Edinburgh International Book Festival 2015
17th August 2015
Mr and Mrs Bold are two stolen identities, scavenged from an unfortunate couple who were eaten by a crocodile while on safari in Africa. The funny duo duped their way back to Blighty and now live in a nice house Teddington, Middlesex. They have jobs (Christmas cracker jokes) and they are partial to a bit of a giggle. Only problem : they’re hyenas. Yes, that’s right – they’re covered in fur, have tails tucked into their trousers, and they live to laugh.
After a bit of stomach ache from what she thought was a dodgy burger, Bobby and Betty were born… what will the neighbours think if they discover a hairy appendage protruding from their shorts?
Julian says, “I wanted to write a children’s BOOK to relive the thrill I used to get as a child entering a fictional world. The idea came from stories I used to make up for myself as a child, and I grew up in Teddington – a very suburban place with tree-lined streets and a nice park – so it seemed right and proper to set it there. I am thrilled to have the wonderful illustrator David Roberts bring The Bolds to life for me. He has the ability to convey my humour brilliantly and his drawings are always funny and endearing. Mrs Bold’s hats are a particular delight!”
The banter between Julian Clary and ‘lovely man,not everyone can wear yellow’ David Roberts is a hoot. Vivienne French who introduced Clary and Roberts gives out a book and a Roberts original to a wee boy who gets upset during question time. Asked by a child in the audience what his favourite animals are Clary tells that he keeps dogs and chickens. One of his chickens, Archimedar, ‘comes in through the french windows and likes to watch me at my desk.I like lions and tigers when they’re babies,they’re so sweet. Then when they grow up they can live in the garden.’ Clary’s latest offering and debut children’s book is, ‘very good value,’ with 266 pages of illustration from a charming union of artistic minds that culminate in a laugh a page suburban romp that is THE BOLDS.
Reviewer : Clare Crines
The blurb for this event says that Nicholas Parsons ‘came to the Nation’s attention’ with a 1970s quiz show called Sale of the Century, but as the event’s chairman Roy Cross pointed out, his career in show-business spans more than seventy years. Nicholas is, in fact, ninety-one and still performing, having been the chairman of BBC Radio’s Just A Minute for forty-eight years. Before that, and before Sale of the Century, he was, as he pointed out himself, the straight man to many famous comedians. I can remember him as the foil to Arthur Haynes, for example. His longevity, both in terms of life and career, meant that he was a shoo-in for this event sponsored by The Oldie magazine.
Many decades ago, I heard him on a radio programme called Workers’ Playtime. It was a variety show that toured factory canteens (remember factories?) and Nicholas was booked to do a stand-up spot. It was the proverbial lead balloon – maybe he was too ‘posh’, maybe his humour wasn’t obvious enough for the audience – he performed to near silence. But this air of slight haplessness has in fact served him very well in other fields, for example in the very role for which he is now famous, the barely-in-control chairman of a comedy game show in which the panelists rib him mercilessly.
Arguably he is, as Roy Cross described him, a National Treasure. Certainly this event was a total sell-out, we being packed into the Baillie Gifford Theatre, sitting with our knees under our chins, abandoning all hope of personal space. His entrance was greeted by warm and loud applause, at which he stopped in mid stride as though surprised by it, turned, smiled in delight, and made a couple of slight, polite bows to us. Then he mimed being too frail to mount the stage, and the applause turned to laughter. See – he can be funny! His appeal lies in his ability to radiate good nature, to appear not to have an evil bone in his body, to be, to all intents and purposes, a thoroughly nice bloke with absolutely no ‘side’.
That is not to say he doesn’t milk old age to the maximum. He now uses forgetfulness, slight deafness, and even a touch of irascibility as comic instruments, to good effect. If on occasions he can be patronising – such as when he explained to us what ‘innuendo’ means – that is instantly forgivable, being part of his naturally garrulous flow. If he lapses into egotism, he apologises for it instantly, as in the following exchange:
Roy: Who has carried the show over the years?
Roy: Who has helped you carry it, then?
Nicholas (to the audience): I’m sorry – that was a cheap laugh.
