 500 people in line. At the London session, it was alright to stand inside the shop, but this time we're obliged to form ranks down Market Street, freezing and wind-lashed. Well, only five-and-a-half hours to go...

Elderly shoppers from the Arndale Centre are mystified at the sight of all these excitable, quiffed-up weirdos, who stir up the confusion further by deadpanning with old ladies, saying that Elvis is doing a signing later on.

Lots of chancers have realised that here is a captive crowd of young, reasonably flush kids, and an amazing carnival vibe emerges. First the Big Issue sellers are flogging their paper, followed by pan-handlers, T-shirt hawkers (bootleg 'Viva Hate' shirts are being proffered as 'rare collector's items’). Hand-bills for the 'Death Of A Disco Dancer' Smiths club at the Equinox are passed around, and everybody laughs because Gail Tilsley is on the flyer, looking like a goldfish.

Meantime, the Morrissey gossip network is festering. Is it true that he's passed his driving test now, and if so, is it a Merc he’s joyriding around London? Is 'Vauxhall And I' really the last record he's making before he retires? Is Johnny Marr back on the scene, and what’s the reckoning on a Smiths comeback?

Nineteen-year-old Matthew says he discovered where Steven's mum lived (somewhere in Sale), and he went round there one day when he knew Morrissey was back up north. He went up the drive and pressed on the intercom. A bloke with a French accent asked what he wanted, and that freaked him out. But he caught up with Moz later and got him to autograph a Smiths book. The singer used a crayon, so he had to cover it with plastic to protect it.

Matthew voices the worst scenario that could happen today - Morrissey won’t show.

“That’s what he's doing these days, isn’t he? I heard he set up a video shoot and interviews in America, but he left them in the lurch. He can’t be arsed sometimes.”

While Matthew is fully grunged-out, Jez - 26, veteran Smiths, Prefab Sprout and David Sylvian fan - is something of a lookalike. He loves the way Morrissey appears to have total control over his own destiny, but has a rather unsavoury interpretation of ‘Your Arsenal’ and the Finsbury Park debacle.

“I read some quote by Levi Strauss recently, saying that integration between cultures is a dangerous thing, that it can create far more problems than it actually solves. I think that was the message of some of ‘Your Arsenal', and people confused that with racism.”

So you think people of different races can never get on?

“Oh no,” he continues, “I think they can easily live side by side, it's when they start trying to have serious relationships that it starts going wrong. Like, I was going out with this Jewish girl, and there was no way that she’d have married me."

What do you think of Morrissey’s flirtation with skinhead imagery?

“I see that as being part of the fact that Morrissey still seems to be really childish. It’s like his fixation with The Kray Twins - they’re both things that you might have had some secret interest in when you were younger. I think he’s been a bit irresponsible. But I liked the way ‘Your Arsenal’ got him away from being accused of being wimpy, and made him sound kind of hard; laddish, really.”

BY THREE o' clock, any relief from the bone-crunching cold and the boredom is welcome. This great old geezer with a busted nose and a crap moustache has given up trying to shift his copies of The Big Issue, deciding to entertain us instead. He's necking a quart of brandy - when we cheer, he necks it faster - and yelling in a mad, quasi-Irish accent. Then he sings a selection of Doors songs (he thinks, in his lushed-out parallel universe, that Jim Morrison is doing the stuff for us later!

Behind us, somebody's playing the spoons, old-time style. At the rear of the queue, a ghetto blaster is booming out 'How Soon Is Now', and loads of people are singing along. The anti-vivisection stall outside McDonald’s is doing a handy trade. There’s a card school up front with stacks of beer, and then Mister Big Issue has run off and got batteries for his stupid cassette player to regale us with Daniel O’ Donnell tapes. Cheers pal!

JUST AFTER 4.30, HMV is emptied of regular customers, and we’re led closer to the entrance. You can see the instore display for ’Vauxhall And I’ by the doorway, and somebody's placed a copy of The Severed Alliance at the top of the pile. Johnny Rogan is set for a signing in Manchester next week, and we wonder if Morrissey might pull another of those strange stunts - like the Los Angeles incident, when Rogan was inside a bookshop, and Moz pulled outside in a flash car, psyching him out.

Nearly there. The footie terrace atmosphere has gone now and everyone’s feeling the fatigue. But the heat in the shop restores us a bit, and soon we’re snaking around the displays, ready for another of those grand Moz entrances.

