STOP ME IF YOU THINK YOU’VE HEARD THIS ONE BEFORE: A Recollection of The Smiths’ first (and only) visit to Texas
Travel back with me to September 5, 1986. At that point I had already been writing about the British rock band The Smiths for my college newspaper in South Texas for two years, but the band had yet to tour my home state. So anticipation was high when a concert was announced to promote the band’s third studio effort, The Queen Is Dead, at the Bronco Bowl in Dallas for September 5, 1986.
This was the same Bronco Bowl where the Sex Pistols had famously played in 1979, a mere week before the band imploded onstage at Winterland in San Francisco. For this reason, and others, the Bronco Bowl was a very cool place to see a band.
Around noon on the 5th of September, three college friends and I departed on our 5-hour trek to
Dallas. We gamely practiced vocal gymnastics as we sang along to cassettes of the Smiths during the drive.
Anticipation was high as we turned into the parking lot of the Bronco Bowl and no time was wasted getting our tickets torn and making our way as close to the stage as possible. Which happened to be VERY CLOSE. We managed to get in the pit, dead center, a few feet from the front of the stage.
After waiting what seemed like a lifetime, even though there was only one opening act (the self-professed Jewish lesbian folksinger, Phranc), the Smiths were ON STAGE. Mere feet from us mere mortals.
The concert opened with the title track of The Queen Is Dead, with drummer Mike Joyce pounding away at the song’s signature intro. I was in bliss.
Then there was Morrissey — ridiculously camp and swish, sashaying across the stage, holding a sign saying “Meat Is Murder.”
The crowd threw flowers at his feet and he rewarded them by stretching across the stage monitors, teasing everybody by reaching out, adjusting his bulky eye glasses, but never quite touching anybody.
This was all part of the band’s legendary ritual, and as the show progressed we waited for the famous moment when Morrissey would remove his shirt and throw into the crowd, only for the fabric to be ripped to shreds by his frenzied fanbase.
If you doubt my story, you only need to check out the photo that adorns the inside gatefold to the Smiths’ only official live album, Rank, which captures just such a mob scene in all its blood-pounding glory.
About 3/4’s through the main set, Morrissey began to tug at his shirt — which that night happened to be a striped button-down, in pale shades of yellow and powder blue, with tiny flowers embroidered throughout.
He eventually grabbed the garment at its midsection, tore hard, and the buttons popped and rolled across the stage. With another jerk, like a spastic lizard shedding its skin, the shirt was off and Morrissey was waving it madly above his pale spindly body, his glasses now at his feet.
The front of the stage was swarming, and the crowd in back was surging forward, crushing my motley group of friends and myself HARD against the stage.
Morrissey twirled the shirt over his head and pretended to throw it. Arms thrust into the air, and mad pushing ensued, like a thousand newborn birds fighting to be fed the first worm by their mother!
Perhaps sensing that a large portion of his fans might be crushed if he didn’t do something soon, Morrissey once again whirled the shirt over his head, and this time he let go.
Now at this point I’ll let you know that I’m 6′5″ in height, and was quite popular on my high school basketball team.
The shirt headed in my general direction, I leapt, and one sleeve was in my hand. But as my body got nearer to the earth, about seven other hands were also on the shirt.
When my feet once again reached the concrete floor, there was a veritable swarm of groping, grasping hands on the shirt, and we all started ripping and wrestling in order to tear off a piece of the prize.
Mad with frenzy, a nearby skinhead and I managed to tear free one of the sleeves. But this was not due to any peaceful teamwork between us two, that’s just the way it worked out. And neither of us wanted to discuss our shared prize reasonably. Instead, my mohawked competitor grabbed tightly on the upper sleeve, while I wrapped my fingers around the buttons and lower cuff.
The full length of the arm was stretched wide between us. We each dug in our feet and PULLED, careening wildly across the floor of the Bronco Bowl.
Dozens of members of the crowd were unfortunate enough to be in our path, and with the tightly held sleeve between us, we mowed them down like chafe as we jerked wildly amongst the throng.
Mercifully, it wasn’t long before the sleeve gave way, with a loud shredding sound, as the two of us managed to secure approximately the same length of sleeve.
Instinctively, before anybody could get me in a headlock or otherwise attempt to wrestle the gaily colored scrap from my hands, I stuffed the shirt remnant deep into my underwear. This was the only place I knew it would be truly safe from the the mob surrounding me, murder in their eyes, staring as if they wanted me dead.
Yes, I still have the sleeve. And no, you can’t have a single thread from it.
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