We are, of course, at a Book Festival, and the focus for the hour was on his book, Welcome to Just a Minute!: A Celebration of Britain’s Best-Loved Radio Comedy, published by Edinburgh’s own Cannongate. Inevitably, therefore, the book was a comic vehicle itself. Covering up any brief memory lapse, or taking full advantage to wreak his own kind of revenge on the world by giving Roy Cross, as chairman, a hard time, Nicholas often interjected “Anyway, it’s all in the book!” That became a kind of instant catchphrase for the hour, and was greeted, as catchphrases always are, by chuckles and even guffaws. Once when he was trying to remember Marcus Brigstock’s name, Roy showed him a photograph in the book, to which Nicholas commented, “Yes, that’s him,” and continued his ramble. I shouldn’t really call it a ramble, more an inexhaustible peroration; it did take in a lot of what is “all in the book”. Nicholas told us about how he never wanted to be chairman – the BBC having had ‘Professor’ Jimmy Edwards in mind for the job – and had been rather coerced into it, about how it had changed over the years, about how Kenneth Williams enjoyed the opportunity to show off his self-taught erudition, Clement Freud to be autocratic, Wendy Richard to take it all too seriously, and Giles Brandreth to be fiercely competitive. The affection with which he spoke about even the most difficult panel-members, and those who struggled with their first time on the show, was marked.
Moving away from his book, he spoke about his cricketing charity work with the Lords Taverners, the ‘JAM Clubs’ in India where enthusiasts get together to play their own version of Just A Minute, his love of jazz, the head-to-head battle with Giles Brandreth for the Guinness record for the longest after-dinner speech, and his general practitioner father who brought Margaret Roberts (later Margaret Thatcher) into the world, only to wish he had “shoved her back again”. That was, I think, the closest he got to saying anything remotely nasty about anyone.
I have to admit that I have never been his greatest fan. However, I enjoyed this event thoroughly, finding him a pleasure to listen to. The fact that he found time for this, and to be interviewed beforehand, and to sign books afterwards, indicates to me that the ‘nice chap’ image is a genuine one. I hope he goes on being that nice chap for many years yet.
Review by Paul Thompson
17th August 2014
From the start, there is something slightly olde-worlde about Duffy’s performance. For some reason, our first female poet laureate is heralded by a pipe-bearing, flute-twiddling Scottish musician named John Sampson. In fact, the first ten minutes of our precious hour with Duffy were spent watching Sampson cavort around the stage offering to show the audience his trumpet, fit two flutes in his mouth at the same time, and, well, at that point, I stopped listening.
I know Duffy was appointed by the Queen, and I can see how in some ways how this buffoonery may even be subversive. When Duffy stands and speaks, she is witty, sharp – mocks Sampson (“the queen gave him to me”). But I still felt offended somehow, as if Duffy had been subverted herself by the almost medieval elitism, and ridiculousness, of her position – which is actually still paid in sherry.
In fact, the scent of elitism is a little hard to escape in a marquee sponsored by an Investment Fund, at a book festival constructed around a monument to Prince Albert. But, well, everything is just so pretty. The Edinburgh International Book Festival is a little slice of Eden. Set around the balmy gardens of Charlotte Square, middle aged bohemians wander in and out of arbours, sipping on Syrah and munching on gluten-free brownies. From the posh porter-loos to the Ayrshire bacon artisan rolls, the forces-that-be have created a safe, welcoming, and sophisticated little bubble for poets, writers, and wannabes to bathe in the glory of the living canon.
And bathe we did. Nestled in our very comfortable seats, amongst a very well-to-do scattering of tweed-clad toffs (with a good showing of young female students mixed in), the audience waited in the silence left by Sampson’s over-bearing trumpet for Duffy to rise, slowly, and take to the podium with one eyebrow lifted at the red-faced Sampson. Her jibes were as rehearsed as Sampson’s performance, but (of course) she is hilarious, and in less than a minute she dissolved the audience into fits of laughter, and moved swiftly forward to tell us about her interest in metamorphosis. (Phew).
From there the show is well put together, and insightful. Duffy tells us she likes to celebrate, re-tell, and subvert the characters from classic fairytales and myth. Ovid is a great influence, she says. Her first reading, “Mrs Midas” is a poem set in the modern day, told from the perspective of King Midas’ wife. She follows this with Mrs Tiresius, and Mrs Faust.
Mrs Midas is delectable. Read aloud in Duffy’s guttural voice (her throat really stretches out her vowels, her jaws hold tight to her consonants), the sounds reverberate as vividly as the images unfold. Duffy flits from the everyday, the comic – and slightly absurd – to the heady, “He tried to light a cigarette; I gazed, entranced/ as the blue flame played on its luteous stem.” With its didactic quality, and simple conceit, it is no surprise this poem is a GCSE favourite. The next two readings, Mrs Tiresius and Mrs Faust, were not quite as titillating, their forms are very different, Mrs Faust in particular did not work well aloud. And I couldn’t help but feel that the criticisms of affluence and masculinity operating in these texts were severely undercut by the sound of home-county gents cackling around me.
