I’ve been a bit snarky about poetry recently. Put a drink or two in my hand and I’ll be off, ranting about the pointlessness, preciousity, and pomposity of most prattling versifiers. I don’t need much encouragement. Or indeed alcohol. Only yesterday, even before the pubs had opened and the only consciousness corroding substance I’d managed to ingest was half a pint of microwaved Lavazza, I was objectionable about an event the evening before at the art gallery – yes, I missed Bettakultcha for poetry! Its the masochist in me. It wasn’t the performers I was grumbling about – actually they were pretty fabulous – it was superficial technical difficulties (the PA was not up to the job and the venue sounded like a biscuit tin) and the audience . . . actually it’s mainly poetry audiences that piss me off. There’s always that faint whiff of worthiness about them, hunched over tables, gently rocking, just the one beer, scribbling deep and meaningful thoughts in tatty notebooks, all hushed and reverent . . . what they need is a bloody good heckler . . . anyone know where we can hire one?
The other main annoyance in my life is marketing. Arts marketing in particular. There is probably another blog post in this – it’s simmering nicely, stewing away in the back of my brain pan – but I really can’t be doing with the inane, badly written, breathless hype that typifies most promotional material. This makes me the world’s biggest hypocrite, I’m sure . . . I’m not pointing the finger at anyone else, we’re all doing it, pitching our events way beyond their actual worth, pretending every show, performance, exhibition etc is a world transforming, mind expanding, concept shattering experience, the bestest thing since Otto Frederick Rohwedder had his moment of illumination in the Chicago bakery . . . which is of course a perfect example of marketing hype as what the guy really invented was a way of packaging and presenting something fairly ordinary.
So, poetry and promotion . . . not on my list of favourite things. Which is a bit of a bugger considering what we’re doing this evening at Temple Works. It’s called Precession: The Cynics, but don’t let that put you off. Robert Sharples (@rasharples,) my esteemed colleague, collaborator, and co-conspirator at Temple Works has organised something which looks quite interesting . . . Robert thinks it’ll be “great!” but I just think he’s been misled by marketing bollocks. I’ll be having a word about that . . . You’re pretty much guaranteed a good time if you turn up; you’ll hear some good poetry (yes, I do believe such a thing can happen!) see some cool magic, dance to some decent music (if you’re that way inclined, just don’t try to involve me in that nonsense,) enjoy a modest selection of reasonably priced booze, and go home laughing and happy, probably humming a tune and annoying your mates by incessantly repeating the only joke you can remember . . . now that’s what I’d call a good evening. We’re not aiming to raise your consciousness, improve your moral character, edify your outlook on life, or reinvigorate your ideological imagination . . . you can get all that stuff pretty much every ten paces in Leeds. And anyway, what do you expect for a fiver? . . . Did I mention Mik Artistik? . . . There’s Mik Artistik too . . .
Starts at 7:30. Temple Works, Marshall St, Holbeck, LS11 9YJ . . . it’s just £5.
Cynical!
But you’re not, are you? You can’t stop believing. Someone the other day said to me: what’s your biggest complaint? Why not make it your biggest passion? Sounds like you’re on the way with that one…
“actually it’s mainly poetry audiences that piss me off. There’s always that faint whiff of worthiness about them, hunched over tables, gently rocking, just the one beer, scribbling deep and meaningful thoughts in tatty notebooks, all hushed and reverent…”
I don’t think this description is really fair. People go to poetry readings and spoken word events because they’re interested either in the work of a specific writer or poet, or in the exchange of ideas. Why would you go to a poetry evening, or to a spoken word event, and then have your own conversation all over it? What would be the point in going? You could stop in and save yourself the bus fare.
Mind, none of this really matters for people who don’t have any real interest in literary events, or in poetry, writing, or the spoken word. People who have already decided that they don’t like it can go around forming opinions based on their existing prejudices. They know they don’t like poetry readings, and they don’t need to go to poetry readings to know they hate them. Job done! The troublesome business of actually having to go to the event itself is dispensed with! Somebody should have thought of it years ago.
“what they need is a bloody good heckler . . . ”
There actually was some heckling at The Other Room on Tuesday! It happened later on in the evening at the follow-on event in the pub.
Not quite sure how you managed to miss that.
Oh dear . . . maybe I ought to add an irony disclaimer? Or perhaps highlight the humour in red? I’m not used to anyone taking my words so literally, demanding “fair description” . . . I can’t remember the last time I even talked to someone who believed in dispassionate delineation – but then I tend to avoid anything “literary” so can’t pretend to be familiar with the latest stylistic fashions.
The event we put on at Temple Works was called The Cynics . . . kind of a clue, subtle hint, or straightforward statement of the bleedin’ obvious? The phrase about hating poetry was a direct steal – which, if you’d followed the twitter stream was referenced – from a rather famous moment in the history of L = A = N = G = U = A = G = E poetry . . . ho hum.
And the whole point of writing like this is not to ingratiate myself with the literary crowd but to reach out to a new audience, encourage people who normally would be put off by this sort of event, engage with readers who find the sort of copy that advertised the event at the Art Gallery dull, dreary and frankly embarrassing. We managed to get a few people along who’d never been to a spoken word event; I’m not sure if we subverted their “existing prejudices” but at least we got them there . . . and they didn’t heckle.
I missed the heckling in the pub as I had to go back to work, sadly. Some “troublesome business” of actually putting on an event had to be sorted. Shame, I love a bit of heckling, that’s where the life is!