An old joke goes:
Question: “What’s the best line of any poetry reading?”
Answer: When the reader says, “And my last poem will be…”
I seem to have less and less patience for poetry readings these days. From Language to slams, if I had my druthers, I’d prefer never to have to go to another reading again.
Now, there are reasons for this. On my scene — the so-called “experimental” scene — there’s been a long tradition of undynamic, non-compelling reading style as a trope. For as long as I’ve been on the scene, it’s been considered “cool” to read into your chest and mumble, preferably in a monotone. God forbid you should be “entertaining” or “performative”; that would mean you would be pandering to your audience – you would be playing the stereotypical “bourgeois” role of artist as entertainment (it reminds me of Jasper John’s famous statement that the artist is the highest paid of all the servants). Even worse, you might be accused of trying to “manipulate” the audience’s emotions, rather than let them have their own reaction to the work, a more savory political option. Needless to say, you can’t wait to get the hell out of the room.
On the other hand, the slam has its own set of problems. Trying to be everything that the experimental scene isn’t, the audience is always in for a good time. Too good a time, methinks. Entertainment rules: theatrics, dictatorial emotional histrionics and yes, pandering to the audience, makes me want to run away as fast as I can. I feel claustrophobic in these rooms with one sort of strong meaning and emotion — very predictable ones at that — being shoved down my throat.
I think that the experimental scene can learn from the slam scene how to perform work; but the slam scene could use a good dose of ambiguity and affectation from the experimenters. Edwin Torres, for instance, does a great job of fusing experimentation with Nuyorican sensibilities, creating a wildly entertaining, yet substantial presence. Coming the other way, Christian Bök brings life to the experimental scene by insisting on entertainment and performativity when he reads his often forbidding material. I’ve never seen an audience — general or specialist — anything but spellbound. You, dear readers, most likely know many more of these crossover performers than I do. As I said, I don’t get out to readings very much these days.
I believe in recordings more than I do in live performances. I always have. The concert version of the song never sounded like the record: Bob Dylan’s live “Before the Flood” paled compared to “Blood on the Tracks.” And as time’s gone on, I’ve felt more and more that way to the point where, if I don’t have an “off” switch handy, I go into panic mode. These days, I prefer to stay home, download certain tracks from PennSound or UbuWeb and listen to them from the comfort of my couch or at the gym on my iPod (do you know how great it is to run in lower Manhattan listening to Frank O’Hara or Allen Ginsberg?).
Years ago, when a performer was lousy, people left the room; or they threw tomatoes; or the simply booed. The mid-century avant-garde wouldn’t consider a concert or happening a success unless they emptied the room. Today, we’re too kind (or perhaps afraid). We stay for everything. We’re too polite to boo, or to leave, or to throw tomatoes. Instead, we stew in our juices during these events, thinking of sex or what we’re going to eat for dinner. When it’s finally over, we applaud. My friends who go to Broadway shows tell me it’s even worse: there, every performance gets a standing ovation. My friends speculate that this might be due to high ticket prices. If you don’t give an ovation, you feel you’re not getting your money’s worth. (Similarly, New York City used to be a rough, opinionated place. Today, it’s as meek and polite — “civil” — as Des Moines).
As a reader, it’s more complicated. I’ve said numerous times that I’m the most boring writer who ever has lived. My books are simply unreadable. But, oddly enough, I’m known as a compelling performer. So what happens when I read? If I’m going to do something long-winded and highly conceptual, I make sure to give the audience two pieces of information: 1) how long the piece is going to last and 2) the choice of feeling free to leave whenever they like (or to drift in and out). In a more conventional reading, I’ll try to be short, choose pieces that are more accessible or entertaining. Last week when I read at the Brooklyn Public Library, during the Q&A session, a woman claimed to be disappointed because I didn’t bore her. Somehow she felt that the self-appointed “most boring writer in the world” was obliged to live up to his title. I told her that if she really wanted to be bored, then she was quite free to try to read my books on her own time. Call me a sellout, but I feel some sort of an obligation to an audience trapped in a room.
High pay for artists? Jasper, Jasper.
The Hood Company
I can honestly say that readings are the bane of my existence. Not because they pay well (surely, I jest), but because I’m addicted to that eye-to-eye energy. Oddly, there’s nothing more satisfying that giving a listener the ability to come up to you and say, “You know, I really hated that poem, and this is why…” If they’re reading you instead, all they do is slam the book shut.
Once I realized that you can learn something from every single reading, horrendous or heavenly, there hasn’t been a single one I’ve regretted or dreaded–from whiny open mics to “major poet” dronefests. I love ‘em all…
Thank you for the insights. I fancy myself a bit of a poet, so I once gathered my poems and headed downtown to the reading. I was a bit late, and didn’t sign in for a spot. I simply sat down to observe for a while first. The poets were all quite mad. Screaming and gesturing, beating their chests, beating bongos, pulling out their own hair. Obviously there would be no room for my gentle little poems of pinecones and such. So I slinked out of the room hoping to God no one would notice my book clutched close. I haven’t been back. Are some readings more violent than others? And how would I know which to go to, which to avoid? Maybe I’ll just sit in my chair under my pines and exchange songs with the finches…
I’ve personally grown fond of the young poet who spends an uncomfortable amount of time introducing his or her poems. On several occasions lately I’ve been convinced I was witness to the best new poetry, only to find out ten minutes into the “poem” that it was just the introduction; he/she was not acting at all. For me the line, “…and now for the poem” is often the saddest moment in any poetry reading (barring the line, “Do I have time for one or two more, I’ll just read a couple more” does not rear its ugly head). As for the best line in any poetry reading the line, “And now we’ll take a ten minute break,” is certainly a highlight.