Fat Man Morrissey Concert
First, an encounter with the bookie Nazi:
Before the concert, we hung out in the Borgata’s race book. The place is a giant room filled with nervous, chain-smoking men who yell at vast screens that display simulcast horse races. I wanted to get a drink and so I went up to place a bet. (You get drink tickets when you bet: You get drunk: You bet more: You get more tickets: Your bets get stupider: Money flies: ATM’s are consulted: How about another rum and coke: The next win is one win away: That’s how it goes in casinos.)
I’ve only bet on horses one other time in my life–at the Flamingo’s race book in Vegas; I waved my hands, arrogantly, at my companions, telling them that I was an expert and I knew what I was talking about. I approached the betting cage and tried to place “Lucky Brit” for the win. (Get it?)
The bookie, an emaciated specimen, a Sleestak creature hailing from Atlantic City, a card-carrying member of gamblers anonymous, looked me up and down and said sarcastically, “Don’t give me the horses name, pal, give me the horses number. Ok?”
I walked back to my companions, a bit embarrassed, and grabbed the race sheet that I was consulting and looked up the horse’s number .
I returned to the bookie and told him, “Six, horse number six.”
The man laughed and asked, “Which track?”
Back to my companions (head down, a bit red at the cheek this time, back to the sheet at the bar, now back to the greasy man).
“Meadowlands”
The bookie was enjoying this, milking it for all it was worth on a Tuesday night: “What race?”
Back again.
“Race 9.”
“That race just started. Pick another race, pal.”
I slid my hand to the next race on the sheet and settled on the horse where my finger landed: a horse named Casual Dresser, a dark horse, 12/1, for the win.
I made my bet, begged for my drink tickets, and then watched the race unfold on the topmost screen. It was at the Meadowlands. An enormous red Ford F-150 with those hideous wheel wells started the horses from a trot. The horses in turn pulled carts straddled by tiny jockeys wearing entomical-like goggles. The jockeys all whipped their horses and the race was off. (The F150 veered out of sight.) Casual Dresser labored, but gained no ground on the leaders. He was in 6th position at the 2nd turn. Casual Dresser’s jockey’s knees were bent as he slapped his horse’s back repeatedly–into fourth now! Have we hope? The whole thing reminded me of that scene out of Ben Hur: frenzied men holding onto draped reins whipping foaming beasts around repeated turns. After the first lap (This thing was a 600m-looking race on a human’s track: a lap and a half), I started to feel sorry for the horses. I thought about my own desperate stabs around endless turns on long tracks–when lactic acid seared holes in my legs, when my oxygen debt made me bankrupt (could a whip help me run a 2:29 marathon?); I felt awkward sitting there with my little beer, staring at a stupid grainy screen, sitting in the stands–holding my little $2 ticket egging on an animal on the hairy edge of existence. I stopped rooting and crumpled up the ticket. Casual Dresser ended up holding onto fourth. He disappeared from sight as the camera panned away to race #10.
It was time to throw some dice.
We only bet about $50. The table was one of those sad tables where crumpled people finger dwindling chips and prop their heads up with their nicotine-stained hands; where dice move quickly around the table; where the stick men grow weary raking in everyone’s lost dreams. I tried to change the mood, as I always do. I yelled and patted backs. I high-fived and pointed at the fat man with the pinky ring who just threw a fever five. I was going to change the mood–it’s all about the mood. It was my turn to throw. I palmed the dice and tossed them high. I called the number: a “YO”, an eleven, and it appeared. A few people took notice. I called the number again and it appeared again. The table clapped. I threw it again; I got a backslap and a high five; the pit boss watched me closely.
I threw a five.
Then I threw a seven: I became a villain. The table sighed; those men put their heads back on their hands.
Time to go see Morrissey.
He was due to appear at 9:15. The lobby of the event center was full on an eclectic mix of people–hardly a crowd worthy of the man. A paunched man with a skull shirt talked to a bartender who poured him a $9 beer. A little child–about five or six–sat on his father’s shoulders. The father had a hip purse and wore a leather hat. There, in the corner, see that guy with the manblouse on, what the hell is he doing here? Ah, there are some people I expected: tattooed women with night-black dyed hair wearing Moz. tee shirts and skin-tight plaid pants. We walked into the arena and were led to our seats which were big-time shitty ones–up high and to the left. Here’s the surrealistic thing: there were 40 rows ahead of us with no one sitting in them. And now here’s the ironic thing: A fat woman sat right in front of me. The stage had three big black and white pictures of James Dean. Some lady was announcing over the speaker all these bad things–some obvious villains of the left: “Jesse Helms”, “Jerry Falwell”, “rednecks”, “the All-American way” (what about my Division, the 82nd Airborne, they are the All-Americans, are they bad?) “apartheid”, “miscarriage”, “the imprisonment of Nelson Mandela”, “the shadiness of his corrupt, murdering wife…” (wait, she didn’t say the last one)
The lights dimmed and the lady stopped her propagandistic rant.
