The following article was originally published in the August 2002 issue of Spin. It takes a behind-the-scenes look at the 2002 Smiths/Morrissey convention held at Hollywood's Palace theater in Los Angeles.

This yearly convention is notable for the attendence of a high number of Latino fans, and the article is an attempt to understand and explain the peculiar appeal Morrissey and The Smiths have for these fans. Unfortunately the thrust of the article suffers from the author's narrow, stereotypical definition of the 'typical' Smiths fan, and the comments elicited from Canadian academic Colin Snowsell are largely speculative, offering little or no insight. Nevertheless, the article is a game attempt to establish some context for Morrissey's Hispanic fan base, and benefits hugely from a good number of vox pop comments from some of the convention goers themselves. And although the author overstates the extent of Morrissey's career doldrums, in seeking to understand the particular relevance Morrissey has for his L.A.-based Latino fanbase the article does at least carry a constructive agenda. Read with a hefty pinch of salt.

 by Chuck Klosterman

SOME people feel nervous around Cruz Rubio. That's unfair, but it's true. He's a badass: The dude is 20 years old, he's from East Los Angeles, the sleeves are ripped off his flannel shirt, and he looks like an extra from the movie Colors. I have no doubt whatsoever he could kick the shit out of me. But I am not nervous around Cruz Rubio. I am not nervous, because he is telling me how Morrissey makes him weep.

"Some nights I lay in my bedroom and I listen to "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out", and I cry," he tells me. "I cry and cry and cry. I cry like a little bitch, man."

Perhaps you are wondering what a cut-like-marble Latino could possibly see in a quintessentially British, marvelously effeminate white guy best known for reading Oscar Wilde and wearing his espoused asexuality on his sweater sleeve. Frankly, there's no concrete answer to that question. But Cruz Rubio is definitely seeing something, because he is not the exception; within the walls of the sixth annual Smiths/Morrissey convention in Hollywood's Palace theater, he is the rule.

For two days in April, fans of a disbanded Mancunian pop group and its forgotten frontman smoked clove cigarettes, picked over U.K. bootlegs, and danced to "Hairdresser On Fire" like dehydrated Helen Kellers, which is how people at Smiths conventions are supposed to behave. Yet these fans are not the glowering white semi-goths you'd expect to encounter; this scene looks like a 1958 sock hop in Mexico City. To argue that Morrissey's contemporary audience skews Hispanic would be inaccurate; Morrissey's contemporary audience is Hispanic, at least in L.A. Of the 1,400 people at this year's convention, at least 75 percent of the ticket buyers - and virtually all under 20 - were Latino. For reasons that may never be completely understood, teenage Hispanics tend to be the only people who still care about Manchester's saddest sack. [The success in other territories of Morrissey's 2002 tour proves this last comment to be far from true - JC] And they care a lot.

"He speaks to us, man. As Latinos. He addresses us personally," Rubio explains. "His music fits our lifestyle. I mean, where was the one place Morrissey always said he was dying to tour? It was Mexico, man. That's where his heart is."

Moments later, 23-year-old construction worker Albert Velazquez expresses a nearly identical sentiment. "The last time I saw him live, he looked into the audience and said, 'I wish I had been born a Mexican, but it's too late now.' Those were his exact words. And the crowd just exploded. He loves the Mexican culture, and he understands what we go through."

Velazquez is 235 pounds and 6'5" (if you include his pompadour). He plans to celebrate Morrissey's birthday on May 22; everybody at this convention knows that date. Velazquez also tells me he's going to drink a few Coronas that afternoon, because that's Morrisseys favourite beer. Everyone seems to know that, too. Morrissey once sang that we must look to Los Angeles for the language we use, because London is dead. And so it is: The question is no longer "How soon is now?"; the question is "?Es realmente tan extrano?"

THE fact that the Smiths have sustained a cult following 15 years after their demise is understandable. They were a band built for the darkly obsessive: In a decade categorized by excess, the Smiths - and especially their sexually baffling frontman - were introspective, iconoclastic, and alienated. There weren't "casual" Smiths fans in the America of 1986; it was an all-or-nothing equation. Though superstars in the U.K., the Smiths were fringe interlopers in the U.S. - the well-read rock gods for the fey underground. That being the case, it isn't surprising to discover there's been a Smiths/"Moz" convention in Los Angeles every year since 1997. It's easy to imagine 30-year-old ex-wallflowers digging out their black turtlenecks and reminiscing about how The Queen Is Dead convinced them not to hang themselves while everyone else was at the prom. Generally, that's who rock conventions appeal to - aging superfans embracing nostalgia.

That's why this Smiths convention is so startling. Those predictably pasty people don't show up (at least not in significant numbers). For kids who live between the 5 and 10 highways in East L.A., this is a contemporary event, even though Morrissey hasn't released a solo album in five years. These new Morrissey fans - these Latino "neo-Mozzers" - see him as a completely relevant artist. Moreover, their interest goes against the grain of traditional Caucasian Moz fans [and what of Morrissey's other 'non-white' fans? - JC]; these kids like Morrissey's solo material as much as his work with the Smiths, and almost nobody here gives a damn about Johnny Marr (the guitarist originally perceived as the Smiths' true genius). Nobody even seems to care about Britpop in general. The focus is almost singularly on the 43-year-old Steven P. Morrissey and his infinite sadness.

