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Thursday, 12 November 2015

Day 1523 - You'll Be Back

Morrissey's concert in Santiago last night has turned-up on Youtube, and I have been watching it over and over again; mainly because it has a near perfect set*: Suedehead, Alma, This Charming Man, YES, THIS CHARMING MAN, Speedway, Ganglord, World Peace, Kiss Me, Paris, Earth, You'll Be Gone, YES, YOU'LL BE GONE IS BACK *waves palm leaves and sings Hosanna*, How Soon Is Now?, First of the Gang, Oboe, Bullfighter, Meat, Will Never Marry, Far-off Places, Jack the Ripper, YES, JACK THE SODDING RIPPER, Sunday and What She Said.

WHAT A CONCERT! There were so, so many highlights, but for me, the top songs were: Suedehead, Ganglord, You'll be Gone, How Soon, Oboe, Never Marry and Jack. At the encore Moz started to sing Frank Sinatra's You'll Never Know, but stopped after just a few words when interrupted by a member of the audience. The crowd were lively, the band were superb, there were new backdrops, and Klaus Nomi's Death was played at the end... How I dearly wish I was not here!

One person who was there, was WPINOYB producer, Joe Chiccarelli, who today tweeted, "Moz delivered last night in Santiago. Great show!"

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There is nothing whatsoever to report from MorrisseysWorld, and there is no sign of the List of the Lost audio book that was promised by the Morrissey59 instagram account. It would appear that it really is a fake!

And finally, my friendship with Warhol Superstar, Joe Dallesandro, continues to grow, with him even 'liking' a few songs and pictures I have tweeted. Yesterday I linked Joe a copy of one of his films, Born Winner, in which he rides a motorbike. He tweeted to tell me, "I also rode a bike in 'Merry Go Round' 1979 film with director Jacques Rivette." I asked Joe if it was any good, to which he replied, "It was a peculiar film, you tell me." I watched Joe's Flesh For Frankenstein yesterday, which I found hilarious, so I will make Merry Go Round my next one to watch. I gave up on Born Winner due to the poor dubbing, but I will give that a proper watch at some stage too.

Joe has also tweeted that the infamous Carol Doda has died. I asked Joe if he'd ever met Doda, to which he replied, "From the back of a room."

The Loveless Go-Go Bar has a lot to thank this true pioneer for.

*There is no such thing as a 'perfect' Morrissey set, as there would always be classic songs missing.


  1. with the concerts going so well he cant give it all up, he just cant.. on a lighter note I have been North Beach in the past (rather seedy) and also not so long ago and a lot quieter now..

  2. Of course the fake Mirrissry59 prediction could just be a way of putting people off the scent and reducing the number of followers...

  3. It's been such a treat to begin my day by watching the Santiago footage and ending the day with seeing Moz on the TV show, both of which were brilliant. He really is at the top of his game and I have to agree with Manc that it's hard to consider him giving it all up soon. Very excited to see Jack in the set along with the reappearance of the Elvis cover - quite a setlist!


    Once upon a time, maybe it was only yesterday, maybe it was before, I won’t tell you the details, there was a beautiful boy.

    He was very tall, very slender, very strong. And very handsome. I know his face. I will always remember his face, because his face is emblazoned across my mind. His story - was never tattooed above anybody’s heart. But perhaps it will be now.

    This beautiful boy lived alone with his father, in a small village, in a country you don’t know. A place in the countryside, a place with hard work, and a hard life. There were vineyards. There was a marble quarry. And there was a gold mine. There may have even been two. This is what work there was. Work in the fields, work in the quarry, or work in the mines. Small village. Back-breakingly hard work. A life with few mercies, and with little forgiveness.

    There were no girls. No girls to speak of, in any case. And certainly no boys. There was work. And then there was home. At home there was more work, and at home there was father. Mother died. His mother died when he was young.

    Backgammon. Cards. Chess. The radio.

    Nights with no lights. Summertime nights spent outside. Only stars, and crickets. And wolves howling in the hills. Wild dogs and wolves, and sometimes, the stench of animal excrement from the pig farm, slicing through the night air and heaving in everyone’s nostrils, with the sharpness of knives. The smell of suffocating excrement tonight, only as silent precursor to the strangulating promise of incipient death.

    A cigarette end burns in the darkness, but around it, pitch black. The night hides everything.

