Forty nine – London Indie Music

I couldn’t go. The description of the drinking event hosted by the London Expat American group said that everyone would be sent an email about its location. Since the event started in half an hour, there would be little chance I would get the email; I needed to ‘bank’ the American group for later.

I scrolled to the next event, which turned out to be hosted by a Korean Language group.  I read the description. It seemed to be for people who spoke Korean. There was a further problem: I couldn’t join without my membership being ‘approved’ by the group organiser.

I scrolled down to the third Meetup that started at seven o’clock in the evening. I was going to the London Indie Music group. I shut down my computer, gathered up my belongings and went to Camden Town tube station. Although it was a music group, the event had an interesting title: ‘talking to strangers: music, poetry, comedy night’ and it was taking place in a ‘poetry café’ a couple of streets away from Covent Garden.

The walk to the café was surprising; the streets were crammed with people. Long Acre had been decorated with Christmas lights, and there was a distinct autumnal chill in the air. Although the London air can sometimes feel cold and damp, you’re always a couple of minutes away from a warming pub or a cosy café. The café I was going to was easy to find; the streets were now familiar. I pushed the door and my cold skin was touched by welcome warmth. I walked to a table.

‘Hello! How are you!’ I recognised someone.

‘What…? What are… Hello!’ replied my ex-girlfriend, Fiona.

We hadn’t properly spoken for around eighteen years. Our relationship hadn’t ended well; I went to study a postgrad course and distance had killed our relationship. It was all very upsetting: I was very sad, and then ended up meeting ‘the wrong one’ who I inadvertently married.

I was face to face with someone who had been a very important part of my life, someone who had inadvertently influenced the direction it would take.

‘I looked on-line and saw that this was a nice place. What are you doing here?’ Fiona asked, pouring a cup of tea. I remembered she liked tea.

‘I’m here for an event… I think it’s downstairs’.

‘What kind of event?’

‘I don’t know. I saw it advertised. It was either this or a Korean Language event. I couldn’t go to that one, so I came here instead’. Although there was a lot more that I could have said, about time, the nature of relationships, and about whether she is happy and content, the only words I spoke sounded like the words of a lunatic.

‘You don’t know what the event is all about…?’ Fiona replied, clearly confused. I decided to confess; I decided to tell Fiona about my crazy mid-life crisis quest. I told her that this was event forty nine out of one hundred, and that I had practiced Kundilini yoga, that I had done a hike and I had recently met a tax accountant. Silence surrounded us. She took another sip of tea.

‘Are you guys a part of the Meetup?’ A figure had arrived at our table. It was the Meetup host, Sam. I said I was there for the event. ‘It starts in five minutes’, Sam said. I replied that I would be down in a moment.

‘You had better go’, said Fiona.

‘You’re right. I think I had.’ I gave Fiona a quick hug, feeling that our impromptu meeting hadn’t gone at all well, and went downstairs.

The performance area held, at a push, around forty people. The room was split into a third performance ‘space’, two thirds floor cushions and chairs. I saw a huge black and white poster of Dylan Thomas. At the back of the room was what appeared to be a bed sheet that had the words ‘Talking to Strangers’ written in florid colourful writing. I paid six pounds and sat next to a sullen bearded poet called Harry. Beside me was a noticeboard that gave information about poetry nights and independent publishers.

After a frustrating wait of around three quarters of an hour, it was time for the first act: an acoustic guitarist, called Lucy, who was in her early twenties. Lucy was an awesome guitarist. She had a surprisingly deep, almost gravelly voice, and got everyone stamping their feet in time to her music. Despite her obvious energy and enthusiastic performance, Lucy seemed to give the impression of being entirely miserable. Rather than presenting us all with an engaging smile, she gave us a discernible frown. Her songs were good, though; a mixture of folk and pop, with more than a hint of classical guitar. I liked Lucy.

The next act was a middle aged balding performance poet called Oli. The first thing Oli did was tell everyone that he had a new book out, which could be bought from Amazon.

I have a love/hate relationship when it comes to performance poetry: I mostly hate it. For me, there’s an impossibly fine line between performance poetry being astonishingly beautiful, and it being insufferable nonsense. Oli’s first poem, which I have thoroughly expunged from my memory, fell in that latter category. Oli’s third poem of the night was ‘an erotic poem’. Here was a bald middle aged man reading an erotic poem to an audience that comprised of another bald middle aged man. I looked at the floor. I then looked at the ceiling. I was tempted to look at my mobile phone, but instead I studied my shoes. I tried to prevent myself from sighing audibly as the phrase ‘kill me now’ entered my consciousness. There was a part of me that just wanted to leave, to find the nearest pub and have a drink; I can deal with performance poetry after a few drinks, but I struggle when I’m sober.

After three more poems from Oli, it was time for the co-organiser of the night, Dom, to do some readings. Dom wasn’t bad. His words were engaging; plus he was charismatic. He had rhythm. He touched the words of his poem gently, delivering phrases with changing textures and expressions. He moved through his notebook with a self-deprecating smile, trying new things out.

After Dom, it was the interval. Worried that there were more poets like Oli on the bill, I decided I needed a drink. When I made my way to the bar, I had noticed that Fiona had left. Her cup and teapot had been cleared away; there was no evidence of her ever being there.

The second half of the night was kicked off by Sam picking on somebody.

‘Come to the front! Come to the front! ’ Sam gently took the elbow of a man in his mid-fifties with dyed red hair and tentatively led him to the performance area, towards a chair. The bewildered gentleman sat down. ‘We’re here at “Talking to Strangers”, yay! Give him a clap, everyone!’ Sam started to clap. Everyone followed. ‘Sir, what’s your name?’

‘Leo’

‘Does anyone want to ask Leo any questions?’ Sam asked the audience. An impromptu question and answer session began.

Leo turned out to be an American from New Jersey, who didn’t have any children, liked old-school super heroes, and was able to define ‘time’. We loved Leo; Leo gave long rambling and ultimately enigmatic answers to the most stupid of questions. He preferred the Rolling Stones over the Beatles, but we didn’t hold that against him, since Leo was ‘the dude’. He could have said anything and we would have loved it. For a few minutes, Leo was the star of the show.

Next up was a comedian called Andrew. Within a minute, I realised that Andrew wasn’t an open-mic chancer who had taken a comedy course; Andrew was a pro. In some respects, he was also a poet: he recited complex anecdotes, lampooned lazy conceptions of sexuality and race, and challenged our assumptions about relationships. He also did his best to relate to everyone in the room. He was the best kind of comedian: he walked across a knife edge of respect and disdain for those who he picked on, whilst keeping everyone on his side.

Andrew’s performance led on to a poetry slot for Sam. My beer had all gone, but Sam’s poetry wasn’t bad. It was simple, and elegant, and rough. She threw sheets of her paper on the floor with abandon. The audience encouraged her to read out ‘the sad poem’, which she did. When the poem was over, the sheet of paper it was written on was released to float its way to the floor, like the relationship it described.

The final part of the night was where members of the audience had a minute to read out a poem of their own choosing. There were three volunteers. It was a creative shambles: the first poet’s poem was too long. The second poet wanted to go back to his seat, and the third just made something up on the spot from a phrase given to him by the audience. This third poet was the final performance of the evening. Everyone clapped and cheered. People started to leave. I shook people’s hands, and said goodbye. As I was leaving, I gave Sam a hug and a kiss on her cheek, and then climbed up a staircase to the ground floor, where I would then leave the shop to be greeted by London’s cold winter air.