"Morrissey's family emigrated to England from Ireland, and they were kind of socially segregated from the rest of the country," says Gloria Antunez, a 23-year-old junior high school teacher who uses Morrissey lyrics as a teaching tool in her English class, notably "Reader Meet Author" from 1995's Southpaw Grammar. "That's very similiar to the Latino experience here in Los Angeles. We see things within his songs that we can particularly relate to. He sings about loneliness. He sings about solitude. Those are things any minority group can relate to."

The impact of Morrissey's immigration experience is the most widespread hypothesis for why he's been embraced by Mexican-Americans, but the theory has flaws. He's never mentioned or implied it in any of his songs, and it seems the majority of Latino neo-Mozzers have never even considered the significance of that connection. "I don't think it has anything to do with immigration," says Kristin Kaiser, a 22-year-old who looks like a bookish Penelope Cruz. "The greasers are into him because they completely associate Morrissey with rockabilly, which pisses off some of the original Smiths fans," explains Kaiser's friend Michelle Perez. "But what pisses me off more is when people try to say the 'pomp' evolved from Morrissey. I don't think so, man."

Perez is referring to the second most common explanation for the Hispanic Moz revival - that Morrissey's flirtation with rockabilly invokes Latino "greaser" culture, a la the 1950s of James Dean and Ritchie Valens. Morrissey hired rockabilly musicians for 1992's Your Arsenal; though it's impossible to quantify, one suspects this movement started in earnest sometime after the release of that album.

It's also possible that Morrissey's L.A. address amplifies his local profile, although he's infamously reclusive and never attends these conventions. (Despite repeated attempts on Spin's part, Morrissey couldn't be reached for this piece.) But maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe it's just that Latino kids still hear what conflicted bookworms heard during the Reagan administration: the soul of a man who's tirelessly romantic yet perpetually unloved. Assembly-line stars such as Ricky Martin and Enrique Iglesias simply can't touch the authenticity of Morrissey's quiet desperation.

"We're passionate people. He's passionate like us," says Martha Barreras, standing outside the Palace doors with her well-coiffed, tattooed boyfriend. "The music our parents played when we were growing up was always about love and emotion, and it's the same thing with Morrissey."

It's possible this whole "Why do Latinos love Morrissey?" question will haunt us forever. Fortunately, Canadian academics are on the case.

Colin Snowsell is a 31-year-old Ph.D candidate at Montreal's prestigious McGill University. He couldn't make it to the Smiths convention because he was busy working on his dissertation, an extension of his master's thesis. "Monty, Morrissey, and Mediatized Utopia." Frankly, Snowsell doesn't know why all this happened, either - but he's certainly thought about this paradox more than most.

"It really seems Morrissey wouldn't have any career whatsoever if it wasn't for these Latino fans," Snowsell says. "The rest of the world sees him as a has-been, by and large, and it's rare to see Morrissey covered by the media in any way that isn't negative. [Actually, Morrissey was receiving a fair bit of positive and encouraging press around this time. See the reviews of Morrissey's 2002 Royal Albert Hall gigs, and other items, at the '2002' page at this website - JC] But maybe Latino kids don't read the Anglo media."

There's no question that Morrissey's persona has been universally hammered over the last decade, especially in the U.K. Though the British weekly New Musical Express recently classified the Smiths as the most influential act of the last 50 years, it often paints Morrissey as a self-absorbed caricature, fascinated by skinhead culture and bent on alienating his adoring minions.

Meanwhile, there are signs that he's aware of - and enthused by - his new fan base. He dubbed a recent tour !Oye Esteban! and has performed while wearing a MEXICO belt buckle. Perhaps more significantly, rumors persist that Morrissey wants to serve as the opening act for a Mexican rock group called Jaguares at the Hollywood Bowl, a venue he sold out as a headliner ten years ago.

"If he's trying to get back his old Smiths fans, I don't think opening for a Mexican rock band would be the way to do it," Snowsell says. "I think he relishes being as a messianic figure among these young Latino fans, and I think he feels it validates his relevance. Morrissey has really done everything in his power to reject his old fans. I suspect he'd love it if the only people who cared about him were these Hispanic kids. I think he hates the fact that he tried to change the world, but most of those original Smiths fans now see him as no different than Echo and the Bunnyman."

SNOWSELL'S use of the word Messianic is telling, particularly when applied to someone like 19-year-old Carlos Torres, who tells me "Morrissey is like God" and is "immortal". However, when Torres talks about the time he met Morrissey at an in-store record signing, he illustrates the most confusing aspect of neo-Moz culture: Just about everybody who's ever seen or heard Morrissey assumes he is gay - except for these Latino kids.