After another interlude, Duffy read from Rapture, her celebrated collection of love poems. These works, dense, and compact with their ricocheting rhymes, are terrific, especially read aloud. Her performance would have put many a spoken word artist to shame. Duffy went on to discuss the notorious (and short-sighted) removal of one of her texts from the GCSE curriculum (it was accused, wrongly, of supporting knife crime). Her response is an acerbic piece titled “Mrs Schofield’s GCSE” – listing the more violent parts of Shakespeare. Duffy wrought out every inch of irony with her performance, voice dripping with biting scorn, sending the audience into stitches with her withering looks.
And at last, “Water” – a deafening whisper of grief. Duffy said nothing before or after. As she read, many around me were crying. The poem, written four years after the death of her mother, is astounding, and restrained. The entire room was left astonished. I found it hard to open up myself again to the rest of the show.
This is what Duffy does best – she sweeps the reader away in language paced at the tempo of normal speech, then twists her images, her conceits into bulbs of strange and beautiful poignancy. It was a privilege to hear her read something so profound – her poetry at its best is so overpowering, so vivid, and yet the language is so plain, so distilled. After we recovered from Water, Duffy performed a piece from “The Bees,” and another poem about her mother titled “Premonitions”, which traces time back from the moment of death. As Duffy read, John Sampson accompanied her, and I couldn’t help but wish I could have heard the poem read alone.
I’ve heard from a few different sources that the most vivid memories of a holiday are not the ones spent climbing mountains, or surfing waves, or wandering through medieval cathedrals – they’re actually the hours you spend waiting at security, squishing onto the plane, and putting up with a crying baby for four hours. The same comparison could be made to Duffy’s show. It has been 24 hours, and I still can’t get Sampson’s double-time rendition of Mozart’s fifth symphony out of my head. And I still can’t help but wonder who on earth decided to pair Britain’s most subversive poet laureate to date with a court-jester. Or for that matter, why poets believe they ought to make their audience laugh. Duffy is where she is, because she gives adults, and children, the tools to feel things – to grieve, and to love, and to rage. Teachers across the country use her poems to teach young adults how to critique the world around them. As with the rest of Duffy’s opus, the best parts of her show were those when she did not try to entertain for entertainments sake, and simply opened herself up, read things fashioned from solitude, things written to people long gone.
The moment I will (try to) remember is the time when Water washed over me, when I heard others cry, a woman nearby gasp. When I was filled with grief, and my breath caught in my throat at the cruelty of death, the way it doesn’t stop stabbing you in the heart, suddenly, right out of the blue. This is what makes Duffy worth hearing. Not the trumpets, not the clever references to Faust, not even the biting and brilliant digs at the institutions who have muted her. No, the thing that should niggle at your brain, get your arse into a seat, nick the tenner from your wallet, is the promise of that moment of immense profundity. A lament erupting from the poet’s lips. There are plenty of moments in life to make us laugh, plenty to makes us feel content, but how often do we sit with a poet in a room and remember that those private and terrible flashes of sorrow, or anger, or discontent, are universal? How often are we treated to an audience with an artist who is more skilled with language than most of the world, who can speak in ways no one else would imagine, fashion a poem fit for a queen?
My advice: Go and hear Dame Carol Ann Duffy.
(And someone do me a favour, yeah? Ask the Dame how come she managed to get away without writing a poem for the royal baby, but agreed to a f*cking jester?)
Reviewer: Charlotte Morgan
The Garden Theatre
17th August 2015
On a beautiful sunny Monday, Divine arrived at Charlotte Square, host to The International Book Festival. I made haste to the press office to pick up my accreditation, pass and ticket for Andrew Cockburn’s interview and launch of his new book. Killl Chain : The Rise of the High-Tech Assassins. I couldn’t believe how much interest such a subject matter would draw. I was shocked at the length of the queue that seemed to weave the length of Charlotte Square. True enough, Andrew Cockburn had a full house. This was quite a scoop because the new book he was launching, was more or less just off the press. This proved to be a very interesting hour, learning about the inaccuracy of the killing drones. We heard lots of different tales that described why these things are a bad idea and how they are purposely built to cause as much mayhem as possible in the Middle East..
