Storm and Spandex
The publishers/ event organisers/ loose collective Vintage Poison put on another one of their spectaculars last night, this one entitled "Storm and Spandex". In actual fact, Storm and Spandex appears to be just another name that Lucy Leagrave has for all her various shows - the last time I was present at a night she hosted, it was entitled Cat Scratch Fever.

A primary motivating factor in getting me out of the house into the bleak November night on this occasion was the prospect of seeing a full-length set from Paul Birtill. Paul's poetry anthologies on Hearing Eye have sold ridiculously well over the last few years on precious little publicity, seemingly without the man getting the same mainstream nods that the likes of Luke Wright, Scroobius Pip, and Niall O'Sullivan have frequently enjoyed. It might help that all the people I've just mentioned are still (relatively) young and fresh-faced Londoners, whereas Paul Birtill is a dour Liverpudlian barfly on the wrong side of forty. The fact that he has his work published through an independent house rather than a big hitter might also be a factor. Whatever, I won't be happy until I can pick up a copy of the Londonpaper or the Metro and see him being given the obligatory mention. It's only fair.

Birtill is somebody I've always thought should be brought to the forefront of the poetry pack a bit more - in terms of promoting the form, he has accessibility in spades, and his doom-mongering world views are frequently hysterically funny. From poems about psychotic unemployed bedsit tenants to minor television celebrities, he is basically what his fellow city dwellers Half Man Half Biscuit would be if they dabbled in the poetic arts. That's a massive compliment, by the way. Don't just buy a copy of one of his books, go out and see him read and get the full experience.

Also on the bill was John "Jazzman" Clarke with a full band, an idea that actually sounded slightly on the naff side to me when it was first announced, but proved itself to work rather well. It's true to say that the combo in front of my eyes did seem like something John Peel would have signed to his Dandelion record label in 1972, but this isn't necessarily the terrible thing it may sound like being. I've talked on this blog before about how a lot of the better performance values of the late sixties and early seventies have been lost to subsequent decades, and there was a weirdness, rawness and knife-edge spontaneity to the performance that captivated me. There was also some brilliant interprative dancing from Amy Hansen that added an enormous amount of visual impact. On paper it may sound like a throwback to another era - but if you're sneering your face off at this point, you are totally in the wrong and have been entirely reared on Haribo chews and Lily Allen albums. Shame on you. This was one of the only live performances I've seen all year where members of the band were actually blissfully grinning, and the whole thing was really infectuous.

Before I go, a hint to all open mic-ers which I'm sure has been said many, many times before - if an evening is drawing to a late close and you finally get your chance on the mic, please for the love of God don't milk it, especially when half the audience have gone home and one member has actually fallen asleep. Keep it short and sharp. There's really no point in approaching it any other way - a tired audience isn't going to respond to much else. They'll be too busy worrying about when they can sneak out to catch their last trains home, or texting their partners to let them know where the hell it is they've got to.

To everyone who rambled: You also did not get my vote for a feature slot in the regular competition. Or anyone else's, I'm sure.