"I kissed Morrissey once," Torres says. "I kissed his hand. I wish I would have kissed him, but his hand was good enough. But I'm not gay or anything. It's just that he's Morrissey, you know? There is sort of a homophobic vibe among some Latinos, and they seem to think, 'Well, we like him, so he can't be gay.' But that's just stupid."

Torres' take is pretty liberal; a few Latinos at the convention concede that Morrissey might be bisexual, but none would classify him as gay. "People are always asking me if I'm gay because I have a photo of Morrissey hugging Johnny Marr," says Alex Diaz, a 16-year-old Smiths fanatic who plans on joining the marines when he's old enough. "My friends always ask me, 'Why do you like these queers?' But, you know, he's probably just bisexual. His songs aren't all about guys. Look at 'Girlfriend in a Coma' - that's about a girl. I think there probably would be some people who'd hate it if Morrissey ever came out and said he was gay, but, personally, I don't really care. And, like I said, he's probably bisexual."

Though it's understandable how a culture that invented the term machismo might be uncomfortable lionizing a gay icon, it's ironic that Morrissey has now been adopted by two diametrically opposed subcultures. Fifteen years ago, closeted gay teens loved Morrissey because they thought he shared their secret; today, future marines try to ignore the fact that their hero might find them foxy. [What about gay Latinos? Where do they fit into these narrowly defined categories? - JC]

YOUNG Latinos worship an aging Brit who aspires to live at the YWCA and get hit by a double-decker bus, and that's pretty crazy. But imagine how crazy it seems to the guys in These Charming Men, the tribute band that performed both nights at the convention (Saturday night was mostly Smiths songs; Sunday was mostly solo Moz). These Charming Men are from Dublin, and this is the second year they've made the trip to Hollywood. When they arrived in 2001, they expected to see the same faces that populate the pubs they play in the U.K. What they didn't anticipate was an audience of East L.A. homeboys who mosh when they hear the opening chords of the gingerly raucous "You Gonna Need Someone on Your Side."

"It was quite shocking when we first came here," recalls vocalist Richard Cullen, his accent thicker than his hair. "My theory is that they picked up on the fashion sense and the visual elements of rockabilly music. And you know, Morrissey is something of an exile, just like a lot of them. I think perhaps they feel like they're living in the present tense with this mysterious character who's just down the road in his mansion."

The performances by These Charming Men were clearly the lynchpin of the 2002 convention, and Cullen's attention to detail is remarkable; he's a good singer and a great actor. His band played for two hours each night, expending more energy than Morrissey himself has offered in years. Fans were expected to rush on stage and hug Cullen while he pretended to ignore them, a simulation of every Morrissey concert since the dawn of time. It's very postmodern: The audience becomes a "tribute audience", earnestly simulating hyperkinetic adoration while the band earnestly simulates Meat Is Murder.

But not everyone gets what they want.

Mark Hensley Jr. and Flore Barbu refuse to watch These Charming Men, a seemingly odd decision when you consider they each paid $30 to attend a convention where that band was playing twice. These are the prototypical "weird white kids": Hensley appears to be auditioning for Bud Cort's role in a remake of Harold and Maude, and Barbu seems like the kind of woman who thinks Sylvia Plath was an underrated humorist. Both are wearing neckties for no apparent reason. These are the people you remember as being Smiths fans. And heaven knows they're miserable now.

"I don't think a true Morrissey fan would want to see a Morrissey cover band," Barbu says without a hint of inflection. "Morrissey would be depressed if he showed up here. He'd cry for a week. Have you seen those people around here wearing T-shirts that say GOT MORRISSEY? instead of GOT MILK? It's ridiculous. Morrissey would hate this.

It's obvious that Barbu and Hensley are smart, and they're endlessly, hopelessly sarcastic. There was a time when they would have embodied everything Morrissey seemed to represent. But Moz didn't hang on to his friends. He found new ones who like him more. It's not that Barbu and Hensley feel their subculture has wound up in the wrong hands; it's just that these neo-Mozzers are too enthusiastic to be properly dour. [Arguably, given their overall attitude, this is perhaps Barbu and Hensley's personal view of how Smiths/Morrissey fans should behave. But it has been well-established that Smiths/Morrissey fans have always shown great enthusiasm, as evidenced (for example) by the kind of stage rushing typical of live concerts since the days of The Smiths - a phenomenon referred to by Klosterman himself in this very article! - JC]

"People have actually said to me, 'You like Morrissey? That's weird for a white guy.' And I find that completely bizarre," Hensley tells me, momentarily dropping his veil of irony for a grain of semi-sincere annoyance. "Most of the other people here wouldn't even know who Jarvis Cocker is. They only like Morrissey. We just came here to make fun of people."

But perhaps that joke isn't funny anymore.

Reprinted WITHOUT PERMISSION for non-profit use only. Photo by Jeff Minton. Reproduced without permission for non-profit use only.

To see a photo gallery of Morrissey's Latino fans, click here