Moz. strolled on the stage and the sparse crowd lept to its feet. I was here to sit down–I’m 35 years-old and so I remained sitting. I protested: I wanted to be in some lounge at some table ordering drinks, sitting cross-legged, listening to Bengali in Platforms, not screaming madly at some washed-up crooner with a gray pompadour. Finally, the tragic thing: The fat woman in front of me stood up and blocked my view. I grabbed my date’s hand and we walked down 39 rows to the first one. The ushers didn’t say anything. Good.
Morrissey is a fucking mess. He wore a long, untucked shirt and black slacks. A bit of a paunch appeared; a jowl formed. His band was made up of mostly twenty-something good-looking men wearing tight white tee shirts and black pants. They reminded me of the robotic servile women in Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love video: ugliness with beautiful bookends.
He sang well–that’s for sure. He opened with a Smith’s song (That bouncy The Boy With the Thorn in his Side) and then transitioned to his solo material. From time to time, he’d tear off his shirt–exposing his undefined flab, his manboobs–and bolt off the stage like a scared deer. This happened at least three times. People fought for his sweaty shirt. He’d reappear again in a new shirt and thus the cycle would repeat.
He didn’t want to be there; he mocked us, making fun of Atlantic City–his tour’s final destination. I found it fitting for him to end it all in front of a thinned crowd in a dumpy gambling town where crackwhores and serial killers are but a stone’s throw away. He was the loser–not us.
He had a cold and wiped his nose incessantly–his voice cracked. He royally blew Reel Around the Fountain, causing the poor girl next to me who was lost in a dreamy singalong to stop singing. At one point, he told a fawning woman who wanted him to kiss his hand that he couldn’t, that it was “disgusting.” She begged him; he refused and withdrew. He pleaded with the crowd not to scream, but they did anyway.
Oh the drama.
I just sat there with my arms crossed. I didn’t hop and dance or wave my hands in that modern rock motion to that tired, yet still good How Soon is Now? I supposed it was what I expected. I knew this man was washed up–like Elvis in his Aloha from Hawaii 1973 tour. He was a pilgrimage. I just wanted to come, witness, and then leave. I didn’t want his shirt or a bottle of his Lourdes-like sweat. I didn’t want to pass him a love note or hold his meaty hand. I certainly didn’t want to tap my feet and sing along like a Coldplay groupie. I wanted Bengali in Platforms and Dial a Cliche. I wanted a dark man–an introspective man that he once was–to sing softly in a dark lounge to but a few of us.
I got none of this.
Instead I got to be Bobby Brady when he finally met that guy who’s parents were gunned down by Jesse James. But my memories of where I was when I sang his songs, what I was going through, who I was with, they hold their own meaning and are beyond him. His flab and his greedy disinterest can’t smite them.
Sadly though, his ego, his tired, sweaty act in front of a small group of skull-shirted men with leather hats and salacious homoerotic tendencies has left me a bit scarred.
I’m never going to see Morrissey again.
At the Wolf Parade Concert: The Lost Diary of a Madman
First you must watch this!
Wolf Parade’s Electricity at the Electric Factory: Shredded Vocal Chords? Blown Ear Drums? Sign Me Up!
I’m sitting down a week later trying to piece together the doctor-like handwriting, the seemingly random scribbles in my black moleskin notebook. I took down many names and recorded many stories that night; I had a good time doing it. That’s evident, because the phrase “good time” is the most easily translatable—appearing more than any other in all that gibberish.
On July 30th, I covered the Canadian band Wolf Parade concert at the Electric Factory on North 7th Street in Philadelphia. I got a free ticket as a member of the press and was provided a plastic triangular sticker. Someone had written those words “press pass” on the sticker using a thick-tipped Sharpie.
Before the concert, I met up with a group of newly made friends (Lydia, Anne, Char, and Dominic). We headed first to the Abbaye, a local watering hole in Northern Liberties. Inside the bar, a balding DJ played vinyl records on an ancient turntable using a 3000X mixing board. His name was Becker; he played an eclectic mix of 80s music. I asked him if he was excited about the concert.
“What concert?” he asked.
“Wolf Parade,” I said.
It was loud in there.
“Who?”
“Wolf Parade!”
From that moment on, I used a lot of exclamation points. It was loud that night. I used too many of them—to the point of losing my voice.
