Friday - End of an Era
Apr. 7th, 2006 03:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about my small town open mic that I have gotten used to performing at, and how I'm going to miss it. A Starbucks has opened in town, and Zebo's Coffee House is cutting corners to try to stay afloat. They don't want to have to pay the open mic hosts the $60 each Saturday for their services. I feel like a friend has died.
I never intended to start performing there. In fact, I found the whole thing very annoying at first. When I got pregnant, Patty quit asking my to go out with her on Saturdays since I couldn't get drunk any more, so I started to go to the Coffee House to sit and write in my journal. The type of things that most people post in LJ, I write out longhand in a little lined notebooks. I have stacks of them that I have to decide whether I want to burn before I die or not. In coffee shops, I enjoy the ambiance and the opportunity to think. While pregnant, for the first time in years I also started writing poetry again, much to my surprise. I thought the Muse and I weren't on speaking terms anymore. Still, she's picky about where she'll talk to me. I can't write at home. I need to be some place public with the white noise of humanity around me. My mind never stops moving, and I need little distractions to ground me in order for my creative center to focus.
Then, one Saturday when I showed up at Zebo's, there was a microphone and musicians there, mostly baby boomers singing songs from the 1960's and 70's. When they kept showing up week after week, I figured I could get used to them and just use the music as background noise. I didn't go for the music and I never spoke to anyone except for the baristas when I placed my order. I have always felt invisible, and I went there looking to be invisible. Getting up on the microphone and stepping into the limelight was the furthest thing my mind.
But, much to my consternation, one night a poet got up on the microphone. He sucked. No one hates poets more than I do; most of them are simply bad. Even when their poetry is not bad, they have no business reading it in public. They don't put any life into their creations and they make no effort to relate to their audience. Imagine a songwriter who can't play the guitar or carry a tune, yet who insists on getting up and subjecting a crowd to his caterwauling, anyway. It wouldn't matter how brilliant his lyrics are, you wouldn't want to hear him. That's exactly what listening to your average poet is like.
I could probably go through my old hand-written journals and find the exact date, because I remember writing about his noise pollution and how if he didn't shut up soon I was going to throw my coffee all over him. Mercifully, he finally stopped, and a musician took over. Before too long, though, anther poet took the mic, this time a very young woman full of angst and clinical depression. It was almost too much for me to bear.
I assume that my irritation overcame my natural aversion to attention, or maybe it was the hormones from my pregnancy that inspired me. Perhaps it was the fact that the crowd had been polite to the other poets, despite how bad they were, so I felt safe. I hadn't done any readings since college, when I used to perform at the bi-weekly open mic on campus. The following week, I showed up armed with some poetry of my own. I can't say that my words are any better than anyone else's, but I know how to read them. I know how to deliver the words, to make them sound like music even though I'm speaking instead of singing. When you get on a microphone, I believe you have an obligation to entertain the audience and not just impress yourself. I walked in and put my name on the sign-up sheet. I wrote beside it, "Poet - A good one."
When my turn came, I stood at the mic and I read. To my delight, I got a positive reaction out of the crowd. They flinched when my words were sad, the laughed when they were funny and they enthusiastically clapped when I was finished and took a little bow. At least three people complimented me afterward (it's a small venue, so proportionately, that's a lot). I became visible for the first time in years, and it wasn't so bad. I kind of liked it. As the weeks went by I would show up on Saturdays, and someone would ask me to read. When the musicians asked me if I was going to read and told me to put my name on the sign up sheet, I felt honored. Entertainers thought I was entertaining, which meant something to me.
Now it's the end of that era in my life. Feeling as I do about other poets, I'm not interested in reading at open mics that are just for poets, because it would mean having to sit through their drawn out, monotone, clinically depressed ramblings. Most open mics that cater to musicians won't let a poet perform, because nobody else wants to hear that crap anymore than I do. Not to mention Zebo's is just up the road from where I live and I was able to bring my son because I made friends who helped me look after him.
The Coffee House was safe, a little home away from home that sold pretty good coffee. I am not a person who can walk into a room and feel at ease, who can easily present myself in an unknown environment that might be hostile. Due to certain cognitive abnormalities, I tend to become paralyzed in social situations; I become mute and misplace my voice the way other people misplace their car keys. I am confident in my poetry, but not in anything else about me. The odds of finding another place where I feel safe enough to perform is between slim and none. After discovering my voice after years of silence, I find I have no place to speak at. Once again, I am invisible and silent. My music will grow quiet, and my face will fade into the shadows.
But it sure was fun while it lasted.
I never intended to start performing there. In fact, I found the whole thing very annoying at first. When I got pregnant, Patty quit asking my to go out with her on Saturdays since I couldn't get drunk any more, so I started to go to the Coffee House to sit and write in my journal. The type of things that most people post in LJ, I write out longhand in a little lined notebooks. I have stacks of them that I have to decide whether I want to burn before I die or not. In coffee shops, I enjoy the ambiance and the opportunity to think. While pregnant, for the first time in years I also started writing poetry again, much to my surprise. I thought the Muse and I weren't on speaking terms anymore. Still, she's picky about where she'll talk to me. I can't write at home. I need to be some place public with the white noise of humanity around me. My mind never stops moving, and I need little distractions to ground me in order for my creative center to focus.
