Paperjam

Morrissey at the Camden Roundhouse

Gigs // Jim // 12th February 2008

Her (blonde, statuesque, European barmaid): “Your friends seem very excited”
Me (me): “Yeah, tragic really. The reality is that they are actually talking about work.”
Her: “Jesus! Well, why don’t you take the drinks over and then come back and talk to me instead?”
Me: “Errr, ok”

[Sound of feet scampering perhaps a bit too quickly to and from a nearby table, where words such as “overtime” and “installation” are being used]

Me: “I’m back”
Her: “Yes, you are back”
Me: “I can’t believe its so quiet in here, what were you reading”
Her: “I just started it, it is called ‘Stuart’. Its about homeless people – which for me is a very important and sad situation”
Me: “Deep, sad – totally”
Her: “It is just so unfair, no one cares”
Me: “Yeah, society – so unfair. Completely”
Her: “So what books do you like?”
Me: “Have you heard of Catch-22”
Her: “I have heard of it but I never read it.”
Me: “Well…”

[Standard five minute rant on the best book ever, complete with wide-eyed gesturing, poor descriptions and irritating exhortations]

Her: “That sounds… interesting”
Me: (getting breath back) “Yeah - its amazing. Well, what is you favourite book?”
Her: “You will not know it. It is a Russian novel about the devil…”
Me: “Is it The Master and Margarita?”
Her: (surprised) “Yes!”
Me: “By Mikhail Bulgakov?”
Her: “That’s right you have heard of it?”
Me: “Yeah, I’ve read it, its very good”
Her: “Oh I love that book so much”
Me: (reaching slightly) “It’s quite Faustian isn’t it?”
Her: “Yes, completely”
Me: “Did you know that Mick Jagger wrote Sympathy For The Devil while reading it?”
Her: “Really, I never knew that”
Me: “Yeah, that’s true”
Her: “That’s cool”
Me: (realising for the first time in my life that I am actually going to quit while I am marginally ahead) “Very cool, anyway I better go back to my mates now…”
Her: “Ok, speak to you later.”

I saunter back over to Gary and Charles, the conversation is now punctuated with words like “Vegas” and “Lesbian”. Think they’ve stopped talking about work, but I’m not completely sure. As my arse just about makes contact with the seat, the opening beats of the Stones’ Sympathy For The Devil comes belting out of the jukebox. I scamper back up to the bar:

Me: “How weird is that?”
Her: “What? What is weird?”
Me: “Sympathy For The Devil just coming on like that...”
Her: (looking very blank)
Me: “When we were just talking about it…”
Her: (Blanker than a petition to bring back the Black and White Minstrel Show) “…”
Me: “Because… of the book... that we were…”
Her: (Blank with an eyebrow raised) “…”
Me: “It’s just such a strange coincidence.”
Her: (in a very final sort of way) “No. Not really. I don’t think so.”
Me: “…”
Her: “…”
Me: (in a very small voice) “Err, can I get some peanuts please?”
Her: “Salted?”
Me: (barely audible, wanting to die) “Dry roasted please…”

I slope back to my seat, feeling foxy barmaid eyes burning disdain into the back of my head. If I was Morrissey I would almost certainly get a song out of this. It would be called something pun-some, witty and slightly northern like "Empathy For Neville" and have a wailing chorus rhyming “Jagger” with “not shag her”.

Drinking up we brave the Camden monsoon that is blowing outside to get up to the Roundhouse. Gary needs a ticket and after some negotiation with a few Del-boy types he gets one for sixty notes, which the tout in question is happy to go up to the door to prove its authenticity – I’ve not seen that before.

Into the boozer over the road for a few pints. Charles meets a Kiwi bloke outside while smoking, he brings him in to talk to us with the usual cavalcade of “who says it’s an unsociable habit” and smoker camaraderie. Hang about, this bloke is a bit too much like hard work, it’s all a bit awkward. Well, at least he isn’t making loud homophobic comments in a pub full of Moz fans. Oh dear, always speaking too soon.

Dash over to the marvellous venue and start chatting to the alluring Italian barmaids and the not-all-that alluring Belgian geezers propping up the bar. They have seen Morrissey in loads of countries and seem almost bored by the whole thing. Support band Girlfriends In A Coma are doing some sort of noisy indie rampage on stage, no one seems all that bothered. I hear more than one person say, “At least it ain’t Kristeen Young”.

