The best live music has always been about the deviations — sometimes minuscule, sometimes vast — from an artist's recorded tracks.
Some of the most popular acts do their best to keep those deviations as small as possible. But the more exciting artists, like the Velvet Underground, have used a crowbar to pry open the definition of "performance" at avant-garde art spaces like Andy Warhol's New York hub of creativity, the Factory. That crowbar-wielding element of the unexpected has catapulted many experimental entertainers — or entertainingly dysfunctional acts, such as the Germs or Replacements — into the music history books next to the well-rehearsed, high-gloss polish of acts like the Eagles.
But can the lack of a performance also be a performance?
On July 25, Morrissey and Death Grips, two acts infamous for canceling shows at the last minute — or just straight-up ghosting scheduled appearances — are slated to play the Bay Area. But here's the kicker: Whether or not either artist shows up, fans will be engaged. A no-show, it seems, only builds anticipation for the next show, entertains fans with headlines and buzz, and proves that scarcity, one of the key tenets of our economic system, can also be applied to the currency of concerts.
It's unlikely Morrissey considers that potential upside when he cancels shows, often citing health concerns (he recently disclosed he's been undergoing treatment for cancer) or the carnivorous diets of venue workers (he's a vegan). But his actions have, in some ways, benefited him. Fans never know what, if anything, is going to happen at a Morrissey show, which makes him an inherently interesting artist.
After canceling a string of shows in 2013, Moz published a note to his followers on the True To You fan site. In it, he writes, "I fully realize that the word 'cancellation' in every known dictionary is followed by my own name, but no morale drops as low as my own at the mere suggestion of re-jigging shows. I sincerely ask for your pardon and your understanding." The singer — whose former band, the Smiths, also was known for canceling shows — noted that his spirits were raised by his management team informing him that, despite canceling many shows, his ticket sales continued to climb. And perhaps having accidently bumped into the truth about his own scarcity increasing his value, Morrissey questioned, "As for those of you who claim to now be officially sick to death of me — if this is really true, then why exactly are you reading this?"
They read it because when Morrissey cancels a show, even for the most intimate of reasons, his absence from the stage becomes part of a larger, public performance. It's a performance that, much like his music, expresses who Morrissey is, what's important to him, and the value system he fights for. Got meat? He won't play. Feeling miserable? He opts out.
That artistic anti-performance was what Death Grips were going for in a much more transparent way when, in 2013, the Sacramento-based agit-rap trio planned a mini-tour it never intended on showing up for. Instead of playing the shows, the group projected a suicide note onto a screen, had one of its handlers press a "play" button on recorded music, and let Lollapalooza fans stare at an empty child's drum set on the stage. The fans tore the drum set apart.
But when artists tear up contracts, or fans tear apart drum sets, who's left to clean up the mess?
Michael Bailey books bands at the Fillmore, the iconic San Francisco venue that sheltered the city's revolutionary '60s psych-rock scene. That's where Death Grips are scheduled to play this week.
"It's a calculated risk," Bailey says of booking bands with a history of canceling shows. "You book a band and they tell you they're going to show up — you have to believe them."
When I mention Morrissey's name, Bailey chuckles. He cleans up the mess left behind by cancellations fairly often. ("It's just something you deal with as a booker.") But although cancellations are more common than you might think, Bailey says there's no set policy in place to handle the fallout from every last-minute food poison attack (like the penne pasta-triggered one which sank part of Morrissey's 2013 South American tour). Each situation is handled on a case-by-case basis. There's cancellation insurance to help recoup costs, but like any other insurance policy, there are deductibles, and not every instance qualifies — so sometimes a last-minute pullout results in a big financial hit.
"The main thing is taking care of people who bought tickets," Bailey says. "Then we work out any expenses the venue may have already put forth."
The most recent example of a last-minute cancellation at the Fillmore was Juicy J in May. Forget last-minute notices — the Memphis rapper canceled mid-show. "The opening acts had played, he was loaded in, and had to stop the show on stage," Bailey says, noting the rapper wasn't feeling well. "He ended up going to the hospital."
As a booker, Bailey does his best to get fans to hold onto their tickets, but sometimes, like in the case of Juicy J (who was later treated at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital for exhaustion), the venues aren't able to reschedule the concerts and are forced to refund fans' tickets.
Like Juicy J, Morrissey has also canceled at least one show mid-set, but for an entirely different reason. Last year, an audience member in Poland heckled the singer while he was seemingly trying to open up to the crowd about something. A cruel thing to do, no doubt, but even the Geneva Convention has rules against collective punishment, so Moz's refusal to perform for an entire crowd of people who adore him because one jackass couldn't keep his mouth shut seems a little unfair. Never one to honor a contract (even one ratified by 196 countries), Moz sulked off stage during a band member's solo and never returned. A nervous venue representative would later take his place at the mic to announce to the audience (who chanted for Morrissey to come back) that Moz didn't "feel safe," and that he wouldn't be returning.
A spokesperson for Live Nation, which promoted the show, said the Polish crowd member in question yelled some "extremely offensive and chauvinistic" remarks at Moz. But the Poland incident isn't the first time Moz abandoned his band on stage: In 2009 he left a Coachella stage mid-performance after getting a whiff of some backstage BBQ. That time, he returned.
On July 25, Morrissey and Death Grips will come to the Bay Area — or they won't. Either way, fans will get a show.
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