Tuesday 25 October 2011

The Word House, Gallery Café, 15th October.


The Word House has returned for its second night of eclectic rhymes and melodic lines, organic beers and hearty cheers. Having launched in the summer to much acclaim, the Gallery Café's spoken word night had set its own standard, and expectations were high. Predictably enough, these expectations translated into another full house of eager Londoners, ready for pizza and poetry. And this is good news, as the event was part of Oxjam, and all proceeds go to charity.


So, having ensured I wouldn't get kettled at St. Paul's, I strolled in as the clock struck 19:34 and bartered with a member of staff for a bottle of beer. Without hesitation, the lights lowered, the music lowered, the audience lowered themselves onto seats, and the Word House began.


We were treated to a tickler of an opener by our host, Dan Simpson, with his sympathetic portrayal of the Orange Ghost - the most inexplicably unfortunate ghost in all of Pacman. I don't think many of us had previously considered the difficulties of the Orange Ghost. But now we know, and we won't forget.



On to the first act, one Christian Watson. Don't be fooled by the dishevelled attire and facial hair, for his words are as sharp as tuxedos. He shifted from fast-paced rapping rhymes to slow, considered reflections; his hands like weapons cutting the air. He shared thoughts on pessimistic projections for love and growing up and becoming a person, expressing an equal wonder at both the highs and lows of life, and balancing sincerity with self-effacement.


Then came the Open Mic slots. A real treat, these, where anyone has the opportunity to share their thoughts and words, providing you've got the guts. The audience have no need to be forgiving - no token applause here - as the open mic poets prove themselves to be more than capable amateur wordsmiths. We had south London caricatures, friendships and family, consumerism, jobs, and an array of views on contemporary sex. Sex and capitalism, sex and myths, post-sex emotion, sex and language metaphors. All very tasteful - mostly.



A short break and we're back on for John Berkavitch, the recently-returned-from-Cambodia poet with wry sense of humour and a political conscience. His act was punctuated with audience banter and one-line poems, and jokes at once clever and ironically obvious. His finest moment, a witty and thoughtful argument for difference; a good-natured and optimistic polemic against some of the political ills of recent years.



The final act was an exercise in exploring the natural melodies contained within words and sentences, a process of combining sentiments with syntax, and floating them on some kind of the calm aural ocean. This was Inua Ellams, with his diverse vocabulary managing to convey tragedy and mockery in ways rarely done so elegantly. He showed us that perhaps a three hour midnight walk south from the Thames need not be a cold, tired chore, but a stimulating social and architectural experiment - an appealing advert for nocturnal psychogeography, and about time too. Like those before him, he won the audience through the character that fused each poem together.


The mood is one more akin to a house party than a bar: chatting in the toilet queue; bumming cigarettes off friends of friends. The audience here have a character of their own, both mischievous and courteous. Many idiosyncrasies on display on this night of spoken word, and much for us to consider as we erupt into Bethnal Green after the show. The range of content and style is at once impressive and inspiring, encouraging us all to tap poems into our phones on the night bus home.

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