Mr Cockburn was very knowledgeable indeed and was able to answer the audiences’ questions with informative ease. Finding out that these remote control killing devices are controlled by people in a Las Vegas office made for compelling disgust. My contempt for the inhuman practices of the American military forces or indeed war in general became enforced this afternoon. My own question would have been, had I put my hand up. How do we change things? How do the people who have had their families wiped out by some psycho in Las Vegas, playing Space Invaders with real people in a different country. Heal from such circumstances. We heard tales of children, mothers and Men that had fallen foul to the accuracy of these awful things! How the President of The United States Of America endorses the use of Drones. Knowing full well the calamity that they are causing innocent folk. It is after all, as Mr Cockburn quoted. Big Business. It was an awful wake up call. As David Bowie Sang, “I’m Afraid Of Americans!”
I forwent the post show booksigning by Mr Cockburn and headed for some therapy.
Reviewer : Mark ‘Divine’ Calvert
Baillie Gifford Corner Theatre
On a lovely balmy evening the Mumble opened its account at the annual litathon that is the Edinburgh International Book Festival, held amidst the swishy-swanky surrounds of Charlotte Square. Our first slice of the literary pie came from two female authors tied by a common theme. In their latest books, Mary Costello’s The Academy & Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, the female lead is a most complex creature – tied both to the natural world & to the philoscapes of human existence in which their women lived in both a fiery inner world & a placid outer. Chaired by the bubbly Peggy Hughes, chairwoman of the Dundee Literary Festival, we were treated to readings from both books & were afforded excellent opportunities to probe both of our author’s creative psyches.
Han Kang is Korean, the daughter of novelist Han Seung-won. Her book is a further exploration of a theme she took up in an earlier short story entitled ‘The Fruit of my Womb’ – that of the woman who turns into a plant. The Vegetarian is in 3 parts, each narrated by a different family member; her husband, her sister’s husband & finally her sister. They describe how her chief (but silent) character first gives up meat, then becomes a total vegan, before settling upon drinking only water in her effort to become a plant. Han Kang herself admitted that this particular setting gave her an excellent chance to explore what it was like to be human, its basic & fundamental qualities, & to ultimately turn her back on that humanity.
Mary Costello’s book is a sprawling epic, whose heroine leaves her life in the west of Ireland to live in the big, bright new world of the USA. Arriving in 1962, Costello read out a sample of her book, in which her writing could be measured out in the most peaceful of poetical parts, jumping from scene-to-scene & thought-to-thought, like when the heroine sees her sister Clare who had, ‘a small child at her feet & one inside her.‘ Like Han Kang’s central character, the starlet of the Academy takes us on both a great inner & outer journey in which the all our raison d’etres are gently explored.
Reviewer : Damo Bullen
Inchyra Arts Club, Perth
9th June 2015
I’ll get round to John Cooper Clarke – the only poet who can chew gum in strict trochees – in a minute. First I have to mention the support act. I caught Mancunian poet Mike Garry at the interval, and mentioned that I was reviewing the gig.
“Make me sound fucking fantastic!” he said.
“You make yourself sound fantastic,” said a woman, standing in the queue to have a book autographed.
Sometimes a support act is a support act, and sometimes it’s a special guest. Mike Garry could headline in his own right. As it was, tonight he complemented Johnny Clarke, and did so with brilliance, wit, sunglasses, and a pair of House-of-Bruar strides. There are enough similarities between these two poets – Manchester accents, shades, no shyness about casual obscenity and not-so-casual obscenity, eidetic memory, the capacity for delivering at rapid pace, wit. Mike says he is “obsessed with language and words”, which is just right for a librarian, and that poetry is “not about what it means, it’s about how it sounds.” In pursuit of this how-it-sounds Mike can deliver a full-on attack at the microphone, or he can whisper, or gradually move off-mic to effect a fade, or sing in a surprisingly tintinnabular falsetto for a few seconds.
“I like to share my new stuff with my mates,” he says, meaning us. “… you don’t clap there.”
His poetry is sometimes sad, but in a way that grabs your attention. It may be about the stuff he doesn’t want to think about but can’t help thinking about, about human-traffic, about ‘kids who never learned to smile’, about a girl sending a ‘xelfie’ to her boyfriend only to find he has shared it and it has gone viral. It may be celebratory, about story time in junior school with the teacher who gave him his love of language, or a eulogy to his mum composed while he swam lengths in the local baths. I loved his poem to the late Tony Wilson, framed as a prayer to St Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost things, phrased is short breaths. here’s a snatch:
Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Gretton, God, Granada
Hooky and Hannett
And how the fighting just got harder
Hamlet, Ibsen, the IRA
Jesus, Mary and Keith Joseph
The importance of the moment
All things which may not in themselves be lost, but which have lost a perspective for Mike since Tony Wilson died and was unable to continue to give his. Look, what you get when you get Mike Garry supporting John Cooper Clarke, as he has done for the past five years of joining-at-the-hip, is two gigs for the price of one.
