I’ll be on my way to see my first Springsteen show in twenty years…

BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCE!

Just getting warmed up.

BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCE!

NOTE: This is finally getting some attention, so I’m bumping it up. Thanks to Andrew, Lea, Dave K, Skip, and Victor so far. I really need some more advice on it. Thanks.

I gotta say, this is turning into the weirdest piece I’ve ever worked on. It had turned into a full-on text experimentation piece before I backed up and got this. Nowhere near done, and doubt it’ll end up looking like this; just needed some reality checks before going on.

” In a 1971 magazine piece about women’s liberation, Mailer compared the dehumanization of technology to the effect of feminists, who he said were abolishing the “mystery, romance” and “blind, goat-kicking lust from sex.”
— from an Associated Press obituary of Norman Mailer, November 10, 2007

on the night
before Norman Mailer died
in a New York City hospital

a 17 year old boy
was dragged by a friend
to a poetry reading
in a bookstore 300 miles away

finding himself
for the first time in his life
in a room
where he was harmlessly outnumbered
and rendered apparently irrelevant
by
hundreds of women
of all kinds
openly being
all kinds of woman

all he could think of to do
was text a friend
a couple of times

first

they’re singing lesbo
songs

then
after more time
and more poems
had passed
norming
what is maler
he
typed

wtf
i feel mad weird
some of these girlz
r manlier
than me

did he really mean to say

i feel
mad    
romance
mad            
blind
goat-kicking lust

or

some of these girlz r    
abolishing the mystery

or

some of these girlz r mad

Norman Mailer died
a few hours later
unaware of all this
still pugnacious right down to his failed kidneys
he who once stabbed his wife
loathed feminism
boxed everything
typed incessantly

thumbs flying

a boy got up
and left a world
of women
behind
apparently
without hearing a thing

we are all of us
prone to mutter
when someone
is picking at our scars

I gotta clean this house.

I gotta go do an errand.

I gotta go clean puke outta my car. (Don’t ask.)

I gotta stop thinking about that text poem I posted a day or two ago and the fact that no one’s commented on it. I could use some help. Is it that bad??

I gotta lot to do, and most of all I gotta stop thinking about how psyched I am that I’m seeing Bruce Springsteen tomorrow night or nothing is gonna get done.

See you at the Asylum for Seren Divine tonight…

I picked this up off of Indymedia just now:

http://colorado.indymedia.org/node/291

If any of my friends (especially down in Texas) can shed any more light on this, I’d be appreciative. It’s a sore subject for me, as anyone who’s heard at least one of the poems on “Americanized” might guess; I have a longstanding interest in border access issues regarding Native folks. Thanks.

Don’t know if you saw this, but there’s a new Southwestern style restaurant opening on Shrewsbury Street tonight called “Mezcal.” (Original, I know.)

They’re advertising a “Tequila Parlor” with over 100 brands of tequila. (Thought that would get your attention.)

They are also having a “guacamole exhibition.” No word on if the guacamole will be sold framed or unframed.

Off to Orlando for a few days for work. See you maybe tomorrow night; hope to have at least a draft of a new poem up then.

Great show. One of our best, in fact.

First, the setlist:

Notes From a Reptile Son/Peppermint Schnapps
Do You Know What It Means
Americanized
Classic Rock
I Need A Guitar
American History
Meditations On A Black Excursion
Getting Ahead
Mayans and Aztecs
Where Do You Live?

Packed house, although almost no one from the usual suspects at our sets were there; present and of note were a_solitaryman, frequegrl(of course!),
Capri (Faro’s girlfriend, who ended up judging her first slam), nerak_g (who extended her stay by one day to catch us — thanks, Karen), several of the Cantab crowd, and Regie Gibson, who honored us by foregoing his appointment with “Desperate Housewives” and shooting in to see us when he found out we were featuring. (That was a nice ego boost for both of us.)

Jerome DeuPree joined us on drums for the entire set and it rocked — hard. We’d originally figured on having him join us for just a couple of pieces, but he’d heard us back in April and wanted to do the whole set with us — no argument here; Jerome’s a terrific drummer and it added a lot to have him there. He and Faro settled in immediately and things worked beautifully; or particular note were “Americanized” to which he added a driving, martial beat and “Classic Rock” — this last one was a lot of fun, as he and Faro seamlessly worked through all the covers that make up this little homage to classic rock cover bands in smalltown bars. For those who haven’t heard the piece, Faro lays down a medley of famous classic rock basslines behind the poem. In order, it runs from an instrumental opening of “Black Magic Woman” to “Sunshine Of Your Love” to “25 Or 6 To 4” to “Satisfaction” to “Gimme Some Lovin” and closes with “Brown Eyed Girl.” All in slightly under three minutes! Jerome nailed it with a big grin on his face the whole time.

In general, the packed house seemed to like it a lot, although I was surprised that we had fairly low merchandise sales afterward; still, not a bad evening.

