On Touring Scotland, Ticket Prices & the Pope of Mope

Apologies in advance if this piece seems overly UK-centric, but I had the oddest experience last week. I traveled out on a Tuesday to a place that, with the best will in the world, could only be described as unusual, to see a man in his early fifties flounce about while singing of loneliness, alienation and vegetarianism (the singer having, in advance, insisted the venue sell no meat). And I fucking loved it.

Steven Patrick Morrissey is an icon. The Smiths were the soundtrack of my adolescence. Messy break up and all, the group should have been an albatross around the neck of any ambitions of a solo career, yet Morrissey’s is now over two decades in length and continues to inspire devotion from fans. A devotion that far, far outweighs any level of commercial success he, or his old band, ever had. Rumors abound that he’ll get “at least” the same advance on his autobiography as Keith Richards. That’s fucking insane. This devotion was evidenced by the copycat quiffs (always the classic 1980’s style, long since abandoned by the man himself) and tour t-shirts of decades past that joined me at the show: This was a religious gathering of frightening intensity. Worship of an increasingly marginalized figure, long since reduced to caricature by the media. Ask a member of the public if they owned a Smiths record; most would say no but still offer an opinion, “oh, that miserable bloke?”

Where the hell else would I want to be on a Tuesday night?

The touring circuit for established bands in Scotland isn’t extensive. Glasgow, almost always. Any one or two from Edinburgh, Dundee and Aberdeen, perhaps. But Morrissey’s 2011 itinerary includes the likes of Perth, Inverness, Dunoon, Dunfermline and Hawick. Where, I hear you ask? Well… exactly. Was this an acknowledgment of fading relevance, or a perverse sense of bloody-mindedness? Probably the latter. Morrissey isn’t the first artist out of left-field to tour off the beaten track. The wonderful (and completely insane) Julian Cope toured the Highlands and Islands of Scotland on more than one occasion. Besides, the idea of taking the tour to his people in the oft-neglected provinces, safe in the knowledge that his more fanatical followers (of which there are legion) would travel as well, would be a guaranteed boost to the ego.

I’m at the last of the gigs. Hawick is a collection of 14,000 people, half way between Edinburgh and Carlisle (i.e.: the middle of nowhere). Once a thriving mill and rugby town, it is now almost out of time; a small town that many people never leave (or want to) and where it is commonplace for three or four generations of families to still stay within five minutes of each other and revel in frankly misogynist Wickerman-style local festivals. What they would make of the Pope of Mope is anyone’s guess.

In a throwback to the ’60s, the show was in the Town Hall; capacity of 750 standing and 425 seats in a three sided balcony. We were in the center of the balcony, at the front. Looking directly at the stage — no more than 80 feet away — it promised to be an intimate gig. A fucking boiling one, as well. I was sweating like a pedophile in a playground. The support act, Brother (though they’ve since changed their name to Viva Brother), was young, derivative and horrendous. No chance of them upstaging the old man, so my mate an I decided to sneak to the bar, much to the chagrin of his wife and the random member of the public they’d set me up with. Please note that, dear reader, I had to toe a fine line. I didn’t want to offend her (she was giving me a lift home), but I did want to make it out without being molested. These are the risks intrepid reporters like me make, going to one horse towns with no transport home, just for the benefit of you, so remember that! Anyway, once at the bar, talk turned to Morrissey’s place in the world in 2011 (yes, we are that interesting).

