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BIG BROTHER
Num 87
Aug 2002
$3.99
LFP, Inc
MORRISSEY
Convention 2002
By Dave Carnie
Transcribed by Vu"About once a year I burst into tears and I just can't stop. I get the impression that I should do it more often but because I don't everything seems to come out at once. Once in 1984 it was a very horrendous plane journey and for some reason the floodgates just opened, as they say, and didn't stop for the rest of the day. On the plane, in the airport, in the hotel, at the soundcheck, I just couldn't stop." - Morrissey
The annual Smiths/Morrissey convention in L.A. is the only one of its kind in the world because, as an English fellow inside told me, "Nowhere else in the world do the Smiths have this kind of fan. Only in L.A." While the rest of the world has more or less proclaimed that The Smiths are dead, Southern California Latinos idolize the gentle Manchester lad as if he were one of their own. Considering the amount of machismo in their community, the frail, sensitive, effeminate, celibate and white Morrissey is probably one of the most peculiar icons that young, East Los Angeles Latinos, who have grown up around gangs and the violent culture that surrounds them, could embrace. I embraced him too, you'll remember, so I bought a ticket and wandered down to the Palace in Hollywood to see just how profound an effect this Morrissey character can have on people.
I had read an article about the Smiths' popularity with the Mexicans, but I didn't really believe it until I got to the club, where, sure enough, the crowd was 90% brown. I knew it was coming, but still it was a bit shocking. I wandered around the sea of brown for a bit, trying to get a feel for what was going on, and snapped a few pictures before finally settling down at the bar near a group of young Latinos, all dressed in varying degrees like James Dean, and asked if I could take their picture. They said sure, and we struck up a conversation, and, once we were comfortable, asked them, "Why do you think so many chicanos like Mor-'
"Chicanos?" one of them burst out laughing. "We're beaners, man!" They all laughed, and I felt embarrassed. Oh, I can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible. His name was Edwin, and he was surely the most handsome of the group, if only a tad effeminate and a little drunk. They were all very friendly and polite, and. I immediately took a liking to them, and they to me. I, for one, was smitten by their hairdos, their use of comb and the subtle application of pomades, while they found my wild crop reminiscent of Jim Morrison, but only if you put a hand over my eyes. We were having a grand time. I mean, right off the bat I was given permission to bandy the word beaner about as much as I pleased.
Alex, the youngest at 21, was fascinated with all the punk shows I'd been to. He asked, "Do you go to shows around here?"
"Not much anymore," I said, sliding into my I've-been-around-the-block-a-few-times voice, "I'm 32 years old, and I've pretty much been there and done that." My snotty tone was nauseating.
His eyes widened, "Really? Like who did you see?"
"You name it," I said. "Pretty much any punk band you can think of." And then I started rattling off every punk band I could think of whether I had seen them or not. I was drunk, so I ran out of bands quick.
"The Addicts?" he added encouragingly in the pause.
"Oh, yeah, totally," I said. How could I let him down?
For some reason I really felt this need to be loved that night, I wanted to see people, I wanted to see life, so I shamelessly lied and dropped names to gain their approval. I demonstrated, for instance, how acquainted I was with their people by detailing my friendship with Brujo, the lead singer of Mexican metal giants Brujeria. They loved Brujeria. And thus they loved me. The attention felt good, so I decided to play a card I rarely play, the Jackass card. After I outlined my connection to the show, they grew so excited that I found myself unable to field the millions of questions each had about their favorite cast members.
"One at a time, one at a time," I said, laughing. I was practically a celebrity. I was on a roll. So I told them that the pictures I was taking were for an article I was writing for Rolling Stone magazine.
"Oh, really!?" Edwin said, "Here, write down my name, it's spelled....
As much as I enjoyed hanging out with Edwin and his friends, I have to admit I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to exhibit their acceptance of me, as a gringo who's down with the southerners, to gain admittance into some of the other, more thuggier Mexican cliques that were scattered throughout the convention. I was fascinated with the monsters that filled their ranks, and I wanted to photograph them without arousing anyone's suspicion that I was just another white man exploiting the beaners for his own gain... which, in a way, I was kind of doing. But in my defense, I've always admired the Mexican people, I've even secretly wished was Mexican at times, mostly due to the exalted reputation of the "Latin lover" among the fair sex, but also because I want to go bouncy bouncy in a low rider. Brown people got style, and I've always wanted a piece of it, to be accepted in the barrio, to be able to say "beaner" legally and sing along to Cheech & Chong songs and nod knowingly. In my heart I truly wanted to befriend these people, but under the circumstances I needed to take a shortcut to their hearts.
Have you ever been to a Slayer show? Every one I have ever been to has been packed to the gills with the biggest, meanest motherfuckin' beaners you have ever seen. All wearing wife beaters and Raiders jerseys with white socks pulled to the knees. Where for any other band there would be a pit, for Slayer there is a brawl. Yes, they just fight. The brawl usually gets underway long before Slayer takes the stage. Then when they hit the stage, 800M! The place explodes. The front is nothing but a mass of writhing bodies in combat. I always make sure I'm holding onto a pole, lashed to the mast, so to speak, to weather the storm.
