Paperjam

Morrissey @ GMEX, Manchester 22/12/2006

Gigs // Jim // 25th December 2006

There’s just no getting any breakfast on Friday morning, so Matty, James and I end up enjoying a seasonal MacDonalds treat near the M42. There follows a hassle and fog free journey up the M6 to Manchester, even if a certain gentleman in the back seat uses the word “Fingered” slightly too often for everyone else’s comfort.

James’ parents have been kind enough to let us stay at their house so we drop our stuff off and mess around with their hyperactive dog. His dad has decided that I must be gay, he tells me which part of Manchester I should go to in order to spend my “pink pounds” and then helpfully brings me the lifestyle section of the local paper, because it has a gay bit in it.

Get the train in to town and make a beeline for the pub, first up is Waxy O’Somethings, which is rubbish. Danny turns up and takes us to a selection of hostelries including the pub of the year, which has the best Christmas decoration I’ve seen in some time. Some food and more drinks before we unsuccessfully try to persuade Danny to get a ticket off a tout and join us, “errr, I’m not a massive fan” he explains, running into the distance.

Stroll up to the intimidating former train station that is the GMEX, tickets are going for £20, Matty, who bankrolled the expedition is a touch gutted. Get inside, fucking hell his place is huuuge. Naturally, the burger vendors are only knocking out vegetarian nosh, with hastily customised signs proclaiming the fact.

Have a pint, walk half a mile to take a slash and then take up position well in front of the mixing desk in the middle of the massive hall Kristeen Young is doing her support thing on the stage - it is quite Kate Bush. We can’t work out why half the band are sitting in the wings leaving Kristeen and her drummer alone on the stage, don’t think about it for too long. The crowd are really not warming to this and there is a bit of a cheer when her keyboard breaks. The drummer manfully fills in for a few minutes while another one is roadied on by some roadies.

Kristeen is off and a series of short films are projected on the curtain that hangs across the stage. These include some old eurovision action, The New York Dolls in their heyday and James Dean screen tests. It’s all quite entertaining really.

Realise that this is the first time in ages that I am at a gig without anyone who is qualified in speech therapy. Ask the chaps if they are in a position to assist with any swallowing issues that might crop up, the word “fuck” appears several times in their collective response.

The curtain drops to reveal a large photo of the late Italian film director Pier Paulo Pasolini in front of a hill with a crucifix on it. Morrissey and his band appear and (as at the V festival gig) kick off with a rousing Panic. “Well, you seem friendly”, understates Moz as the crowd finish yelling their approval. Then it is First Of The Gang To Die and You Have Killed Me, which comes complete with Pasolini pointing and the words being changed so that Moz can compare himself to that old figure of fun, Benito Mussolini.

He came on stage in a very smart shirt and tie, but it was never going to last long. The tie has gone and the shirt is on its way to being undone, down the front they are warming up to tear each other to bits in order to get anywhere near it when it is sweatily discarded in their direction.

Although this is all great so far I am a bit worried that it is going to be exactly the same as the V gig. I stop worrying when they suddenly do Disappointed and then after some vaguely disparaging comments about “a music hall act” that he used to be in, he gives us William, It Was Really Nothing. Everyone is singing (or in my case, sort of yelling) every note; the harshest Morrissey critic couldn’t fail to be moved.

The band is really great, even James thinks so. They blast everything out with absolute authority, even the more recent album tracks that are a touch shite on record are really involving as they echo around the GMEX, Irish Blood, English Heart is about as rock as things get.

The Morrissey banter is wry and entertaining as you might expect but having been spoiled by Jarvis Cocker last week it comes up a bit short. Oooh he is a bit gutted about not winning that Culture Show poll. The next song is dedicated to one of the children abducted by the Moors murderers from the station where the venue now stands, oh dear, whats coming here? Hooray, it’s Everyday Is Like Sunday and it is absolutely brilliant.

Let Me Kiss You is dull as ever, but then they blast into National Front Disco which is great if still a bit unsettling, you don’t get to hear this sort of thing everyday.

Morrissey is onto his third shirt by now, he’s looking a little chunkier these days but still horribly healthy for a man of his age, which is now 78 I believe. The really noticeable thing is how great his voice is live, everything is much clearer and richer than you would expect. This is especially demonstrated by the “explosive kegs between my legs” crooning of Dear God Please Help Me and the end of Ganglord “Get yourself back to the ghettooooo”, wails Moz, complaining about the fuzz once again.

After a widescreen outing for Life Is A Pigsty somehow turns into Auld Lang Syne, they are all off and the clamour starts for the encore. Back they come for an extended trawl through Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want and I’m suddenly 18 years old in a freezing cold house in Stoke sitting on a mattress surrounded by candles stuck in empty vodka bottles, feeling a touch unwanted. How times change.

After another troop off stage, they come back on to do a bouncy Don’t Make Fun Of Daddy’s Voice, turns out to be the final song which seems weird, I was hoping for There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, but never mind. The sound of Frank Sinatra fills the room and we troop out fairly quickly, stopping only to buy a dodgy five pound t-shirt that I will have a fairly good go at losing in a taxi later on.

Matty and James seem fairly upbeat about the whole experience, which I enjoyed immensely. James takes us to an Irish pub full of some of the most attractive women Manchester has to offer, all with evil looking psycho boyfriends ready to pound the likes of us if we so much as glance at anything we shouldn’t for more than a second or two. Some bloke is doing a roaring version of Angel Of Harlem and I’m almost tempted to unleash my spot on Oirish accent for the second week in a row. But in a sudden moment of clarity and good sense, I decide against it.

These links take tiiiiime...

Morrissey Solo

Big, big fan site

Kristeen Young

Big fan of outre eye make up. Cast a great shadow

Pier Paulo Pasolini

Packed a lot into his 53 years. Touch controversial.