On comes John Cooper Clarke then, to the theme from ‘Dragnet’ – ‘derrrn ta dun-tun’ – and the evening doesn’t so much shift up a gear as phase shift, de-mode and re-mode itself. This isn’t the same John Cooper Clarke I saw in nineteen-frozen-stiff, when it was de rigeur to deliver short, sharp showers of invective, in strict punk style, the poetic equivalent of the three-chord-trick. This isn’t same get on, get down, get off act of the 1970s. It’s not even the same John Cooper Clarke in the next period, when his delivery was so rapid the words seemed to lose meaning. This is a bloke with an honorary doctorate and a history of inclusion on the GCSE syllabus. BUT… but… but it’s a bloke who can combine being a rambling raconteur with being a kind of existentialist stand-up comic delivering one-liners.
“If Jesus was Jewish, how come the Spanish name?”
“Refried beans – can’t the Mexicans get anything right first time?”
It’s also a bloke who can croon ‘Look for the Silver Lining’ in a surprisingly true and pleasant voice, interspersing it with observations about the up-side of dementia, or rattle off a verse from Sir Henry John Newbolt’s ‘Vitaï Lampada’
The sand of the desert is sodden red, –
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; –
The Gatling’s jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England’s far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
“Play up! play up! and play the game!”
And instantly you can see where he gets it all from; ‘Hire Car’ makes sense, ‘Beasley Street’ makes sense, the gentrified follow-up ‘Beasley Boulevard’ makes sense, ‘Bed-blocker Blues’ makes perfect sense, the whole rollicking corpus of John Cooper Clarke, stanzas shutting with a repetitive bang, all makes total sense. He is completely conscious of the devices and tropes that make his style instantly recognisable, as was obvious when he introduced a recent poem of his as ‘The Title Appears at the End of Each Subsequent Verse with Monotonous Regularity’. Tonight he gave us his short poems too: his limericks, marked with bathetic final lines which were just bloody funny anyway; his two-liner about necrophilia; his collection of haiku including
to catch the moment
in seventeen syllables
is very diffic
At least that’s today’s version of it, but – hey! – it shows a marked improvement in the principle ‘mono no aware’. Look, you all know him, you all know what he does, so next time he is within striking distance of where you are, cancel your emergency dental appointment, anniversary dinner, aunt’s funeral, and go get some.
Now the interview. I was supposed to interview Dr John after the performance, but it didn’t quite turn out like that. We started off with an impromptu but deliberate double act.
Me: “May I use my Dictaphone?”
John: “No, use your finger like everyone else.”
Boy, that was satisfying! Then I derailed the whole interview before it started by mentioning that we both had the Twisted Wheel, Manchester’s legendary Soul club, in our cultural background. It turned out we had both been at the same Ben E King gig in 1968, and this dominated our conversation for a long time – “You’ve made a personal contact there,” said John, “I was there on that night.” He was surfing a wave of adrenalin. I had a list of nine questions, plus probable supplementaries, and we actually only got to tackle two of them, or maybe one-and-a-half, because the first one sent him off on an account of his life history, his school days, his poetry teacher John Malone who loved the 19c Romantic Poets and inspired a whole class of kids at an inner-city Secondary Modern school, the band he was in, how he affected an Ivy League suit and short hair in the 70s in order to project himself as the poetic version of Mort Sahl or Lenny Bruce, and how he got into the punk scene. That when I asked him if he could remember deciding to be a poet, and what was it that triggered that decision. His immediate answer was “Well I fancied this beatnik chick… I was already interested in poetry, it was really the only thing I had any flair for…” So the actual trigger for poetry-making was a carnal interest in the opposite sex. Fair enough. “And if she didn’t understand it, so much the better… she’d say blimey that must be good coz I don’t understand it, that’s a kind of beatnik code…”
About his teenage band, called The Mafia: “We’d all been to see this film called ‘Pay or Die’, starring Ernest Borgnine, and we’d all gone – oh, the fucking mafia, that’s the way to fucking live! – we were all obsessed with the mafia… and fifty years later [came the inclusion of ‘Evidently Chicken Town’ in ‘The Sporanos’]… circular, circular!… For me that was massive.”
About his McCain’s chips TV advert: “I love doing adverts… that’s really the sweetest plum, and also easy, so easy… they write the words, this is the great thing, what they do is… they get somebody to write it in my style.” That was the point at which we were all turfed out into the darkness of rural Perthshire, blinking, five hours after I had come through the doors of the excellent Inchyra Arts Club. Could have chatted for hours. Evidently a great night.