Well, I was shocked and ashamed to discover that they do the same fuckin' thing to The Smiths. The big, thuggy beaners I was trying to gain access to were fucking slam dancing to The Smiths. And really violently too. Not as violent as they do at a Slayer show, but there was some serious ass-kicking going down. It was especially surreal during slower songs like "Everyday Is Like Sunday," which I never would have imagined could evoke the same emotions that a song like "Raining Blood" does in a person. I was a little freaked out because I had been promised that The Smiths convention would be filled with men weeping, not fighting. They did have group hugs in the middle of the pit after every song though.
I wanted to find out what in the world possessed these monsters to react so violently to such gentle music, and I imagined my ticket into their realm could be bought through Edwin and his friends. So I decided to really wow my new friends, pull out all the stops and knock them out of their seats. I sensed they were on the verge of hoisting me onto their shoulders and parading me about the convention, It was time their admiration turned to worship.
"I hugged Morrissey," I said suddenly. A feather! They all stopped talking and leaned in a little closer. Go on. "Yeah, I did. You wanna see the picture?" They all nodded yes, and I reached into my purse and pulled out the Whale Cock ad with me clinging to Morrissey's arm.
"That's not you!" Alex said. The others eyed it suspiciously, suspecting trickery of some sort. I was still white after all.
"No, you're right, that's Morrissey," I said. "The one with the beard is me." I make a funny, no? Then I told them the tale of meeting Morrissey at the Cat and the Fiddle and having my picture taken beside him. Perhaps it was the quality of the details or my persuasive Mice, but I could see in their eyes that they believed what I said to be true. When I looked round at knee level, however, no one proffered their palms as a stirrup.
Edwin remained suspicious. He didn't want to admit that someone else, anyone else, but him, could meet Morrissey, for Edwin was an admitted Morrissey stalker. And though he looked bitter, I could tell the evidence I provided had given him hope that he too would one day touch Morrissey, that he is indeed touchable, and thus his stalking efforts haven't been for naught. The goal of all his madness wasn't unattainable. I had given Edwin hope. Morrissey is human, and he needs to be loved just like everybody else does. And Edwin was going to love him, Edwin was going to touch him.
But Edwin resented my good fortune, and, rather than congratulating me on achieving his goal in half the time and admit that he was jealous (he would only say that he held people who had met Morrissey in higher favor than those who hadn't), he instead bragged that he knew where Morrissey lived, implying he could go touch him any time he wanted, whereas I had to rely on chance encounters at a trendy English pub. He explained that he visits Morrissey's house regularly. So much so that he's struck up a relationship of sorts with the property's gardener. Surely a fellow beaner armed with a gas-powered leaf blower.
"I asked him [the gardener],'Who lives here?'" Edwin began regarding the encounter. Then he said it in Spanish for authenticity and perhaps to remind me where I was, before returning to English.
"Is his name Stephen?"' he asked the gardener. Stephen is Morrissey's first name. "And the gardener goes, 'No, ees Morr-ee-seeeeee. C c c c.'"
Edwin paused, and a devilish grin crept across face as he looked each of his friends in the eyes before turning to me and asking, "How many people do you know that have talked to Morrissey's gardener?"
A hush fell over the table. Suddenly Edwin was in command of everyone's attention. Victory had belonged to him all along. I had sorely underestimated my opponent. His fighting technique was awesome. I was foolish to think that I could dazzle my way into their hearts with my name-dropping, Morrissey-hugging, star-fucker stories. All my lies and half-truths withered before his relationship with Morrissey's gardener, and all the admiration I had milked from our brief time together was dashed against the rocks with a suddenness so violent that I near well fainted. Nothing at that dreadful moment could have been more certain than the fact that I had fallen from their favor, no closer to meeting a giant Mexican who slam dances to The Smiths than I had been when I arrived.
Trudging slowly over wet sand, back to the bench where your clothes were stolen.
I gathered myself together and graciously accepted defeat. Indeed, who do you know that has talked to Morrissey's gardener? There must be millions of other poor sods out there like me who have groped Moz's frail and gentle body, but I bet Edwin is the only one who's kicked it with his gardener. I tried to glean the address from him so that I could trade my Morrissey- hugging story in for the more spectacular Morrissey-gardener story, but Edwin wouldn't spill the beans.
"I made a pact with God," he explained, "if I tell anyone where he lives, my soul will belong to the devil." Our friendship obviously had a long way to go before it attained a level where my needs were more important than his soul.
"I know Wee Man," I offered. I showed him how tall the li'l fella was with my hand. That ought to be worth something, right? He shook his head no. I just hadn't earned it yet, baby.