Then, one Saturday when I showed up at Zebo's, there was a microphone and musicians there, mostly baby boomers singing songs from the 1960's and 70's. When they kept showing up week after week, I figured I could get used to them and just use the music as background noise. I didn't go for the music and I never spoke to anyone except for the baristas when I placed my order. I have always felt invisible, and I went there looking to be invisible. Getting up on the microphone and stepping into the limelight was the furthest thing my mind.
But, much to my consternation, one night a poet got up on the microphone. He sucked. No one hates poets more than I do; most of them are simply bad. Even when their poetry is not bad, they have no business reading it in public. They don't put any life into their creations and they make no effort to relate to their audience. Imagine a songwriter who can't play the guitar or carry a tune, yet who insists on getting up and subjecting a crowd to his caterwauling, anyway. It wouldn't matter how brilliant his lyrics are, you wouldn't want to hear him. That's exactly what listening to your average poet is like.
I could probably go through my old hand-written journals and find the exact date, because I remember writing about his noise pollution and how if he didn't shut up soon I was going to throw my coffee all over him. Mercifully, he finally stopped, and a musician took over. Before too long, though, anther poet took the mic, this time a very young woman full of angst and clinical depression. It was almost too much for me to bear.
I assume that my irritation overcame my natural aversion to attention, or maybe it was the hormones from my pregnancy that inspired me. Perhaps it was the fact that the crowd had been polite to the other poets, despite how bad they were, so I felt safe. I hadn't done any readings since college, when I used to perform at the bi-weekly open mic on campus. The following week, I showed up armed with some poetry of my own. I can't say that my words are any better than anyone else's, but I know how to read them. I know how to deliver the words, to make them sound like music even though I'm speaking instead of singing. When you get on a microphone, I believe you have an obligation to entertain the audience and not just impress yourself. I walked in and put my name on the sign-up sheet. I wrote beside it, "Poet - A good one."
When my turn came, I stood at the mic and I read. To my delight, I got a positive reaction out of the crowd. They flinched when my words were sad, the laughed when they were funny and they enthusiastically clapped when I was finished and took a little bow. At least three people complimented me afterward (it's a small venue, so proportionately, that's a lot). I became visible for the first time in years, and it wasn't so bad. I kind of liked it. As the weeks went by I would show up on Saturdays, and someone would ask me to read. When the musicians asked me if I was going to read and told me to put my name on the sign up sheet, I felt honored. Entertainers thought I was entertaining, which meant something to me.
Now it's the end of that era in my life. Feeling as I do about other poets, I'm not interested in reading at open mics that are just for poets, because it would mean having to sit through their drawn out, monotone, clinically depressed ramblings. Most open mics that cater to musicians won't let a poet perform, because nobody else wants to hear that crap anymore than I do. Not to mention Zebo's is just up the road from where I live and I was able to bring my son because I made friends who helped me look after him.
The Coffee House was safe, a little home away from home that sold pretty good coffee. I am not a person who can walk into a room and feel at ease, who can easily present myself in an unknown environment that might be hostile. Due to certain cognitive abnormalities, I tend to become paralyzed in social situations; I become mute and misplace my voice the way other people misplace their car keys. I am confident in my poetry, but not in anything else about me. The odds of finding another place where I feel safe enough to perform is between slim and none. After discovering my voice after years of silence, I find I have no place to speak at. Once again, I am invisible and silent. My music will grow quiet, and my face will fade into the shadows.
But it sure was fun while it lasted.
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:29 pm (UTC)I used t go to a small coffee house in Fullerton, CA called The Winged Heart... yer basic hipster crowd.. every thursday night they had an open mic... mostly singers, young people, older people.. but always interresting. I miss going to places like that. That is the one main problem I have with Starbucks and the like... sure the coffee is alright, but there isn't much sould in these places.
jeff
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:42 pm (UTC)The hosts do it for the money, I guess, such as it is. They have to supply their own sound equipment, which isn't cheap.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:44 pm (UTC)jeff
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:36 pm (UTC)It sounds like you got quite a lot out of that so it's a shame it has been taken away.
Damn Starbuck's...
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 09:01 pm (UTC)What is the closest large city to you?
I guess it might be a bit of a hassle traveling given how busy you are.
OH and I know exactly what you mean about poets on stage.
Most are just dreadful and I'll usually just end up leaving as the energy is just way too negative to stick around.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 09:35 pm (UTC)Yeah, I've kind of hostile to other poets. I have seen and heard some who can perform and captivate an audience, but they are the exception and not the rule. When I'm the only poet performing and I don't think there are any other poets in the room, I sometimes make fun of them and the audience always laughs. I've evil like that. >:-P
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:40 pm (UTC)Isn't there any way the open mic night can continue?
I hope so for your sake, because it sounds like such a good thing for you!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 08:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 09:21 pm (UTC)