Review by Paul Thompson
Eden Court, Inverness
28th May 2015
Niall McCann is a TV Presenter (Biggest & Baddest), Explorer, Adventurer and Biologist. In Adventure: Red in Tooth & Claw, Niall recounts his adventures in a compelling audio/visual supported talk which enthralls adventurers and laypeople alike. His talk is divided into two separate parts; the first detailing his extraordinary adventures while in the second half he talks about his ecological and conservation work, linking both together by his passion for exploring and appreciation of the wilderness.
As an explorer he has travelled the planet, turning his hand to a variety of expeditions and methods of undertaking them; two biking trips in the Himalayas (climbing the highest road in the world), big wall (cliff) climbing in Yosemite park-USA, skiing across Greenland, rowing the Atlantic, mountaineering in the Alps, ski-mountaineering, ice climbing and speed flying (a sort of crazy paragliding) in the Caledonian Alps-Greenland.
During his tales he is very depreciative about his own level of skill. He claims he is not a great climber- with a fear of heights, not the best rower, skier or cyclist but then in his next breath he goes and describes some amazing achievements he has made in all of these skills. It is not false modesty (although he is obviously very talented) so much as to point out that it is the determination not to give up that helps him the most in achieving his goal. Niall is very talented in bringing across each story and easily drew the audience into the tale to the point where they were at the edge of their seats. There are triumphs and failures, great dangers and moments of pure hilarity.
Niall has spent several years on conservationist expeditions in some of the most remote parts of the globe. His interest in biological sciences is very much driven by his whole family; in fact all of his family has been involved in zoological or conservation research. During his research trips he has help discover new species, directly help the protection of rare animals and had dozens of brushes with death at the jaws and claws of the world’s most charismatic dangerous animals. Niall’s talk about the events that led him to lobby the Honduras government to protect a very special National Park in particular was inspiring.
He is a very compelling speaker and makes even complex ideas easy for anyone to understand. A truly interesting personality and well worth seeing when he next tours the country.
Reviewer : Lucy Tonkin
Rio Cafe, Glasgow
On Monday night I went to Rio and I went without a passport. Now before the Scottish or UK Governments get involved in or indeed try to create a diplomatic incident I should say that the Rio concerned isn’t the carnival capital of Brazil but the poetry capital of the West End of Glasgow.
You see there is an event in this particular venue to which the cultured citizens of this dear green place make way on the last Monday of each month. This event is entitled last Monday at Rio and Robin Cairns is our genial hosts for this evening of erudite entertainment.
This Monday saw me make my long awaited and long overdue return to a night which I always enjoy attending but hadn’t been able to make due to a bizarre combination of circumstances for the last three years and believe me it felt good to be back.
Though I missed Robin opening the show and maybe one or two of the open mic slots I was fortunate enough to enjoy the vast majority of acts on what was a brilliant night of top quality spoken word. Whilst many of the performers were known to me such as Audrey Marshall, Kevin Gilday, Jim Ewing, Kirsten McAlease, Stephen Watt and recent discovery Ms Woodburn, there were also a number of fresh new voices. It is fair to say these poets were new to me, but such was the level of their talent they made me want to hear more of their work. It is with honesty I can say that as I listened to the voices of Adam V Cheshire, Aiden Rivett, Callum Rodger, and others I felt my cultural life had been enriched by hearing their words.
I particularly enjoyed Aiden’s poem about the old man on Duke Street. This was I thought a very poignant moment in a night which illustrated all that is good about the craft.
The topics covered included everything from altzheimers to televised revolutions from abortion to refugees. There was even room for spiders, seagulls, and boy bands, on a night when anything could be said and nothing was taboo. There were even poems on geography and ghosts and a brilliant if unique take on the next step for feminism from another voice new to my ears the pint sized pocket rocket Ailsa Williamson.
This was a fantastic night of top quality culture and with former MSP Rosie Kane as the headline act. I knew I had to be there. You see for my sins which have been many and varied over the years I have campaigned with her on a number of years for many different causes. These range from anti trident marches through to Scottish Independence and women’s equality issues. So you see this was a no-brainer, I not only had to be there I had to make sure I was wearing my women for independence badge and my badge in support of Maryhill foodbank. It was if you like a cultural three line whip
On taking the stage Rosie recalled her days as part of The Pollok Free State and how this quiet reserved Glasgow woman got involved in the protest against the M74 extension. In doing so she told us of how she was accused invading the chamber of commerce and according to the TV news holding journalists hostage.
