Spoken word night. It's a clear winner, right? You go up to your manager, 'you know what this place needs - poetry. Everyone will come, they'll love it, we'll cram the place with high culture and fat wallets.' Back where I come from, where it's unclear whether the skeletal diners will first fall down the eroding cliffs or collapse in on themselves, an evening of poetry would entice two old ladies and a bunch of kids who'd come as a joke, drink vodka from the bottle and swear throughout the show.
Not in Bethnal Green though. Not in the Gallery Café. No old women here, save one with a risqué tongue and an open mic slot.
I arrived as Dave Florez was reading Shoreditch Boy, delighting the crowd with landmark name-dropping, renowned beigels, the 48 bus. East London stuff, you know the sort; and the myth which ties all this together. I got a beer, slightly disappointed that I had not got there earlier (cheers, Chris).
It was hot in here. Chairs lined the floor, leaving a small passage for those walking through - a 'come on down!' grand entrance for the open micers, called up one by one for 3 minute slots. Some variety was expressed here by the 6 or so participants. Identity, inclusion, chat-up lines, acceptance, escape, sex, long words and short snappy words, a veritable 'house of words' no less, singing and laughter.
With my beer replaced with a cider, Raymond Antrobus took to the stage. With a personable presence, he spoke wittily of the gulf between sobriety and drunkenness, the intractable difficulties that haunt this space. Followed by a new poem on the tricky relationship between red light and cyclist, and glimpse into the life of a hearing aid user in a superficial world. Nestled within his set was the toughest moment of the evening which virtually came with a warning, like a pack of cigarettes: an older poem recounting the grim tale of an overheated exchange between a young couple. This one got to Raymond, and it got to us too. In silence we sat before this confessional outpour.
You know what struck me, having never been to a poetry night before? How, with the drinks a-flowing and spirits high, such respect was shown by the audience; reacting perfectly to the situation, be it quiet and reflective during the heavier stuff, and happily engaging during the fun stuff. Of course it helped that the poets straddled this tricky line with great skill. Great whooping followed all performances.
Zena Edwards came on last, and began to sing. She drifted seamlessly between rhythmic chatter and full-on song, such was the melody contained within her everyday voice. She told of virginity lost and the local weirdo, amongst other insightful comments about love and life, and got the crowd singing too, all with a dash of self-reflexive humour and great optimism.
And she played a Kalimba, which was just wicked.
I'm told the Word House will return in the autumn. No reason why they can't pack the place out again.
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http://thegallerycafe.wordpress.com/
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