I scribbled Songs Without Music down after my shower on Sunday and used it to introduce the set that night, at The Anchor, Woodbridge, where almost everything started and very sadly, one thing stopped.
As soon as I stepped off the stage I was invited to an afternoon of song and art and poetry that half of Woodbridge wanted to go to. I think that might have been part of it. Pity. But it started the stand-up gigs and it got me this rather lovely artwork that flowed from my reading.
Raw and Hypnotic
I was more than a bit surprised to hear my stuff called this that. I’d done some work on the delivery, making it less converstaional even though I’m always a bit scared it’ll drift into ‘POETRY READING WITH VOICES’ territory, (you see what I mean?) which takes the life out of it and means people feel they have to clap even if it’s utter crap. Although I don’t think they’d do that in the pubs I’d played.
A tough-looking bloke half my age came up to me and said ‘you’re like me’ after this gig. A slightly drunk rocakbilly girl massaged my shoulders while I drank a pint of cider after. Never before. After the gig, you understand. After the gig.
It’s reaching people, somewhere in thier hearts. Poetry isn’t just for books in libraries. It’s for talking, maybe to yourself, or to the thing inside us all. It’s very, very flattering that so many different types of people are hearing this. I’m assuming of course that an entire pub going silent is a good thing. I could always be wrong.