As Rosie held court she had the audience spellbound with her tales of protest and campaigning which acted as a springboard to get her in to politics. This was a very personal set laced with fire, passion, and humour. It was an excellent performance from someone I have known for a long time in a different but parallel life. Well, if I’m being honest there are many similarities between spoken word performers and politicians. Both need good oratory skills and both speak from the heart and Scotland’s very own citizen Kane is blessed with an abundance of both these skills.
Entertaining as she was however, I have to say my favourite set of the night came not from our headliner but Lewis lass Kirsty Nicholson. In her poem Being From Lewis Is, Kirsty, who like Rosie I know from the political world explored the stereotypes which are all too often associated with the island life and delivered her own satirical rebuke to those with more shall we say metropolitan or international geographies.
In the second of her two poems Kirsty brought back memories of a Scottish Cup semi final defeat in which Celtic lost 4-2 to Motherwell as she told the story of the ghost of a former Celtic player who is apparently haunting her flat. Despite being a Celtic fan I can’t figure out who is guarding her flat but Kirsty has found his trophies and medals in her attic. Whether our poet knows the name of the player I’m not sure but if she does, it may be wise to keep his identity secret.
Now before anyone tells Kirsty there is no such thing as ghosts remember she is an Island girl and islanders, are like the Irish brought up on tales of myths and legends. Trust me I have both Western Isles and Irish blood and learned a lot of stories at my granny’s knee. I also learned traditional songs of my communities. I don’t know why but some people may call them rebel songs well I suppose I am a rebellious Scot but unlike some people I will never be crushed.
I say this because I am a poet and a poet will always have something to say and this was the certainly the case on what a was great way to spend a Monday. This was a night when I went on a flight of fancy just because I could to prove that geography matters and you don’t need a passport to find a world within a city.
Reviewer : Gayle Smith
“I formed a Band”, Eddie Argos,
Broadcast Café, Glasgow
24th May 2015
Eddie Argos is a singer who doesn’t sing, he admits this straight away. It should come as no surprise to audiences, then, that he isn’t a spoken word artist either.
This reviewer wasn’t sure what to expect from a spoken word night by the likes of Argos, though I was mildly aware of his eccentricity. Argos made it big(ish) with his band Art Brut by resting on the laurels of his talented bandmates, and his own strange brand of eccentricity and charisma. His style of singing (talking) lent a unique and off-kilter sound which has attracted a cult following, as well as glowing decade-old reviews by the likes of NME. Now, he’s launching a crowd-funded autobiography, and embarking upon a mini tour of the UK putting on a one-man 45 minute “Spoken Word” show.
Luckily, Argos is funny. He also oozes charisma, and he has great comic timing. Not to mention he’s likeable. He has a cult following. And he’s never pretended to be clever, just weird. For those expecting classic Eddie, the show is a great chance to see a famous(ish) musician up close and personal, with the chance to ask questions, and bask in the intimacy of a half-empty room. I think Argos made eye contact with just about everyone, all fifteen of us.
For those expecting Spoken Word, Argos certainly does not hit the mark. It did not help that his opening acts were two of the most talented spoken word artists in Scotland – Bram E. Gieben (Scottish Slam Champion) and Kevin Gilday. Both personify the best of spoken word in the United Kingdom. Gieben, also a musician, blends his own brand of post-apocalyptic diatribe with hip-hop cadences. His pieces are fiery laments and in some senses, eulogies, for the contemporary state of man. He calls his attitude “Heroic Pessimism”. In other words, he is clever, skilful, and unapologetically avant-garde. He is an artist nearing the top of his game. Those curious about the bar for great spoken word in Scotland would do well to listen to Gieben’s work. I’ve heard an over-abundance of Howl-spawned litanies, but I forgive Bram his. And that’s saying something.
Gilday is even fresher. The man himself is funny, warm, and charismatic. His pieces are hilarious, ironic without a trace of bitterness (mostly), and humming with the present moment. A piece titled “Found in the Mud” (which might equally be titled “Overheard at Glastonbury”) had most of the room in tears. His Middle Class Love Poem was just as hysterical. Where Gieben is dark and brooding, Gilday is sincere and shrewd. His is an expert form of spoken word for everyman, with strong links to the world of storytelling, and comedy. The man himself is authentic, naturally funny, and effortless. Gilday tells me after the show that it’s tempting for poets to muster their deepest, darkest work for a set, but he likes to offer the audience relief. It is exciting to discover a voice which brings such energy and warmth to material elsewhere laced with acrimony, and an excess of C*words. I felt sorry for Argos following such wit, although he too had his moments.
