The day of reckoning had arrived. Morrissey at the Benedum Center in Pittsburgh on Thursday September 25. Would I go? Could I let myself be cooped up in a building with 2800 people I didn't know? My love of Morrissey and his music was the most important factor in the decision. Of course it was the right choice. It was a wonderful, enchanting evening with Our Moz and his music. The only slightly negative thing was "Pastrami Pete" to my left. He smelled like he had just eaten a large pastrami sandwich with onions and pickles. It was literally oozing out of his pores.
Back to the main attraction. Our Moz was magnificent. He proudly strode on stage with his band to thunderous applause and launched into "There Is A Light". It was electric. The Benedum was reverberating with one of the greatest songs ever written. And when the song was done the crowd shook the walls with noise and clapping of approval that I think even surprised Morrissey. He seemed genuinely touched by the appreciation. The next song was "Suedehead". Again, the audience roared its approval and Our Moz seemed energized. It was magic. He sang "Alma Matters", "First Of The Gang To Die" and "How Soon Is Now", all were absolutely delightful.
He also played "Lost", which was very somber. He then gave us a very raucous version of "Shoplifters" The band sounded fantastic. I thought "The Loop" was outstanding with Our Moz shaking the maracas in time with the beat, then throwing them at the screen when the song was ending. The title to the post was Our Moz interjecting how life on the road truly every day could be like Thursday. Morrissey was very engaged with the audience and was very much enjoying himself. Jacky is only happy j/k. I thought "I Know It's Over" was particularly emotional with his mother's picture on the screen behind him.
The show marched on with a celebratory "Everyday Is Like Sunday" and I thought a fine version of "I Will see You In Far Off Places." The encore consisted of a solemn "I Won't Share You" and a very forthright "Irish Blood, English Heart". As the show as ended Our Moz went down the front row shaking hands with his delighted patrons. He did several shirt throws and changes. All in all, an enchanting evening. The crowd didn't want it to end. The lights came on and the mad rush to the exits.
Exit, exit
Everybody's heading for the exit, exit.
Earlier in the day, I had a dozen roses delivered to Morrissey's dressing room as a welcome to Pittsburgh. I sincerely hope he got them. The security was much heightened after the death threats to him. In times like these you can't be too careful.
It was another lovely evening with a Charming Man, unfortunately too long in the making. I hope Morrissey decides to stop again sooner than later in Pittsburgh. Despite me being a true misanthrope, the event was well worth the inconvenience to my psyche.
MY life is like a stroll upon the beach, As near the ocean’s edge as I can go; My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach, Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.
On the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother ! This far outstripp'd the other ; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind : [Image] For he, alas ! is blind ! O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, And knows not whether he be first or last.
The angels—happening that way This dusty heart espied— Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God— There—sandals for the Barefoot— There—gathered from the gales— Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering Sails.
She's got her ticket I think she gonna use it I think she's going to fly away No-one should try and stop her Persuade her with their power She says that her mind is made up.
I am in a state of shock. I just found something out that I thought would never happen again. Our Moz is coming to Pittsburgh on September 25 at the Benedum Center. The last concert I attended was his show here on January 21, 2013. I was fully prepared to never attend another show. I'm very much a misanthrope. I hate crowds of people. I can feel their thoughts and tangled emotions bouncing against my brain. My only defense to attempt to lock them out is silence and concentration on being alone. I don't think I have enochlophobia but I think there is a touch of Asperger's going on here.
So, what do I do? I have to go to see Morrissey. I may never have a chance to see him again. Remember, in a concert hall of 2800 people I will be the one that is truly alone clawing against my inner demons. If Our Moz sees me, please don't think I'm not enjoying myself. Have mercy on me. I will be two people that night, one delighted to see my favorite artist, the other absolutely dreading the situation I put myself in.
The shutters, shelter from secret lusts, When the cruel sun strikes with redoubled strokes On the city and the fields, on the roofs and the corn. I am going to practice alone at my whimsical fencing, Sniffing out in every corner the hazards of rhyme. Stumbling over words as well as on cobblestones, Sometimes bumping into verses long dreamed of.
This foster father, enemy of chlorosis, Awakens in the fields worms as well as roses; He causes worries to evaporate to heaven, And fills brains and hives with honey. It is he who rejuvenates the crutch-bearers and makes them gay and gentle like maidens, and commands the harvests to grow and ripen in the immortal heart that always wants to blossom! When, like a poet, he descends into the cities, He ennobles the fate of the vilest things, And introduces himself as a king, without noise and without servants, In all the hospitals and in all the palaces.
A poet!—He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which art hath lodged within his hand—must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes God set between his After and Before, And strike up and strike off the general roar Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats In a serene air purely. Antidotes Of medicated music, answering for Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour From thence into their ears. God's will devotes Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine. How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.
