The Moz

May 23, 2007 at 10:28 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
  The difficulties I’ve had, writing this review.. . .

  I saw Morrissey last night.  It was a great show.  I’m not sure if I can actually describe it, but I’ll try.  Hell, I can’t even describe what his musical style is.  Rock?  Let’s start there, and then go into offshoots.  Alternative?  Hmm. . ..kinda.  English 80’s pop/grunge with some dark boy-band balladeering thrown in for good measure, bringing his (and their) sexual ambiguity to the forefront.
  His music is full of angst, and even though I am not a part of his world (and I never will be, alas–), his writing and singing are such that I get a real sense, a feel for the torment what his soul doth bear.
  I have made fun of his stuff even while enjoying it, and I wish/hope that he has a sense of humor about it as well.  Seeing him on stage, getting a sense of the man, I think he may.  I have a little man-crush on him.  He knows it, too.  He looked right at me, while he was performing.  He gave me the look.  You know.  The *look*.
  Without you (or I, even) knowing all the songs, it is difficult to describe with that frame of reference gone.  His set ran the gamut from old Smiths to his new album, and he played several from the album previous to that, which is my fave, You Are The Quarry.  First of the Gang to Die?  Rock on, Bro.
  Let’s see, he played–that I remember:  The Queen is Dead, First of the Gang to Die, Irish blood English Heart, Girlfriend in a Coma, [fill in with set list on line.]
  A word about the opening act.  Her name, I believe, was Catherine Adams, or something like that.  I’ll look it up and fix it before I post it.  In the space of her first song I went from hating it, to being annoyed by it, to a determined ambivalence, to begrudging acceptance. . .to addiction.  I couldn’t get enough.
  Her voice had a startling range on the high side, and stayed in key even during some powerful high end work.  It was just her on a keyboard, and a drummer.  Very unusual music, but I liked it.
  Oh, yeah.  She was hot.  She was beautiful, with long legs and a flat stomach and small, perky tits.  And she was naked except for a dress that looked like it was made out of bubble-wrap.   Not kidding.  Bubble wrap.

  The crowd was an eclectic mix as much as his music.  A small percentage my age (old), with most running from mid-20s to mid-30s.  I saw, like, three black people.  I saw suicide chicks, skinheads, grunge freaks, and suits.  I saw all manner of hot chicks, endlessly rubbing their tits against me as they slid past me in the crowd.  I saw a wide variety of fags.
  Karl said he can pick a Jew out of the crowd, generally speaking.  Short, dark hair, hook nose, glasses.  Is he describing Woody Allen?  I said, "Duder, that describes you."  Being of Germanic descent and blatantly Anti-Semitic, he denies all charges. 
  "Whatever, dude."
  In the same way, my Gaydar was honed and tuned, and ready.  Morrissey brings out the fags like a county fair brings out the rednecks.
  "See the guy–thin guy, wife beater, cell phone stuck in the *FRONT* of his pants, smoking a cigarette and tapping to the music before the band even comes out?  A little too deliberately effeminate in his smoking?"
  "Look.  The guy is wearing a derby, cocked to one side, and a flannel.  It’s camoflauge; he wants to appear butch, but he’s a bottom."
  "See the guy holding hands with the other guy?  I know the one with the tight t-shirt is gay.  The other one is unsure, but willing to let a guy give him head."
  A guy that Karl was talking to about Morrissey–Karl knows all about him–this guy put his arm around Karl playfully, affectionately, while complimenting him.  "Wow, you seem to know everything about Morrissey!"  The desire to be oblivious helped Karl disavow any knowledge that he was being hit on.
  This other guy–I swear this happened–I’m standing there drinking a beer, and smoking a thin cigar.  Karl is to my right.  I turn to my left–cause I’m scoping out the chicks–and there is a guy immediately to my left.  We are almost shoulder to shoulder.  He is looking me right in the eye.
  Quickly, he turns away facing forward, takes a drink from his beer, and it seems like he intentionally looks to his left, away from me.  It couldn’t have been more obvious if he had started whistling nonchalantly.
  Meanwhile, I’m talking to as many chicks as I can, just so the guys stop hitting on me.  I’m sure some of the chicks thought I was a perv–okay, most of them–but they were nice.  It was a nice crowd, we were all "in the moment," and probably moments away from a freaky orgy of some kind breaking out.  With my luck I would be in the middle of two dudes patty-caking.
  Later, we are standing in a different spot.  We moved because there was a big, long, hard, thick–and possibly throbbing–pole in our way.  A metaphor for the whole concert, it seems.  But we are towards the back (Okay, we ARE in the back.  No "towards" about it) and there is space behind us.  People have occasionally rubbed against us to slide to the front, but never behind us.  There was plenty of room, there was no need.
  So a guy–and it might have been the SAME guy, but I’m just not sure–walked behind me, patted me on the right shoulder 3 times, and kept walking, towards the bar. 
  He didn’t do it to squeeze past me.  There was no one behind me to squeeze through.  Was it some sort of signal?  Was it a secret gay sign, to meet me in the bathroom so one of us can get fucked in the ass?  Was he offering me a quickie blowjob?
  He did have nice lips.  Still, the thought of looking down and seeing a guy down there–just kinda freaks me out a bit.  Maybe if he had long hair, then I could imagine he was a woman.  A lesbian, with a mullet.  The thought of a butch lesbian giving me head does kinda. . .
  . . . Remind me of my wife.
  I tell the whole sordid story to Detroit, and her response was, "Okay, no guys can suck your dick."
  I said, "Ok.  Only girls can give me head.  Check."


1 Comment »

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  1. ROFL! OMG….I am weak from laughing at your story.
    You have a wonderful writing style (I know I have said this before) and you
    put the reader right in the middle of the story with you.
    Which is a good thing..well, sometimes it is a scary thing, but mostly its good.
    You should write a book!!

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