Which brings me to the headliner. Argos was funny, I’ll give him that. The material was well-chosen, his transitions were seamless, and he has a natural talent for drawing audiences in. Audiences were treated to a variety of ramblings covering his attention-grabbing youth, his undying narcissism, his foppish cavorts around London, and his antics playing a hoover instead of a musical instrument. Anyone who’s had a chance to read some of his song lyrics, should know not to expect a word-smith at the top of his game. Argos does however, make a tremendous effort to entertain those dedicated enough to listen to his anecdotes. He tries very, very hard. Fans of the band would do well to attend the next few stops on his tour. Fans of comedy too. However, as Argos himself admitted, the “Spoken Word” title seems like a cop-out, a loose term he himself has hurled out without knowing really what it means. He probably wanted to call himself a comedian, but didn’t have the balls.
Argos as a Spoken Word performer is, well, kind of like Argos. You go in, already unsure as to what exactly you’ll end up getting, or how good it’ll be. But it’s shiny, and cheap-ish and the catalogue makes it sound good. So you splash out, and hope for the best, only realizing as you open that weird misshapen box with that old familiar pang, you should probably have spent your time and money somewhere else.But you’ll never have the balls to ask for a refund.
Reviewer : Charlotte Morgan
A Dandy, a Martyr, and a Prostitute walk into a bar… ”
Cabaret at Stereo Café
It is a truth universally acknowledged that love and money provoke great entertainment and Rally & Broad’s Monthly Cabaret was no exception. Sunday afternoon at Stereo was a decadent affair. Moustaches twitched. Clowns sang about death. Dazzling story-tellers sold tales of the sex industry. A dandy railed against political witlessness. And to top everything off, musician Jonnie Common delighted the crowd with a weird and wonderful electro-folk set about, well, his friend’s grandma (but in a sexy way).
The afternoon was curated by Rally & Broad (Jenny Lindsay and Rachel McCrum) who are luminous forces to be reckoned with on the contemporary Scottish poetry scene. Their monthly Cabarets in Glasgow (and Edinburgh) provide a space for the more artistically adventurous of folk to soak in the (often experimental) sounds of whichever talent fits the month’s theme. Attendees are sure to hear from some of the UK’s hippest poets, writers, and musicians. Thankfully, the cabaret is well-paced and the bodacious MCs bring a liveliness (and great comic timing) to the afternoon (as well as a poem or two). There are no more than two acts to a section, multiple breaks, a raffle, and even a crowd-sourced poem to cap things off. With plenty of audience interaction, a shot at winning booze or chocolate, and a well-stocked (though expensive) bar in arm’s reach, Glaswegians would be hard pressed to find a more delectable offering from 2:30-5:30pm on a Sunday afternoon.
The linguistic star of the set (in this lowly writer’s eyes) was undoubtedly Luke Wright, a foppish and seriously talented spoken word artist, whose set brimmed with comic irony, originality, and anger. His final (hysterical) piece gave voice to the perverted frustrations of UKIP voters. The piece was brilliant, and the performance devastating. Musical acts Johnnie Common and Creative Martyrs were just as intriguing. Common’s strange and whimsical arrangements were as funny as they were accomplished. Creative Martyrs lent a strange, and phantasmagorical air to the proceedings, drifting between stage and crowd like figments of a dream. Kirstin Innes, author of Fishnet, gave a provocative and spirited reading. Her debut (and meticulously researched novel) tells the story of the sex trade in Scotland. Innes’ stage presence is as provocative as her subject matter, and she was a joy to hear. Rally & Broad also performed a poem each (both have new pamphlets out). Both writers are expert wordsmiths, and bang on the pulse of post-referendum Scotland.
It is a privilege to be served up such prodigious talent once a month in Glasgow. Aspiring poets would do well to spend a Sunday afternoon lazing in the cavernous depths of Stereo, feasting on wine, and expertly crafted entertainment. There are many Cabarets in this vibrant city, few are frequented by such exceptional talent. I wager the billing will continue to shine – Rally & Broad have a lot of talented friends, and the featured poet next month (Caroline Bird) is as sizzling and on-the-mark as Luke wright. Keep an eye on Rally & Broad’s billings. Money may not buy you love, but at a meagre £5, it affords you a hell of an afternoon.
Reviewer : Charlotte Morgan
Photos : Chris Scott
*Note: all Prostitutes involved in the reviewing of this event were purely fictional*