Ryan recognises that we’re from NME, and he’s worried that we’re going to do a number on Morrissey fans, making out that they’re silly. Ryan is in his late 20s, and he’s almost protective of the younger people here.

"Whatever you make of these people,” he insists, “you can't make out that they’re all of a kind - that they're just these stereotypical indie... saddoes."

We both look back over the queue. There’s sparky little kids on their dads' shoulders, a gaggle of rocking Salford lads, many girls, middle-aged couples, homeboys, all sorts.

The muted squealings, the corona of camera flashes and a bizarre selection of in-house music (Siouxsie & The Banshees, Elvis, Klaus Nomi, The Jam) suggests that Morrissey has made his entrance. He’s not set up on a platform this time, and the queue is so regimented that you can’t see in front of you, but we’re moving fast alright.

It’s not going to be a super-intimate, flesh-pressing , all-signing orgy this time either. You show your solitary album sleeve to the woman at the final barrier and then you’re propelled towards the desk by the singles bar where Moz is doing the business.

The same three button hand-me-down he wore on Tuesday. Same silly badge. A stripey Western shirt, the hair shining with pomade, the quiff keeling to the left. His tongue wiggles almost all of the time that he writes or concentrates. When he talks to the fans, he cocks his head to the side, like the Queen Mum humouring bizarre petitioners on long state visits.

We look around to see if there are any record company types who’ll recognise us and grass us up before we meet the fellow. Nope, we’re in the clear. Spring-heeled Jake is on his left side, watching for trouble, chewing gum — so you steer for the other side and get your question ready.

So what do you say, as Mozzer takes your record sleeve in one hand, squeezes a fat gold marker in readiness, indicating that you have about five seconds to vindicate a devil of a day - all those hours cultivating acute pneumonia, fallen insteps, trenchfoot and ail that other awfulness?

You think of the ideas you kicked around the office, three days ago - how best to launch a killer query. You could ask him if all those tasty arpeggios on the new album are in fact the hidden hand of Johnny Marr. You could ask him what became of his duet with Siouxsie Sioux. Or you could play it big time and just go, any regrets, Steven? Then there’s the brutal tack; wasn’t Rnsbury Park a feisty one, Moz? You could wish him a happy St Patrick's Day. But you’ve discounted all these.

What you really want to know is just what the hell this new song ‘Speedway’ is about. All those words about liars and guilt and Moz’s powerful expressions of immolation and fidelity — a blinding way to finish a great record. And of course, when you reviewed the LP, you made a big deal of it, saying that it read like an aggrieved, open letter to the NME.

But people are already saying that you're making far too big a deal of this. The song could just be about Johnny Rogan, or maybe some friend of Morrissey that you don’t know about.

You feel differently though. The relationship between Morrissey and NME has traditionally been played out on a huge dramatic stage; the mutual obsessions, the tiffs and indulgences, the apocalyptic fall-outs. There's Mozzer showcasing a mythical Diana Dors issue of the NME in his video for ‘Interesting Drug’, but later he’s telling his audiences to boycott the paper. There’s NME eulogising the guy and then pelting him off with equal ferocity. It’s a classic ball-and-chain relationship — married forever, whatever the consequences. Ourselves and Moz are, essentially, the George and Mildred of British pop culture.

I MET him six years ago and it wasn’t such a happy deal. He called me a Saint & Greavsie fan and accused me of liking Oi! music (he can talk!), but he probably won’t remember. So I catch him in mid-signature and you say it coolly...

“Morrissey, is ‘Speedway’ about the NME then?”

He looks up, half smiling. Jake leans over, sensing that something isn't right, but the singer isn’t so disturbed.

“No; that is not what 'Speedway’ is about - it’s not the case at all.“ He smiles a bit more. “That is a gross exaggeration...”

He misses a beat now.

“... Stuart.”

We’re rumbled! As a hand reaches for my elbow, I give it one final pitch.

“Of course, it would be nice to meet up again some time soon, Morrissey. We really should do it, you know."

No further words are spoken.

Instead, Morrissey wiggles his luxuriant brows and allows his chin to lunge around. Those famous greying sideburns are undulating with some untranslatable emotion. His whole face is a great symphony of winks and tics and prominent flesh on the rampage. He’s probably saying yes, I figure. Then I get hauled away.

Thus it ends, and I exit buzzing, bewildered, half-satisfied and cackling like all the other foolish star-seekers, into the fresh dark night of Piccadilly.