Luke Wright
Spoken word isn’t for everyone. I went to an open mic poetry night with an ex and he visibly cringed every time a poet opened their mouth, but long gone are the days of cringe-worthy poets who take themselves way too seriously. Poetry is becoming cool again so, despite my opener of ‘spoken word not being for everyone’, tonight’s gig was packed and for a cold January Tuesday in the Arts Centre that’s no mean feat.
I never considered that a poet might have a support act (I never considered a poet might have a tour) but Jemima Foxtrot opened this evening’s proceedings. Unassuming and self-deprecating (in a romantic way, not a conceited way) her poems brought significance to the ordinary every day. Some of her pieces were punctuated with lines of song giving a different kind of depth to them. She had the audience captivated as she talked about groceries, hangovers and waiting for trains and her set was over much too quickly.
After a brief intermission (twenty minutes is not enough time to pee, smoke and get to the bar) Luke Wright began his set. With a bottle of wine and a glass already on stage he performed his first piece over music which made me think of The Streets. Not exactly what I was expecting. But as his set progressed it became clear that this wasn’t typical. Wright’s poetry swung between self-centric sentimental commentary to comedic poems about kinds of people he imagined. His poetry written using only one vowel was particularly impressive, using the sounds of each vowel to vitriolic or hilarious effect. Wright, drinking wine and wearing a Drape coat and ponytail, waxing lyrical about John Betjeman, seemed to be self-aware, at once acknowledging and enjoying the clichés.
As the people in front of me turned to each other after every joke, needing to validate each other’s laughter, I genuinely looked forward to sitting in the bar after the gig, with my literary friend, to discuss and dissect the different kind of evening we’d just had.