    Creaking cellar doors. A bat in the cubbyhole. Wine barrels made of oak. Each one, made by hand.

    Have you ever had freshly pressed, unfermented, unpasteurized grape juice? Freshly separated from the pomace? No. I didn’t think you had. Vinum mustum. It’s absolutely exquisite.

    A sweetest kind of sweetness. A sweetness without end, a fizz without beginning, a taste without time. The taste of oxygen. The taste of the sweetest naked fruit. Its vital essence, and nothing more. The ancient Greeks used to say that this freshly pressed juice is not only the secret to longevity, but in fact the very secret to life itself. It only exists for a single week or so each year. Then once the juice starts to ferment, its singular regenerative properties are completely gone. So it is also the taste of - life. And everything has a taste, all its own.

    Do you know my taste? Do you know the taste of my bite? My bite tastes like sour cherries. Like sweet, tart, sweet tart, but very sweet, tart, sweet sour cherries. You’ll have to take my word for it, on this one. Just trust me.

    Trust me now, trust me never.


    When large oak barrels are made by hand, for a wine cellar, for the wine to ferment in, a tap, a spigot, any kind of faucet by which to extract the wine, would be a weak spot in the barrel. A weak spot where any pressure could be enough to make it burst.

    Instead, a large barrel is constructed, and shaped, and built by hand. The wood is tenderized – this isn’t what it’s called - but it may as well be. Tenderized, and then cajoled into shape. Cajoled, but with a very knowing, very firm, and very experienced hand.

    Because nothing in life can come by force. Or by spurious guile. Nothing worth having, in any case.

    And certainly nothing worth wanting.


    A solid barrel is constructed by hand, and there is nowhere for the wine to come out. Instead, a small hole is left at the top. Ferment me this way. Ferment me that way. Whatever you do, don’t ferment me wrong. Don’t ferment me too long.

    If you ferment it wrong, it turns to syrup. Too long? Too short? Not enough? A thick, thick, THICK, syrupy syrup. No wine for you. Don’t cry for me.

    If fermented too long, it must be poured into demijohns, and shaken, shaken, shaken. To separate once more, and to undo what’s been done. A moment too long, a moment too soon – and it was all for nothing. It’s now all wrong. It’s now all gone.

    Can you ever undo, what’s already been done? Can you ever undo, what’s already been undone?


    Father made lunch for his beautiful son one morning. This morning. That morning. Any morning. Every morning. The summer air wasn’t hot yet, the morning inside the house still cool, with the promise of the day still yet to unfurl. Just like every other morning. Sandwiches. Sandwiches wrapped in white paper table napkins. Everything in the kitchen, white.

    Everything that is white is clean, new, pure.

    Untouched. Untainted. Unknowing.

    The beautiful boy had a weathered, leather bag. A briefcase, in fact. There is a certain solemnity in a briefcase. And there is dignity to be found, in carrying this briefcase.

    You scoff? Don’t scoff. Never scoff at a life that you don’t know. Never scoff at a life that you haven’t lived.

    The sandwiches, every morning, lovingly made by a father who loved no one else in life – and who had no one else left to love, then went into the weathered, leathered, satchel, on this beautiful, innocent, Adonis-boy’s shoulder. He was goodness incarnate, with a heart as pure as doves’ wings.

    This morning, the beautiful brown haired boy with his piercing blue eyes, didn’t come back into the kitchen. Where is he? Where is he? I’ve looked everywhere. Now he’ll really be late!

    Is he in the vegetable garden? Has he gone to the grapes, I know there was a problem with the vines. They’re coming in the middle of the night now, this never used to happen in the old days! This never used to happen before! They come in the middle of the night now, and they steal the vines! Right out from the ground. They dig them up, vines that were planted so long ago. So long ago that people say they were planted here by the Romans, when they came and conquered. Veni! Vidi! Vici!

    They’re thick, and gnarled, and maybe thousands of years old. You can see the root, because from the root is from where the new vines must be spliced. And you can trace the epochs that this vine has lived with your fingers, and read it, just like you can read the rings of a thousand year old tree.

    It’s getting hotter now. It’s not early morning anymore. The sandwiches know it. They’re still sitting on the table. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Now starting to limp. And soon to be limping.

