Don't You Just Hate Poetry Readings?: The Debut of Banjoetry

 

A few weeks ago I turned to a trusted buddy and said, "I want to score poems to banjo."

She said: "That is a terrible idea."

I said: "I want to read them live, with the banjo."

She said: "That is a terrible idea."

I said: "In front of a bunch of people."

She said: "That. Is. A. TERRIBLE. Idea."

I began scribbling notes.

A few days later I mentioned to a trusted mentor that I had a feature slot reading at Bowery Poetry and wanted to perform a suite of poems scored to live banjo twanging.

He said, "That sounds like absolute agony."

I decided then to do it.

I fortunately have a dear friend who can twang banjo. He has toured with Pete Townshend of The Who and pop-punk demigod Bob Mould. He has recorded with members of Teenage Fanclub. And Sleater-Kinney. And The Posies. And Ash. He has his own indie album of aching, perfectly strummed alt-rock tunes. (Aside: I highly recommend that record--great break-up album. Doubly sweet on vinyl.) Oh, and a Tony Award and a bunch of big Broadway credits and a list of off-Broadway mega-roles, like rock diva Hedwig from Hedwig and The Angry Inch. Sometimes you see him on TV. His name is Michael Cerveris and he was, and still is, clearly overqualified for my plot. 

I told him I wanted to score some poems about New Orleans to banjo. And read them. In front of people. I explained he was essential because he is the only one I know who can play banjo.

He said, "Okay, let's do it."

Thus the inside joke of "banjoetry" went public. Both the friend and mentor who said it was a terrible idea attended the performance. I have video proof (embedded below) that they cheered like loons for us in spite of themselves. A bunch of other people did too. They may even have enjoyed it. Or banjoyed it. (Either works.)

Fantastic photographer Jenny Anderson was there to get it on film (scroll down for pics). There's video of the whole set. I'm also pasting in the text from my "set" opener, "Don't You Just Hate Poetry Readings?" below. I love reading but somehow always get nervous and start shaking like a crack-baby for the first 5 minutes of all performances, which occasionally leads to tripping over the words of whatever is read first. I wrote the poem a few hours before hitting Bowery, so it was especially unfamiliar and raw...the text is here to fill in the gaps where my crackbabyness failed the piece.

Don't You Just Hate Poetry Readings?

Behind a curtain, under some stairs,

shoe-horned into community centers or the nearest jail,

spawning on student coffee shop stages,

dressed up and made up and paraded for sale

at your nearest megabookshop franchise, there it is folks! (and this is no joke),

we got right here for you fine folk the fruit fly of the literary world,

the buzzing

beating

flapping

needy

slip of public word breeding known to us as The Poetry Reading,

Where everyone’s less than secretly competing for rattiest scarf,

holiest boots,

most crumpled transcripts of items that could’ve been committed to mind if we’d taken the time

Best disapproving sigh,

best judgmental eye,

least best chance of separating spectators short on patience from Thorazine patients when you prop them all up in one straight line;

Most likely to jack from Kerouac

to buy off Bly

or rip off poor Miss Smith by dragging up some poorer stiff

with a guitar with them to riff on riffs while the whole ship goes down and watchers go stiff

before they make it to the awards portion of the night!

where blue ribbons are given for angriest word rant,

droniest tone poem,

most unnerving piece of childhood nostalgia,

most unremarkable slab of melancholia,

and don’t forget the coveted award of most maligning backhanded complimented handed out as you walk out the door, and that’s before

we event mention honorable mentions for artful statings of the obvious,

heartfelt ramblings by the oblivious,

irreverent references,

obscure preferences,

whored out metaphors

ALL absorbed while keeping an ear out for a cell phone ringing or Death finally bringing

some carefully delivered blessed delivery from asking why we’re here again, especially when

every time we leave one of these creaking old creative heaves we always seethe

WHY. DO. I. KEEP. GOING. TO. THESE. THINGS?
Because we know if we don’t go

we’ll not have heard that line or word

that makes it clear while we’re all here

and still coming to poetry readings.



Michael Cerveris rockin' the MANjo for the love of banjoetry.

 

"I love reading out loud thiiiiiiiiiiis much...."

Seriously? This photo? What the hell am I doing? It does look intense though, maaaaaan. **Poetic beat finger snaps.**

The "banjoetry" starts around the 6:57 mark. (At one point some affable lout steps in front of the camera, which was resting on the bar next to a whiskey and ginger. He quickly realizes his folly and steps back outta the shot.) 

This set includes the above detailing of why poetry readings are agony, delivers missives for my inarticulateness in romantic situations, paces out a suite of poems about the alchemy of New Orleans while Cerveris twangs the strings, then brings the hyperbolic silliness of Mick Jagger's Shirts back to its original home at Bowery Poetry.

Hannah's set is sex, mangled love and why you should think twice before letting her play librarian, with a spotlight thrown on the accidental poetic rhythms hiding in GMail threads.