We stroll forward into the midst of the gathering crowd, there are more Italian girls with impressively wealthy and fucked-off looking boyfriends. One of them is called Sophia, she has got tickets for every one of the six nights at the Roundhouse. “I like your t-shirt”, Gary says to her, “I like your…” she replies, unsure of the Italian to English translation of “very well appointed bodywarmer”. Her boyfriend looms like a wardrobe made of muscle and fifty pound notes, we push a bit further towards the stage while Charles takes the rest of my money and goes to locate some more drinks.

The intro projection of eurovision oddities, James Dean audition films and New York Dolls footage is splashed across the screen. A montage from an old gangster flick with all manner of “Go and get Morrissey”, “Morrissey ain’t here boss” stuff spliced together raises a few chuckles and a sense of anticipation.

The lights dim, an operatic aria rings out, suddenly replaced by the juddering feedback, pounding beat and guitar squeal of How Soon Is Now. The crowd swells and surges us forward, Gary is looking a bit sweaty already. “I am the son and the heir…”, begins a smart looking Moz as Richard Burton in triptych looks down on him. A picture seemingly taken right on the tipping point of his descent from firebrand actor to total piss head.

This is ace the crowd are belting it all out and grinning, which I always find strange considering the nature of this song. We are onto First Of The Gang To Die as Charles returns with no drinks but a big smile. Everyone is jumping around and we are now about four or five from the front. Morrissey makes a quip about having a frog in his throat and then the band strum their way into Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before. The place goes a bit more crazy. I wish I had the words to accurately describe the atmosphere at this point. If only some poor bastard pinned to the front could record this on their phone I wouldn’t have to bother.

New song That’s How People Grow Up still doesn’t really float my boat but he soon does the super All You Need Is Me and all is well. The two previous times I’ve seen Moz he played pretty much the same set – stuff from the last two albums and a few Smiths classics. So when the band Launch into the likes of Sister I’m A Poet and The Loop I am surprised in the best possible way. Death Of A Disco Dancer lopes by and is just ace.

Being a contrary type he does a big scary version of National Front Disco, presumably for the NME types sitting in the posh seats. Hardly anyone sings the “England for the English” line, the satire being lost if a large crowd fanatically yell it out. Well I reckon so.

The sound isn’t marvellous in the Roundhouse, but the band are tight (matron) and his voice, despite protestations, seems to be holding up well. Especially when we venture into a couple of tracks off the masterpiece Vauxhall and I, Why Don’t You Find Out For Yourself is a real treat. There are epics in the form of Life Is a Pigsty and The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores – during which someone starts tugging on my hair it is Charles, grinning once more as we pass each other in the crush and he herds some ladies that he appears to be protecting in a gentlemanly manner.

During the crashing outro of Irish Blood English Heart, Charles starts pulling on my hair again, rather insistently. Turning around I notice that Charles has turned into a wiry skinhead lad who seems to have taken some sort of shine to me. “Sorry mate”, I shrug, “I ain’t the one”, he turns away, the girl next to him pisses herself laughing.

The band is off awaiting the inevitable encore, which is a triumphant Last Of The Famous International Playboys. Everyone goes mad one last time reaching towards the stage I am now within ten feet or so of Morrissey and it is really quite exciting, the shirt is off and into the crowd – precipitating what you would have to call a bit of a punch up.

It’s the usual twelve hour queue to get out of the Roundhouse, Gary looks like he has shrunk a bit from his sweaty exertions, so food is going to be a necessity. We stop off for what I describe as “Blade Runner noodles” which contain meat and vegetables that I have no way of identifying at all. Into the Hawley Arms to see if anyone who is not famous is there and for Charles to make out that he is a scaffolder. Fairly soon, the passing of time has committed all of its terrible crimes and it is time to grab the last tube, we jump off at Kings Cross instructing a nice lady to make sure Gary doesn’t fall asleep during his two remaining stops – he traps his head in the door saying goodbye.

Just time for a night of drinking, attempting to sleep and the looming fear of the shower experience at Das Generator. Achtung!