In this brave new free for all that is the music business, to see (ahem!) old fashioned types like Morrissey scrambling about is odd. This is, after all, not only the man who once stated “England is mine and it owes me a living” but is also a famous Luddite; I believe he knows how to work a toaster and a fax machine, though not much else. There seems to be no willingness on his part to seek out a new audience online and he is without a record label. Morrissey seems lost these days, more an anachronism now than ever (and that’s saying something!), dependent on loyal radio DJs to play his new material. He made the cover of the NME (the UK’s only surviving music weekly and still an arbiter of taste) recently, but only to mark the 25th (!) anniversary of his former band’s legendary third album, The Queen is Dead (ironically, the old bat is still grimly holding on) and the interview with him was from the same period. While his contrariness is undoubtedly a massive reason for it, it would seem that Morrissey remains locked out of the business. This leaves only live work; the man still has the most dedicated fans in music (if not in number, definitely in devotion) and they pack out his shows, buy his overpriced merchandise and (nearly) keep him in the style he’d like to become accustomed to.

As an aside, the ticket cost roughly £35 ($56, at the time of writing), including the booking fee. Twenty years ago, Morrissey played in Edinburgh and that ticket was £12 ($18). Even accounting for inflation that is a serious hike. Sports and music, as live experiences, are vastly overpriced now and seem unaffected by the economic downturn. Worse still, while the public appetite to pay, say £50 to £100 ($80 to $160) to watch an English Premier League match is still there, the trickle down to other leagues/sports has made them unattractive. £25 ($40) for a Scottish Premier League (we’ve had a Premier League since 1976, the English imposters since 1992, so fuck off, England…) for an ever poorer product is absurd and is reflected in the falling attendances. Similarly, the likes of Culture Bully favorite UFC has slaughtered boxing by providing value; numerous (usually) competitive bouts for far less money — be it live or on pay per view. As a fan of Scottish football and boxing, it’s sad to watch the sports basically tailspin towards disaster.

Getting back to music, the same situation has led to bands/acts to reforming and/or going out and playing familiar hits or whole albums. It’s a popular thing, I went to the Doolittle show and, had I not seen the Screamadelica tour back in the day (and been so poor, even the Greeks laughed at me), probably would’ve went to see the Primal Scream show as well. People are more reluctant now to pay the going rate for gigs to see new talent or new songs from their heroes, but things change when they can have their nostalgia fix. It’s the dark side of the new industry, the promotion and exposure of up and coming artists is almost all gone as record companies can’t hope to see a return on their investment through sales. There’s the Internet, of course, but it’s becoming ever more difficult to get noticed due to the sheer volume of material. Frankly, if you can get half as many YouTube hits as a juggling monkey dressed as Santa, you’re probably already a superstar.

Anyway, how about the gig? It was magnificent. The set included two of Morrissey’s three new songs, five Smiths classics and a cover of Lou Reed’s “Satellite of Love.” The good thing about him not having a new album to promote is that it allows for a more balanced set, with material from 1983 all the way to 2011. Moz himself seemed in fine fettle and, though they raced through the set, made time for a little bit of banter and two shirt changes. Here’s the set list (with links to the original recordings):

I Want the One I Can’t Have
First of the Gang to Die
You Have Killed Me
Shoplifters of the World Unite
Every Day is Like Sunday
There is a Light that Never Goes Out
Alma Matters
Speedway
One Day Goodbye will be Farewell
People Are the Same Everywhere
Satellite of Love
Action is My Middle Name
I Know it’s Over
I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris
Ouija Board, Ouija Board
Meat is Murder
Irish Blood, English Heart
This Charming Man (Encore)

Like I say, it was fucking superb. I doubt there’s anything in that set that would convert a non-believer but Morrissey was always about his people. This old man left happy. If I was to find criticism, it would be minor; “Every Day is Like Sunday” was all over the place but it was a lovely moment (got a bit dusty near me) and I always thought “Ouija Board, Ouija Board” was a bit twee, though the live version was okay. The musical arrangements for “There is a Light…” and “This Charming Man” were, respectively, too light and too heavy. All pretty minor though and the man himself survived the small town experience without being lynched, as evidenced by his excellent (and remarkably similar) Glastonbury set, three nights later. The spark is still there too, as evidenced by his turning on his own fans. What a guy! See him, before he’s gone.

[This article was written by guest contributor Stephen Beagrie.]