After a few beers, we left Becker and his antediluvian turntables and drove to the Electric Factory. I got my ticket and my unofficial-looking sticker and was then frisked by meaty men waving beeping wands. We arrived a bit late. The opening band, Wintersleep had just finished. People—mostly college kids–were mingling; buying tee shirts and drinks–making small talk about Wintersleep’s mellow set. To the right of the entrance was a metal stairway heading up to the bar. We showed our IDs and approached the bar. We were handed cold beer in plastic cups in exchange for five-dollar bills.
Before we could enjoy my drink, the lights dimmed; the crowd roared. In the shadows on the stage, I could make out shapes moving; skinny men slinging guitars; a drummer adjusting his seat; a roadie, bent over double running across the stage with wires in his hands like a giant church mouse. The crowd chanted. A few wayward voices rose above the din, hollering song requests at the half-invisible men on stage.
And then bright lights (shining as bright as a Boeing 707’s landing lights) shone down on the crowd. Wolf Parade began to play their first song “You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son.” I handed my beer to my friends and reached for my notebook. “Got to go downstairs; got to get in the front to cover this properly,” I said excitedly.
I worked my way to the front. Kids bouncing their heads up and down let me through. I didn’t say much and hoped that they’d see my odd-looking triangular press pass. I got to there and turned around.
“WOULD YOU MIND BEING INTERVIEWED FOR THE PAPER?” I screamed at a young kid with long hair and many piercings.
“WHAT PAPER?”
“TREND—CHESTER COUNTY EDITION!” I screamed.
“OK!”
I hurriedly scribbled down the kid’s name: Alex. He told me that he was a Drexel college student. Just behind me, Wolf Parade’s guitarist and co-singer, Dan Boeckner, thrummed on his guitar and blared into the microphone. Every time he sang something, he closed his eyes. His hair shook while he plucked the guitar’s strings. He was passionate and intense; he had several tattoos on his long arms. To his right of him, the bassist, Dante DeCaro played and nodded.
“WHY ARE YOU HERE?” I asked.
“BECAUSE THEY ROCK! I LOVE THEM!” Alex screamed with cupped hand into my ringing ear.
I nodded and gave him a big thumb’s up. A small mosh pit began to form beside me. Wolf Parade played louder. The drums beat; Boeckner strummed. DeCaro walked around in circles, holding his bass down low. One of the keyboardists, fellow lead singer Spencer Krug poked at his synthesizer. He played the opening to the band’s magnum opus, “Soldier’s Grin,” from their new album At Mount Zoomer. The crowd erupted. I was thrown into the mosh pit and carefully fished my way out of it.
I started firing off questions at people:
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” (I thought I heard “Kyle.”) “TELL ME ABOUT WOLF PARADE, KYLE!”
“IT’S MILES.”
“SORRY! TELL ME ABOUT WOLF PARADE KYLES!”
“MILES I SAID!”
“OK MILES!” I screamed while feverishly scribbling in my little moleskin notebook.
Miles’ older brother had introduced him to the band. A woman to his left, Lauren, was from South Jersey and had discovered them from a mix tape. A person, Christian, liked them for their “unique sound.”
The band played around ten songs, and then thanked everyone—bowing and waving. Behind me, the crowd begged for an encore. The lights dimmed. It looked like the concert was really over. But we were tricked; the landing lights came on again and out walked the boys from Canada for one last song. I retreated from the mosh pit and snapped images with my camera—going so far as to tape a 10-second video segment replete with hundreds of flying arms and hands.
Boeckner slammed his hand down one last time in perfect timing with the dimming of the spotlights and then it was really over. After the band left, you could feel the heat coming off the stage; it was like the exhaust from an 18-wheeled semi. As the drummer left, he threw his sticks wantonly. People scrambled after them as if they were chasing Barry Bond’s home run ball.
Sam, a self-described Wolf Parade fanatic was beside me. He reached his hands out and caught a flying piece of paper that one of the roadies had tossed: the band’s set list. I had him show me it. It was full of scribbled names on wrinkled paper; it must have been in someone’s pocket for a long time. If it were on the street, it would be trash, but in the Electric Factory, it was as good as gold. Sam held the paper in the air and a group of us praised him with hosannas. We were ushered out by impatient, black-shirted security guards.
After a few post-concert, vegan friendly snacks at the retro-looking Silk City Diner we headed home. Our last decision that night—a decision faced by many of Chester Country residents–was a fateful one. Our conversation went like this:
“Should we take I-95 or the Schuylkill?”
“Let’s take the Schuylkill. There can’t be traffic at 2am.”
“I don’t know. I’ve run into traffic at 3am before.”
We took the Schuylkill; it was a mistake.
“Let’s not take the Schuylkill next time,” I said.
Despite this setback, my mid-week adventures as the Electric Factory watching an up-and-coming band were well worth it and something I highly recommend. The price of admission was reasonable: $22. And you never know, you may get sucked into a mosh pit and actually enjoy yourself.
I did.