The slam (which preceded us) was pretty good, although there were only three poets in it. And the open which followed our set was superb, notable for the Trio’s backing (spot on as always with Jeff Robinson on woodwinds and Blake Newman on upright bass) and some great poetry, including highlights like Karen’s punk gender poem (I don’t know the title of this one) and a really neat piece from a woman named Jade; hard to describe, so I won’t try, but it was excellent. Jeff let loose at the end with some passionate and slightly alcohol fueled but no less potent testifying while the Trio took it outside and led it back in at the close.

Overall, this was an excellent night. The Lounge is a great place to perform — that jazz basement vibe lends a lot to any performance, I think — and it was cool to be there. This was my first feature ever at the Lizard, and I’m thinking of making it a more regular stop on my poetry excursions, even if it does make for a late Sunday night.

The set — indeed the whole night — was also recorded for posterity. Evidently, there’s something in the works to make performances at the Lizard available on iTunes by the first of the year; I’ll keep you posted on things as they develop.

Thanks to everyone who showed up. Next stop: Hotel Vernon in Worcester on Thursday, November 29th (Bobby Gibbs’ new reading), followed by our last show of the year at Storytellers in Worcester on December 14, where we’ll be doing the entire “Americanized” album start to finish for only the second time. There are also recording gigs coming up; new material in the pipeline already. And if anyone wants to book us in the New Year, let me know — right now, we’ve only got one date so far in February at Club Passim in Cambridge.

Viva la Duende!

So you hear it from me first…

I’ll be in Orlando next week on a job, Tuesday and Wednesday nights. Gotta fly home on Thursday night, so no slam for me…and my days look long and busy, so not sure I’ll be up for anything Wednesday night (Tuesday is spoken for by work obligations).

If I can get out Wednesday night for something mild, I’ll let you know. Sorry, gang, if it doesn’t work out.

Good for you, good for others.

http://www.freerice.com/index.php

http://www.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/books/11/10/mailer.obit/index.html

Was the book release reading for “Word Warriors” — the new anthology of women performance poets. Picked it up — haven’t had a chance to read it yet, of course, but the list of artists is fabulous.

Reading tonight were Alix Olson, who edited the anthology; Karen Garrabrant ( aka nerak_g ); Genevieve Van Cleve ( aka genvc ); and Lenelle Moise. All did a terrific job to a packed house in the relatively small Food For Thought bookstore, which was standing room only. In addition there was a short set by Nice Shoes, the Mount Holyoke feminist a cappella group (their description, and they were great).

I was standing in back and happened to be overlooking a pair of young guys (16 -18, I’d say) who were clearly not happy to be there — one was there for class, the other was “dragged along.” The Drag-Along was texting madly through the night, giving his opinions to a friend who wasn’t there.

I admit it — I looked over his shoulder to see what he was texting. Copied two comments to my notebook because…well, just because, I guess:

my friend dragged me here theyre singing lesbo songs

Ah, but the second comment. There’s a poem here with all its existential and identity unease on display:

wtf i feel mad weird some of these girlz r manlier than me

I admit, at first I was laughing inside at both comments…but on the way home that second one really started to get to me…something so frightening and frightened there, so much inherent violence and hate…

I’ve already dared Karen to write a poem from that line. I extend the challenge to you as well; I’ll post mine soon. (On second thought this morning, maybe not soon; reading Norman Mailer’s obituary has triggered the usual wave of complex associations that herald a Monster coming on. Provincetown, machismo, feminism…tailor made to make me go way too fucking deep in my head for stuff for this poem. Sigh.)

But I’m home now…tired, sleepy, and ready for bed. A good night.

Anyone else having problems signing on to this POS today???

I may be heading out to Amherst tonight to catch Alix Olson, Karen Garrabrant, Genevieve Van Cleve, and others at the release reading of “Word Warriors” (the new women’s poetry anthology) at Food for Thought Books. It starts at 7, and I’m trying to arrange my schedule to get out there early since I expect a big crowd in a small place. Not sure what my schedule looks like right now, but it’s gonna be tight. Not sure I can offer a ride either — but is anyone from the friend’s list planning on going?

And for further road trip adventures, Duende will be playing the Lizard Lounge Sunday night….love to see you there. I just spoke with Jeff and we’ll most likely be adding Jerome DeuPree (drummer, ex-Morphine for you Sandman heads out there) on at least a couple of cuts, so that’s exciting…

about the death of slam aside…

I’ve read a lot of stuff lately about how slams are suffering in attendance, places are losing venues, etc.

A few interesting local counterpoints to this:

1. Gotpoetry Live, which has an open and no slam, is growing. Our core audience is expanding, we have a good variety of styles, ages, and readers, and if the switch to the new one feature a month format that we started this week is any indication, the audience is welcoming the opportunity for greater involvement with the event.

(For the record — we’re a weekly venue doing one week of “new poems,” one “theme open” (this week, the theme is “ring” interpreted anyway you like), one feature, and one poetry + music night with house musicians available to back you up; Faro’s committed to being our house bassist, and bring-yer-own noisemakers encouraged too).

