Raleigh Photo Pass

...So the Morrissey show in Raleigh, NC, was on Sunday...

On Friday at around 5:30 or 6:00 PM, I walked into Flash Magazine to turn in my last articles for the upcoming issue. As I was getting ready to depart, I mentioned to my editor that I'd be incommunicado on Sunday because I'd be out of town, and I reminded him as to why.

"Dammit, Will, why didn't you remind me about that?" he asked me. "I told you I could get you a photo pass if you'd just remind me?"

"Well, I forgot about it, too," I admitted. "No big deal."

"Well, now, hang on," he said, quickly. "It's what time now? About 6? Maybe if we call someone's office in California? What label is he on?"

"Polygram."

"Hang tight." He flipped through his trusty label guide, spotted the number for Polygram's California offices, and dialed away. Within seconds (and that's literally, mind you, not figuratively), he'd scored me a photo pass for the show.

My only problem: I have two cameras -- one a really crappy one which I won from the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes and is totally manual with no flash, and one which has proved extremely successful in the past but which has a flash that can't be turned off. (What do you want from me, I'm a writer, not a photographer.) The latter would be my choice to carry, but I know full well that flashes won't be allowed, photo pass or no photo pass. I check with some friends, but only one can provide me with a decent camera with a flash that can be switched off, and she admits that, without a tripod, the pictures are more than likely to turn out blurry. I decide to buy the highest speed film possible and bring the crappy camera, assuring myself that the film will make up for the camera.

So I get to the show, three of my friends with me. I ask at the front window for my photo pass. The woman knows nothing of this, but admits that Polygram haven't given her anything yet. Moments later, a security guy from the club hustles me aside and asks for some credentials. I can offer none. (98% of my interviews are done by phone, and the 2% that aren't are with local bands.) He asks for the name of the publicist I talked to. I can't tell him. I explain that my editor did the fast talking to get me the pass. He seems highly skeptical, saying that Morrissey's rep is the one who's going to have to make the final decision as to whether or not I get the pass. I argue that the label put me on the list, and I point out that I have ID to prove that I'm the one whose name is on the list. He drops the bombshell that there is no list per se, that I just have to show my credentials. To this, I offer him a quivering bottom lip as a response. Okay, well, maybe not. But I was clearly straddling the gap between being horribly depressed and extremely pissed off. He says that he'll have to hold my camera for the time being, but to meet back at the front area at 9 PM, where he'll point me to Morrissey's guy, who'll take people to the designated area... IF I pass muster. And he makes it quite clear that he thinks I will not. At all.

So I go to where the rest of my friends are waiting for me. They've been joined by Keith, an acquaintance from Virginia Beach, one who has met Morrissey on several occasions (and has the photos of himself with Mozz to prove it) and who, as far as any of us can tell, is pretty tight with him.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks.

"The damned photo pass. I have no credentials to prove I write for the paper, and there's no list to confirm that I'm supposed to get the pass."

Keith's eyes grow hard and cold. "Wait a minute. I'll take care of this." And he pushes past me.

Two steps later, he turns around me, smiling, and says, "Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm not THAT in the know."

Now, I concede that it was pretty funny. At the time, of course, I was ready to throttle him.

Anyway, I resolve not to worry about it until 9 PM. I relax as best I can and enjoy a fine set by the Smoking Popes, who, amongst their originals, performed a lurvely version of "Pure Imagination," from "Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory." They only play until 8:35. Then, time begins to pass dreadfully slow.

Finally, at 8:50, I can wait with my friends no longer. I walk over to near the area where I'm supposed to meet the security guy. In fact, as I get there, he rushes past me into the crowd. So I wait for him to come back. And I wait and I wait. Finally, at exactly 9, he returns.

"Erm, I'm here to meet for the photo pass," I say.

He looks blankly at me. Then, he glances around. "I don't see the guy. He was here a minute ago. Hold on." Fortunately, it only takes him a few steps to locate the guy. "Go talk to him," he says, "and I'll go get your camera."

I walk over to the guy, who already has one other photographer waiting with him. "Who are you here representing?" he asks.

"Flash Magazine, in Virginia Beach, VA."

"And who'd you talk to?"

"Publicity at Polygram."

He looks me up and down. Then, he says the one word I couldn't imagine he'd actually say:

"Okay."

He's handing me the official "Maladjusted" photo pass right as the security guy comes up with my camera. It feels good, and, clearly, the security guy is amazed that I've gotten the pass, but he has the common decency not to say so to Morrissey's rep. Which is good for the security guy, because, clearly, if he'd screwed things up, I might very well have slain him where he stood.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Keith pops up. He walks over to Morrissey's guy, and, pointing to me, he says, "Hey, you treating this guy alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's good," says Morrissey's feller.

