Monday - My Open Mic Comeback
Jul. 31st, 2006 06:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about how reading poetry onstage at a small town Bar-B-Que joint to rednecks is not my ideal venue, but that it worked out better than I though it could.
My small-town coffee shop no longer hosts it's open microphone, but one of the musicians who used to frequent it had been searching for another local venue since they pulled the plug on us all. Once he found one, Gary made it clear that he only wanted a venue for musicians. My poetic ilk is welcomed to come out and watch, but we need to stay the heck away from the performing area.
The location he found is an open-air Bar-B-Que place called The Pit, one town north of the old location. This means it is 20 miles more rural than the coffeehouse. The dining area and stage (a real stage, not just a place on the floor cleared of chairs) are covered, but there is a dance floor in between that is open to the sky. I was okay with not reading; I plan to revisit the art gallery close to my father's house where spoken word artists of amazing talent gather each week. I only went to The Pit to reconnect with my musician friends.
When I heard that Tom Tranchilla would be hosting, though, I decided to bring along the binder that I carry my poems in. Tom adores me. Tom makes me sound like the best thing since sliced bread when he introduces me to an audience. More importantly, Tom tends to put me on the list of people performing without asking me if I want to or not, and of doesn't believe me if I try to say that I didn't bring anything to read. I would have had to let him search my car and come up empty handed in order to get out of it.
This location also has a playground and a sandy volleyball pit for kids, so my son is impressed with it, too. The owners have the play area set up to keep their grandchildren occupied while they run the kitchen. The Pit does not sell alcohol, but they are okay with people bringing coolers of beer. All said, it is a cheerful and laid-back audience.
I wasn't even sure that Tom saw me show up, until I was talking to my friends Mike and Shae and I heard Tom read my name off of the acts coming up. I made my way over to him and mentioned Gary's dislike of my art form. Gary is the one who searched so diligently for a new venue and the one who made friends with the family that owns The Pit. He is also the one who lines up the hosts. He considers it his open mic, even if he doesn't own the sound equipment to host it himself.
"He's not going to like it if I read," I said, "I think he wants this for musicians only."
Tom grinned. "So? I'm running the show, not him. You're reading. I know you brought something, so don't tell me you didn't."
I sighed. "Okay, I'll do one." I figured even rednecks could sit though one poem without getting too restless.
"No, you'll read at least three," he said, holding up three fingers in case I needed to count them. I didn't want to push my luck with a crowd that I wasn't familiar with and who wasn't familiar with me. I always read 3 at the coffeehouse, but that was a coffeehouse and this was a Bar-B-Que joint. When you go to a coffeehouse, you risk having to deal with poets, whereas Bar-B-Que joints are generally considered a safe haven from them. The only place safer might be a biker bar. Be that as it may, if Tom ever hosts an open Mic at a biker bar, I am staying home.
We compromised. When I took the stage I read two poems. Facing an audience that isn't used to poetry and would probably have a short attention span, I figured my crowd favorites, A Love Poem For New Orleans and Cajuns in Houston, were the best bets. Getting people to like poetry is like getting a person into bed; you have to seduce them with your sweetest sounding words. Later, they can learn that you have some pretty heavy baggage that you carry around, but if you show them that stuff on the first date, you're just never going to score.
I guess I did all right. My friends said I did. I was out of practice and stumbled over a few words, but I think that I recovered nicely. At the very least, no one booed to tossed anything at me. When I got down from the stage, I felt more relieved than triumphant, but my friends were there to build me up.
"Don't tell the musicians, but more people were listening to you than were listening to them," Shae said. "They stopped talking and listened.”
Bev, the wife of Tim the Harmonica player, nodded. "One guy shushed his friends and was leaning in closer to hear you," she said. "He was hanging on every word."
I had seen him; a middle-aged man with a longneck beer bottle, who had walked to the railing of the dining area and leaned in on his elbows to hear me better. He seemed interested in what I had to say and didn’t look the least bit bored.
