"Mr. Marr, it is such a pleasure," I say, taking his hand in mine without looking at it. I am magnetized to his dark eyes and familiar Manchester haircut, which I have a complete view of, standing at least a couple of inches over him. I thank myself for deciding against those four-inch ankle boots.
Johnny Marr has just emerged from his dressing room. He's wearing the same black dress shirt--buttoned fully to his throat--and crushed velvet blazer he wore during the show, but he's clearly freshened up because there is no olfactory evidence to suggest he was just sweating on stage for 90 minutes in this insanely hot-looking outfit. My version of Heaven suddenly features a room full of rock legends smelling exactly like Johnny Marr does at this very moment. (I'll spare you the details of the other goings-on in that room.)
"I really enjoy your new record," I tell him honestly. He smiles and tilts his ear politely toward me to hear. "Why The Messenger? Why now? What does The Messenger mean to you?" I ask, the first of 16 simultaneously burning questions to percolate.
"Well you know," he begins, his thick Mancunian accent bursting pleasingly from his gut, "it's about carrying the message, even if it's negative. You know, puh-tting yer 'ead in the lion's mouth, so to speak." I admittedly haven't listened to the lyrics of the upbeat, guitar-driven album enough to immediately access a reference, so I ask him which songs best represent that idea.
But before he can answer, two bouncy women suddenly interrupt our conversation, one of them quick with a story about her friend's dog who finds sexual gratification sitting on the edge of an electric fence. I swing a mental hatchet squarely into her face.
And thus begins the process of my removal from the Orange Peel.
***
Most famous as the guitarist/co-writer for the game-changing Smiths, Johnny Marr is now touring what is called his first solo album (even though he's already released an album with his current band The Healers?). The Messenger comes after 26 years of post-Smiths collaborations, which include stints with The Pretenders, The The, The Cribs, Modest Mouse, and innumerable session works.
I learned the night before that I'd won a pair of post-show Meet & Greet passes, in my mind a fantastic opportunity to conduct a casual interview. My heart all a-flutter, I loosely formulated what sort of questions I would ask and did some research to determine the sort I would not (*cough* Morrissey *cough*).
All day I tried to find a taker for the extra M&G pass, but to my utter disbelief I failed to find another fan who wanted it. In shock and horror, I forfeited it at the box office and entered the venue. I could see then why it wasn't an obviously simple task; I'd scarcely seen such a small crowd for any Orange Peel show. But before long I was swallowing my mind's tongue; not everyone lives in my bubble of reality, and at a show like this, there is not actually room for people who don't totally want to be there.
The crowd erupted as the band entered the stage. The hard-driving opener "The Right Thing Right" from the new album set the tone for the evening, Johnny's signature jangling guitar fresh but reminiscent of the work that made him famous, his lead vocals also strong and satisfying. When the epic introductory chords of the classic Smiths song "Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before" rang out next, it was clear we had all heard it before. And fuck no we didn't stop him.
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| Not from the Asheville show, but he wore the same outfit |
For years the guitarist tried to distance himself from the painful breakup of the painfully short but intense Smiths relationship (1982-87). Never the type to capitalize on cheap gossip or nostalgia, Johnny only recently started playing Smiths songs live again (for which fans are endlessly grateful), but it's not just the acrimonious separation of the Smiths that discouraged him from satisfying his audience's sickly withdrawals: Johnny Marr is first and foremost an ever-evolving artist. This is clear from the first Smiths album to the last (FUCK YEAH STRANGEWAYS!), as too from his work in Electronic to that with Modest Mouse. He's not going to stick around playing the same old guitar, getting old and fat and dying all the time.
He graced us with a 20-song set, six of them classic Smiths tracks. He played his solos intimately to the crowd, that sexual rock energy I love so much almost too much to bear. I realize now that my signature move is staring mouth agape at the sight of revolutionary fingers flying down a fret board.
***
Despite my clear intentions to hog his attention entirely, Johnny's got to move on. After the anecdote about the masochistic dog, I notice a line of impatient fans standing patiently behind me.
Now that I've talked to him, I am immediately approached by a security guard to please get the fuck out. I slither out of his line of vision and observe quietly on the side. He turns around and repeats his request, this time rather more of a demand. I look into his eyes and tell him "I understand," but I stay put. A British guy from Johnny's personal crew appears then, a little more emphatic about it, but I maintain my position.
"He's not Santa, where you sit on his lap and take a picture. He's a music legend," I tell them. They've heard it all before and are not as amused with me as I am with myself. This goes on for another couple of minutes before I decide it's probably better to simply back away (dramatically) than to make a real scene.
While I am delighted that I got to ask at least one of the questions I had prepared (only one about Morrissey, I swear, and that's more of a comment), I am tired of being a nameless fan. I need a press pass.
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