2. I don’t attend much anymore, but the Poets’ Asylum in Worcester only slams once a month and it seems to me that the non-slam nights get greater attendance than the slam nights. Generally, attendance is good.

3. Bobby Gibbs’ new reading at the Hotel Vernon — the only Worcester reading taking place in a bar — seems to be picking up speed.

4. Worcester’s Storytellers Reading has been revived and seems (from the one time I’ve been there) to have picked up right where it left off.

5. Cantab nights are flourishing, but when I’ve been there recently, the crowd diminishes by at least half right before the slam starts.

Maybe the question isn’t about poetry, but about what’s offered in terms of variety. These are all very different types of readings and they all seem to be doing OK. It seems to me that when the readings in one area offer community and variety, it works; when it’s not, it doesn’t. Maybe slam is old hat now.

I had a busy day yesterday, which closed with a visit to a folkie open mike I visit occasionally in Fall River. (For you non-locals, that’s in Massachusetts about a half-hour east of Providence.)

It’s held at the Narrows Center For The Arts, a venue in an old mill down near the waterfront, close to Battleship Cove where the WWII battleship Massachusetts is on permanent display. Great (REALLY great) sound and a good eclectic lineup of performers in a given season — Robert Fripp just played there as did the Mekons; folks like Dave Alvin, Marcia Ball, Richie Havens… you get the drift.

The Wednesday night open features a particular kind of vibe that will likely be familiar to some folks here: pseudo-genial cutthroat competition for hot guitars and licks among middle-aged white guys who can finally afford their Martins and Taylors and custom shop Gibsons so they can sound just like the heroes of their youth, Mississippi John Hurt and Tom Paxton chief among them. The host is a nice old-style folkie who used to write with Peter Yarrow of Peter Paul and Mary — again, you can probably picture what I’m talking about here. Think “A Mighty Wind” and you’re on the right track. But there’s tons of good guitar playing, and the place has high quality standards for the most part, so overall it’s a good time.

We (we being Duende) like to play there because we stand out and it gives us good shakedown time in front of audiences not comprised of poets. They also pay their features well, and we’re angling for that at some point — paying the dues comes with the territory there, so we hit it semi-regularly.

I frequently tweak the folkies by bringing a vintage guitar with me and playing during breaks and such, then never getting on stage with it. Last night, I brought the ancient Stella with me and passed odd down moments running a bunch of drop-D fingerstyle riffs in the back corner. Love to watch people try to figure out what kind of to-drool-over instrument I’ve got; the blues guys in particular get all wet when they see it. If there’s anything more seductive to a stereotyped “white boy lost in the blues” than a beat up instrument from the 20s, I don’t know what it is. I hadn’t had it out of the case more than a minute last night before one guy was all over me wanting to check it out. ( I admit it, I can do the sword fight with the best of them when it serves my purpose. I’m not proud of it. But it’s kinda fun to feed into the frenzy, and more to the point, it got people waiting to see what we’d do.) Of course, Faro running riffs on either the guitar or the bass gets their attention too.

It was a long night, and we went late in the evening. Things went fine and we got a couple of folks all excited about our shit, so it worked out well for us. We’re all about expanding Duende’s reach to audiences other than poets lately, aiming at working music venues as well as the slam/poetry circuit. This is good practice for that.

But that’s not actually what I’m here to tell you about. No, not at all.

No, I’m here to say that last night I heard

THE WORST FOLK SONG EVER WRITTEN.

“The Legend of Don Gato” is an epic, seven minute retelling of the sad tale of Don Gato, a cat who breaks his leg jumping off a shelf, is tended by his distressed owners, is finally sent to be euthanized, and then is brought home in a monumental funeral procession where, heralded by the pervasive smell of tuna fish, he suddenly comes back to life to the joy of the assembled mourners.

Yes, I’m serious.

And so was the penulitmate performer of the evening, who sang it. Dead serious, no sense of irony, deeply felt, etc., etc. Furious sincerity delivered by an overweight guy in his late thirties with long black ironed-straight hair in a sleeveless rawk t-shirt, in a huge baritone voice with prog-rock operatic pretensions, accompanied by rapidly strummed acoustic guitar. The closest I can get is to say “Robert Goulet tone meets Tiny Tim vibrato meets Geddy Lee histrionics meets the acoustic sound of Boston.”

Yes, I’m serious. I could not detect one shred of humor here. Jack Black wishes he could come off this sincere when he does his schtick.

ETA: theklute has revealed that this is a COVER. Lyrics in the comments below.

The remaining crowd was…bemused. After that, the drunk who couldn’t play his signature tune on request was a complete let down.

Oh, dear. It’s way too easy to make fun of this stuff. I’m reminded of sateenduraluxe‘s standup comic friend who saw a poetry slam and characterized it as being a place where people poured their souls and trauma and passion onto paper and then delivered it to strangers as if it were a Limp Bizkit tune.

I bet someone’s said something like this about me at least once.

I hope I was at least this funny to them.