Banjoy, and thank you to everyone who packed the house. Special thanks to Michael for lending his talent and insight during the collaboration process, George Wallace and Russ Green of Bowery Poetry Club for having for allowing me to read poetry in public.  

Kimberly Kaye at Bowery Poetry Club 2/20/11 from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.

And Hannah:

Hannah Miet at Bowery Poetry Club 2/20/11 from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.

A Call to Save the Poetic Ta-Tas: Come for the Tit, Stay for the Lit

I promised in the last post more on the epic pseudo-Valentine's Day gift that landed at my feet on February 13. And I still promise to share that shortly...

...after this glorified appearance announcement posing as a blog post. (Look, I'm ashamed. Just please forgive me.) Today's shameful self-promo moment is for a mammary-heavy reading myself and poet Hannah Miet will be featured at this Sunday, February 20. The event starts at 4pm and runs just over an hour at 308 Bowery, NYC, with booze available before, during and after.

Promise: This week's event will include a poem about hating poetry readings, live banjo, a hipster-friendly piece about riding rusty bicycles through New Orleans, at least one poet on prescription drugs after minor surgery, one Tony-Award winning surprise guest and, by popular demand, the return of Mick Jagger's Shirts.

For those of you who hate poetry (and, PS: if you do, you must have landed here via Google Images while searching for pictures of Mick Jagger. In which case you must be really frustrated by now.), give us a chance to prove you wrong.

Back story: Last month, George Wallace and Russ Green of the famed/infamous Bowery Poetry Club were deranged enough to let an unknown writer with an un-notable blog take the stage at Beat Hour as a featurette. They rewarded my not falling off the stage, throwing up, or reading a poem about my uterus by inviting me back for the series' February installment as a top-heavy top-liner. (I feel obligated after titling this post the way I did to continue making breast references.)

Beat Hour's always a blast, but this one is particularly hard to beat because three of its four featured performers are women (a rare occurrence at readings not organized by womens' groups)--cheers to Wallace and Green for making room for the ladies. In addition to Miet and myself, Jane Rosenberg Laforge will also be at the mic spitting out vivid visuals, and there's an open mic for you soon-to-be featurettes. (PS: Don't forget Ed Stever, as well as George and Russ, holding it down for the men-folk.) With one cheap ticket and as many cheap drinks as you like, you can help fight the good fight for both tits with pens and the continuation of the literary world at large.

A closing promise: There will be zero earnest poems about uteri, ovaries or menstrual cycles.

Hope to see you there. More details here: Beat Hour at Bowery Poetry, February 20, 2011.

(**Note: No breasts were harmed in the making of this post. The Trouble With Poet does not encourage the baring of bosoms during poetry readings...though we do not necessarily discourage it either.**)

Pass the Flask You Hag: Losing My Virginity at Bowery Poetry

This weekend, George Wallace made my month by allowing my up onstage for Beat Hour @ The Bowery [Poetry Club]. The bill also featured PHIL ASAPH, TED JONATHON and ROBERT GIBBONS and an impromptu finale by Russ Green. I am honored and thankful to have been allowed onstage with them.

It was my first public reading and I was absolutely fucking terrified.

Fortunately, someone got all my public onstage awkwardness on film.

I ramble about about old drunken aunties, divine relationship-enders on the Bayou, the importance of underscoring during blizzards...and about Mick Jagger's shirts. Because let's face it, they're the highlight of any closet. 

Kimberly Kaye at Bowery Poetry Club from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.



Hannah Miet at Bowery Poetry Club from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.

Be gentle. It was literally my first time. 

Mick Jagger's Shirts: Exhibit A

Mick Jagger's shirts are not like other shirts. They possess many powers. They absorb many secrets. Mick Jagger's shirts want to live among us and are here to make us happy.

Mick Jagger's shirts have the ambition and resources to wear a rock star while other shirts chose to wear ordinary people.

Mick Jagger's shirts have seen things that they can never un-see.

Each one of Mick Jagger's shirts contains a single thread from the Shroud of Turin sewn secretly into the architecture of its fabric. The God Particle is said to be one of Mick Jagger's old buttons. It popped off the top pocket of a brown corduroy button-down with fraying cuffs and a coffee stain on the left elbow one afternoon in 1967 after Mick Jagger snagged it while zipping his jacket.

Mick Jagger's shirts can neither be created nor destroyed. They come into being and pass out of consciousness, manipulating the void. They occasionally surface on eBay, but only to those who need them most.

I sat behind one of Mick Jagger's shirts at an off-Broadway show about a shipwrecked man who eventually rode a sea turtle. I stared at the back of the big, bulky, green and white Bill Cosby sweater wearing Mick Jagger to the theater, and understood instantly that to touch that shirt would be to absorb all the knowledge and understanding of the universe, to achieve enlightenment through a woven, wool conduit.

I decided that I was not yet ready to achieve enlightenment.

Here is another one of Mick Jagger's shirts: