Writer’s Block Unplugs Brain Juice 20.09.09

Unleashing Talent: Poetry, Booze and the Cool East of End: What More Could You Want?

The doors of this lovely, unassuming bar, Juno, are flung wide open to greet the warm autumn air of Old Street. The green decor melts into the sultry, dark tones of the evening. Tracey D, our prickly, quippy host of the evening strikes a pose in her own brand clothing line and grabs the mic. Our evening at Writer’s Block has officially started – late, mind you but with the beer flowing and the hiphop spitting from the decks in front of us, over the small but nevertheless awesome stage, no one seems to notice as their heads bop to the beat, immersed in conversation with their neighbours, glancing occasionally, curiously at the black and white art mounted on canvas on the walls.

Writer’s Block has the same ethos as Book Slam but this event seems more immediate, grassroots and creative. Book Slam grabs the rising stars but Writer’s Block seems to get them while they are carbon dust. My friend who came with me leaned over while I was furiously scribbling (and drinking) and said “everyone is so goddamn cool.” They are. The crowd is much younger and although you have stragglers like me and mine, most of the crowd is a supporter of whoever is on stage. It’s homely and edgy all at the same time; there’s a collaborative vibe and a community feeling.

After setting up earlier in the evening, Daniel and Felicia, the Block’s founders (more on them later), are now relaxing against the bar talking to the performers of the evening or bustling about with intent; the wordsmiths and the musical performers are revising their lines; people are still clamouring to get inside even though all the seats are full – a bouncer at the door but it seems unnecessary, there’s going to be no trouble here tonight.

So where was I? Tracey D grabs the mic and introduces our first wordsmith of the evening, Cloud Fist. He takes to the stage, bopping slightly, moving his hands like a rapper in line with the beat of his lines, his eyes closing in concentration. As the sound of a police siren wailing in protestation reaches our ears, it forms an ironic underscore to his words, ‘clouds are high and fists are for hitting.’ One of his poems have a repeating ‘chorus’ for want of a better word, so it is like a hiphop track with no music, save for the siren. Immediately you get the feeling that Writer’s Block is making poetry accessible, it’s taking it away from the books, the deadening curriculum and breathing life into it.

Roundhouse Poets

Next up were two of the Roundhouse Poetry Slam finalists: Alex Gwyther and Belinda Zhavi. Alex got up from his seat from around the stage and took the mic. What came out of that boy’s mouth was pure literary filth. And everybody loved it! With poems such as Saturday Night Fever where he likens a club to a womb and the club goers as sperm and another about his, erm, bulge after meeting a girl at an open mic night, he completely won the crowd over with his erotically charged serenade. The whole room was reacting in complete awe struck pleasure, greeting his images with claps, whoops and relished ‘ooohs.’ With lines like: ‘I want to get your dictionary bulging’ and a reflection on British youth putting the ‘cunted in United Kingdom,’ his poems were ‘poetically perverse.’ A complete revelation, you should check Alex and Inua Ellams from Book Slam at OneTaste. You’ll be in for a really good night.

While Alex was zippy, current, reflective of our modern times and his everyday experiences which he wove into extraordinary tales, Belinda was quietly magnetic. The room pulsed with her but she drew them into her. She is statuesque, regal almost in her delivery. Her voice came somewhere deep from within her as she recited ‘He Wishes,’ and another about her mother called ‘She’s Royal.’ There is a full emptiness orbiting around each of her poems and she was very hypnotising to watch. I thoroughly enjoyed her performance. Full kudos to them both for achieving such a massive accolade for their talent. It is completely deserved.

MiKil Pane’s Pardner of Doom

After a short burst of music from the DJ which rose us all from a reverie, Mikil Pane (said Mi-KILL, not Michael) and his backing ‘dancer’ HedTrip took the stage. HedTrip went first. Now I can appreciate how much guts it takes to go up on the stage so I am reluctant to rain on someone’s parade but a word to Mikil, he could do with losing HedTrip.  Mikil does absolutely fine on his own; he delivered a killer line which made everyone gasp: ‘both of you are black but the baby’s mixed race.’ He timed it perfectly, we didn’t even see it coming. Mikil brings back overtones of old school hiphop  and a lot of people were bopping their heads to him, even without music. He had good crowd control but I think his likeability was hit by his backing vocalist. HedKill. Killed. My. Head. He was too aggressive, his lyrics didn’t seem weighted in anything real as they just seemed to be overly bombastic hyper masculine drivel. I don’t think Mikil really needed him to function as an underline feature on a Word Doc as it seemed unnecessary.

Another intersellar star in the making, Aisling Fahey, the winner of the Teenage Poetry Slam clutched her poems written in purple ink and then stunned us with the maturity of her years. She showed an incredible amount of poise in a room of people much, much older than her but she more than held her own. She recited a poem about identity, how she feels torn between being Irish and English – dual identity being something I think a lot of us can relate to. How it is sad, inevitable, the nature of life that sometimes ties to one world are lost as you are forced to take the reins of the life around you. I See You London was a lovely poem about the tour of London  (very Adele-like, check out Hometown Glory) she’d give which is imbued with her memories and then left us with a heart stopping ‘we came along and ruined your silence.’  Another called Underground probably made everyone who had ever tutted hearing ‘Sorry this train is delayed, there was a man under a train’ come over the speaker, feel completely devoid of humanity for not empathising for someone who felt ‘life [had] bullied him.’ Her last was a poem I completely identified with: the nature of writing and why should she ‘feel [she] should release it to a page.’ She sweetly bounced on every beat, much like Cloudfist bopped on the stage, the palpable rhythm of the poem playing itself on the soles of their feet.

Tight Jeans

We then turned in our seats and watched a humorous yet thought provoking independent film by Destiny Ekaragha. Three boys on a wall see a white boy in skinny jeans walk past them. One of them asks ‘how can a man wear jeans that tight!’ which causes a Fanon like discussion of racial penis envy (even if they don’t know they’re talking about it), how they’ve ‘fucked everyone’ which has lead to most of the races of the world and how one of them wouldn’t sleep with a white girl but how that statement doesn’t make them racist.  In making her characters likable, Destiny made the points they make so ludicrous the only thing you could do was laugh. At the Q&A after the film, Destiny came over as extremely likable, very down to earth and not at all farty-arty about the film. She was really level headed and drew from her own experiences, which seemed to mirror a lot of the people at Juno as they’d laugh with her when she’d answer their questions. Tight Jeans has come runner up at the Buffolo San Film Awards and went on to be officially selected by the 2008 Times BFI 52nd London Film Festival; it was also voted best short film at the London Film Festival by The Observer newspaper. Have them apples. BookFreeq will be conducting an interview with Destiny  in late October so keep your eyes peeled.

We had the very exuberant and vivacious Michaela start her performance as if it was part of a conversation and then you’d realise she was acting. It was very clever. Her first performance was set up as a casting interview where she ran through the racial marginal stereotypes that black women face in acting: the first to die to horror films, the scary ghetto girl, the one always to be arrested. Eventually her desperation to be given a part as anything rose to ascending levels of panic which were both high-larious but also serious. She had an incredible dancer accompany one of her poems and another singer by the name of Stephenie dueted with her on ‘I take’ which railed against the BNP (the bums.)

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The evening was rounded off by a stunning performance by Kersha  Bailey. She had a quiet presence about her; she ducked her head and strummed on her guitar. There was one song in particular, I didn’t quite catch the name but it was about couples, love and how they promise the world to each other but unfortunately how more often that not, it falls apart. I had to put my pen down and I felt so sad I lay my head on the radiator next to me. She played such simple cords, the emotion in her words leapt out at us. The whole room was so quiet, you could feel that everyone was looking back at their own past, their own loves, their own heartbreak. I was moved to tears.

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There is so much talent in this room it almost makes you want to go out and do something creative as opposed to sit around waiting for the weekend to switch from Strictly to The X Factor. Writer’s Block should be given press, the media should be balanced – we know it’ll never happen so I’ll do my little bit. Young people are not crazy hooded hoodlums out to intimidate the middle classes. Come to this evening and watch how they creative, are reflective and can command a room. Make sure you’re there next month. It’s unmissable.