"Cool." Keith grins. "Have fun, dude."

I can't resist grinning back. "I certainly plan on it," I reply.

"So here's the deal," says Morrissey's guy. "You can take pictures during the first three songs. Don't take any pictures until he starts singing. No flash photography whatsoever. At the end of the three songs, take your camera, equipment, and whatever out to your car. At that point, you're welcome to come back in and enjoy the rest of the show. If I see your camera at any point after that, we confiscate the film."

I think to myself that my camera is easy enough to stash in the inside pocket of my coat after the three songs, so that I don't miss any of the concert. Besides, after those songs, I'll be walking back to where my friends are, I'll want to concentrate on the show, and I won't even be thinking about taking more pictures on the sly. (This theory proves to be accurate, fortunately.)

Then, he says words which take me several seconds to comprehend.

"Follow me, we're going to situate you between the stage and the barrier to hold back the audience."

Erm...what?

You're going to put me WHERE?

Precisely two inches from Morrissey?

Two inches away from the man whose lyrics have gotten me through every depressing moment in my life? The man who has been, to be quite frank, important enough to my life to be called second only to the Beatles (which is really saying something)?

Oh, dear.

I'm escorted up to the area where I'm to be taking pictures. An virtual wall of Morrissey fans lay behind me. I look at the crappy camera in my hand. "Okay, camera," I think. "It's just you and me. You're the only thing I've got to record this moment. You had better not fuck up."

Then, smoke begins to billow on stage.

It turns out to be a false alarm, the stage hands merely testing things out before the show. I realize that, despite this, my heart is beating a mile a minute.

Oh, great, I'm an inch away from a heart attack during the false alarm, I'm going to have an actual coronary when he finally comes out on stage.

It's right around the time of this realization that the lights drop, the smoke begins to pour for real, and the drum solo from "The Operation," from "Southpaw Grammar," begins to play in the background.

And, then, he emerges.

I'm torn between two frames of mind. One is, inevitably, "This is one of my heroes, and I'm currently in a position where I can literally touch him." And the other is, "I'm a not-very-professional photographer with a crappy camera who got his photo pass by the skin of his teeth, and if I look for one second like I'm just a fan who managed to get a photo pass through a bluff (which would be VERY easy for them to argue), I'm risking being thrown out of here."

I opt for the second mindset.

The band leaps into "Boy Racer." Morrissey poses around the stage, making for some brilliant shots. I'm clicking away, making sure to keep moving the film forward manually after each shot. He stops about two inches from me (once again, this is LITERALLY) and leans forward to touch hands with the crowd.

I wonder at this moment if it's worth throwing aside the camera, shaking his hand, and then leaving, taking a memory with me that'll last longer than any friggin' pictures.

I opt to keep taking pictures. I also opt to feel like an idiot for doing so.

To the surprise of virtually everyone, the band next leaps into "London," by the Smiths, and the crowd goes NUTS.

"Oh, LORD," I find myself muttering, grinning all the way.

It's brilliant, and I find myself pausing a bit longer between photos this time, simply enjoying where I'm standing. A SMITHS song. It just doesn't get any better than this.

The crowd goes wild upon the song's completion, and Morrissey leaps into "Alma Matters."

Within about 30 seconds, I realize I'm out of film. Knowing I have another roll in my pocket, I try to rewind the film, and it proves to be a struggle. As the song continues, I realize it's inevitable that I won't be able to reload in time to take any more pictures. So I stash the camera in my pocket and leave the area.

Well, the rest of the show was brilliant. Every song he played was either a Smiths song (he also did "Paint A Vulgar Picture" and "Shoplifters Of the World Unite") or from Vauxhall & I onward, which means that it was the first time I'd seen him play any of the songs live. (The last time I'd seen him perform was on the Your Arsenal tour.) Even the songs from Southpaw Grammar, which is probably my least favorite Morrissey album, sounded great.

So I get home, and I take the film to a one-hour developer.

The end result...?

NONE of them came out. None. Not a damned one.

Either the light was too bright for the crappy li'l camera to handle, or the film was too good, or something, but, at best, there are a few blurs recognizable as a very near-by Morrissey.

Sure, I cursed a bit. Okay, a LOT, actually. But the more I think about it, the less it bothers me. I certainly wouldn't trade the moment for anything. Well, maybe some good pictures, but you know what I mean... :)