    Slowly, slowly, slowly, a slight worry turns into something more. A hollow pit in the bottom of the father’s stomach starts to churn. A hollow pit, but a hollow pit now with a density, and with a weight, and with a mass.

    Outside, in the sunshine, in the garden all is quiet. All is well. Bright sun. Birds sweetly chirruping.

    The somewhat far away, creaking chain of a neighbor’s well suddenly goes SNAP!!! And the metal bucket makes an almighty racket as it clangs and bangs against the sides of the walls, until it violently reaches the very bottom of its length, and the metal chain makes it snap up again. Clanging against the side of the well two last times, for good and final measure.

    Midmorning silence. Riotously broken. But only for a moment. Now it’s all quiet again. And the sun still shines.

    Bucket back at the bottom of the well. That’s what happens. And that’s where you end up, if you let go too soon. Or if you haven’t secured everything that needs to be secured. Someone just let go of the bucket too soon. That was all it was.

  8. END

    Into the barn now. It’s more of a storage barn, in fact. Everything to be kept safe and dry. But not for the animals. Well, sometimes for the animals. If there are any strays. In that case, there is always a warm bed for them here, for the winter.

    It’s dark and cool in the barn. Shadowy. Morning hasn’t come here yet, because it never does. Not entirely. The sunlight doesn’t fully reach. Safe from the sun, safe from everything. Here, inside, it always takes a moment for the eyes to adjust.

    Suddenly, a heart stops. The father is frozen. His insides collide. There is an indescribable collision, of atoms, of neurons, of electrons, of everything a human being is made of. Is this what it was like, when the galaxies collided?

    A big bang? The BIG Bang? Except this one happens inside of a human being. The mind stops, time stops, the world stops. But the mind is racing, time is racing, nothing stops.

    Everything happening. And everything is not happening at all. All at once, and all at the same time. And the father doesn’t control any of it. It happens inside of him, and yet, he is oblivious.

    A statue.

    But what felt like an eternity was only a moment ago, because with a heart made of stone that will never beat again the same as it ever did before, as quick as a panther, the father leaps.

    From a beam, the beautiful, beautiful boy, everybody’s son, and now nobody’s, - NO…no, not yours! The beautiful boy who was nothing but good, is hanging from his neck.

    His body limp, dangling, but not still. An almost imperceptible slight back and forth to the rope. But it’s too late now. And it will always be too late, now.

    In his death, he is even more beautiful than he was in life. The outside, merely a reflection in this case, of the inside. Because through his death, he showed his true colors. Through the pain he felt in his heart, through the sacrifice he made in giving up his own life, through the unspeakable agony he knew he would be causing to his own loving, aging father – who has no one else left at all now – the most beautiful boy on earth, showed his true colors.

    There was a note. In his jacket pocket. They didn’t find it until later. Carefully folded into three. They were the last words that he would ever write. And these were the last thoughts that he ever had.

    “My Father”, it began. “Please forgive me. I love you so much. But they came, and I could not walk away. I tried, but there were too many of them. They gave me a deadline. It was today. And I couldn’t do it. I could not do what they asked.

    They told me I had to kill someone. And if I did not do as they said, they would have killed me. There would have been no discussion, no chance, there is no escape.

    You know more than anyone else on this earth, that I could never kill someone.

    If someone has to die, it will never be by my hand. And so now, instead of killing someone else, the only choice that has been left to me, is for me to kill myself.

    Because if I don't kill someone else, they still kill me.

    “I’m so sorry, my father. I love you. I will love you always. And now, I will love you into the foreverafter.”


    You may think this is just a story to be forgotten, at the bottom of a blog. But you’re wrong.

    And you may think that you know the color of my heart. But you don’t. And you won’t. And you never will. And if you still think that you do, then you’d still be wrong.

    Do you know the color of my heart?
    Do you know the color of my art?
    Do you know the taste of my sighs? You never will.
    Never is a very long time.
    And eclipsed in the longer, only by always, by tomorrow, and by time.

    In other words – always, tomorrow, and time – will all last longer than my never.

    A spasm like no other, my heart was clutched, my heart was wrenched. There is no time now left - the end.

    These are the infinites that belong to no one, and to nothing.

    And alongside them, I’ll lay down my sleepy head and heart tonight.

    With an ever loving lullaby, lying in quiet wait in my heart. For everyone who needed one, when there was one not there



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