I guess that means I scored with at least one person. What more can a girl ask for on a Saturday night?
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
My small-town coffee shop no longer hosts it's open microphone, but one of the musicians who used to frequent it had been searching for another local venue since they pulled the plug on us all. Once he found one, Gary made it clear that he only wanted a venue for musicians. My poetic ilk is welcomed to come out and watch, but we need to stay the heck away from the performing area.
The location he found is an open-air Bar-B-Que place called The Pit, one town north of the old location. This means it is 20 miles more rural than the coffeehouse. The dining area and stage (a real stage, not just a place on the floor cleared of chairs) are covered, but there is a dance floor in between that is open to the sky. I was okay with not reading; I plan to revisit the art gallery close to my father's house where spoken word artists of amazing talent gather each week. I only went to The Pit to reconnect with my musician friends.
When I heard that Tom Tranchilla would be hosting, though, I decided to bring along the binder that I carry my poems in. Tom adores me. Tom makes me sound like the best thing since sliced bread when he introduces me to an audience. More importantly, Tom tends to put me on the list of people performing without asking me if I want to or not, and of doesn't believe me if I try to say that I didn't bring anything to read. I would have had to let him search my car and come up empty handed in order to get out of it.
This location also has a playground and a sandy volleyball pit for kids, so my son is impressed with it, too. The owners have the play area set up to keep their grandchildren occupied while they run the kitchen. The Pit does not sell alcohol, but they are okay with people bringing coolers of beer. All said, it is a cheerful and laid-back audience.
I wasn't even sure that Tom saw me show up, until I was talking to my friends Mike and Shae and I heard Tom read my name off of the acts coming up. I made my way over to him and mentioned Gary's dislike of my art form. Gary is the one who searched so diligently for a new venue and the one who made friends with the family that owns The Pit. He is also the one who lines up the hosts. He considers it his open mic, even if he doesn't own the sound equipment to host it himself.
"He's not going to like it if I read," I said, "I think he wants this for musicians only."
Tom grinned. "So? I'm running the show, not him. You're reading. I know you brought something, so don't tell me you didn't."
I sighed. "Okay, I'll do one." I figured even rednecks could sit though one poem without getting too restless.
"No, you'll read at least three," he said, holding up three fingers in case I needed to count them. I didn't want to push my luck with a crowd that I wasn't familiar with and who wasn't familiar with me. I always read 3 at the coffeehouse, but that was a coffeehouse and this was a Bar-B-Que joint. When you go to a coffeehouse, you risk having to deal with poets, whereas Bar-B-Que joints are generally considered a safe haven from them. The only place safer might be a biker bar. Be that as it may, if Tom ever hosts an open Mic at a biker bar, I am staying home.
We compromised. When I took the stage I read two poems. Facing an audience that isn't used to poetry and would probably have a short attention span, I figured my crowd favorites, A Love Poem For New Orleans and Cajuns in Houston, were the best bets. Getting people to like poetry is like getting a person into bed; you have to seduce them with your sweetest sounding words. Later, they can learn that you have some pretty heavy baggage that you carry around, but if you show them that stuff on the first date, you're just never going to score.
I guess I did all right. My friends said I did. I was out of practice and stumbled over a few words, but I think that I recovered nicely. At the very least, no one booed to tossed anything at me. When I got down from the stage, I felt more relieved than triumphant, but my friends were there to build me up.
"Don't tell the musicians, but more people were listening to you than were listening to them," Shae said. "They stopped talking and listened.”
Bev, the wife of Tim the Harmonica player, nodded. "One guy shushed his friends and was leaning in closer to hear you," she said. "He was hanging on every word."
I had seen him; a middle-aged man with a longneck beer bottle, who had walked to the railing of the dining area and leaned in on his elbows to hear me better. He seemed interested in what I had to say and didn’t look the least bit bored.
I guess that means I scored with at least one person. What more can a girl ask for on a Saturday night?
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