Open Mic Shite: Part 1

I'm aware that my last entry was a bit of a moan and maybe a little hyperbolic at times. If you didn't like it, you won't like what I've written below either as it is more of the same. Yes, it looks like the feeble gates holding back my whinging and cavilling have opened and a flood of negativity has started to flow...

Mambo No. 5!!!

It's no secret that I am a big fan of music, and so when the opportunity arose to pop down to an open mic night a few weeks ago, I took it gladly. It was held at the American University of Paris (AUP) and promised to be a night where people could get up and perform music, poetry or anything else they fancied, without fear of judgement/heckling of any sort; it was to be a very pleasant and friendly evening which sounded lovely. Well… almost. I obviously had a few reservations, the principal one being that if the main selling point and therefore reason to come was to enjoy the welcoming, non-threatening atmosphere, then the music was probably going to leave a little to be desired. I don't actually think heckling is necessarily a bad thing - if dished out fairly and with proper justification of course. I reckon a bit of abuse from the crowd early on in your career can serve as an effective way of letting you know you have two choices: either you better damn well improve if you wish to continue performing for people and doing it for a living someday; or they call it quits, throw in their musical towel and get a real job. It would save the dignity of those poor souls that open themselves to abuse from an audience of millions by humiliating themselves on one of the many ‘talent’ shows the world can’t seem to get enough of.

Now I don't know if it is possible to convey the fact that I thought the music would be shite with a simple look or change of expression, but funnily enough, as I was pondering the prospect of a night's worth of interminable music, I was hurriedly assured that there would be a house band present to keep the show moving should nobody feel like getting up and sharing their inner artist with a half empty room of boozing Americans, a few Frenchies and one miserable English git. If, by any chance you would prefer a night of interminable music, simply go to one of the high street clubs of any town in any city in any country. My copious 'clubbing' experience dictates that these types of establishment are sure to play the latest 'hits' interspersed with the kind of 'cheese' and 'classics' that make me want to boil my own scrotum and douse it in vinegar before hacking it off with the sharp side of some velcro and stuffing it in my mouth in order to choke to death on it (Refer to the first line of this blog entry now). As it was, I anticipated an evening consisting primarily of a slick, professional music outfit with the odd sprinkling of melodic mediocrity. How wrong I was...

I bet a good ol' whizzpopper would have him in tears!

But before I give Ross-'the whingey arse'-bif the floor, I should point out that it wasn't all terrible. Firstly, the company I keep is exceptional and they can make even the direst situations bearable, so turning up with them was a good start! And there was actually one performer that, for some reason or another, charmed me a little. After 40 minutes or so, a timid looking American girl took to the stage with an acoustic guitar and a battered sliver of paper of lyrics. She sat herself down as though she was still mastering the skill and nervously slung the guitar over a shoulder with an awkwardness that suggested she hadn’t done it too many times before. She positioned the sheet of paper precariously on her lap and without much of an introduction, cleared her throat and started to play. Now I'm not going to beat around the bush; but the performance was bad - not awful mind, just plain old bad. She struggled to coordinate her singing (which was more like talking to a beat, or a one-note instrument) and strumming, stuttered a little between verses and missed a few of the [unimaginative arpeggio] chord changes here and there. She looked ill at ease and the only thing clumsier than her actual playing was her lyrics. She mumbled some flimsy metaphor about feeling small and insignificant on such a huge planet and spoke about having the ability to make giants cry with even the tiniest bits of dust (actually I think what I’ve written there is better than what she came out with – and I don’t think much to that either). Nonetheless, she deserved to be cut a hefty piece of slack as she admittedly was/is no professional. Aside from that, her delivery was sincere, honest and without pretence; she genuinely just wanted to share something she had created in an environment that would allow her to do so. It’s like a child that draws a picture of a blob for a head, with 4 sticks coming out of it that are supposed to represent limbs. They add balloons for fingers and some asymmetrical scribbles inside the blob to represent the eyes, the nose and the mouth and then they write ‘Daddy’ next to it. You’d be hard pushed to convince the elephant man to be happy with that kind of portrait, let alone a regular looking human. I don’t think I’ out of turn by saying that even the parents know it’s an awful attempt at drawing what we know as Man, but they still proudly display it on the fridge amongst the other tat said sprog has also conjured up. You can't criticise it, you can only appreciate what is there. Indeed, you have to equally appreciate what isn't there - that lack of quality and crudeness is what gives it well over half its charm. It was the same for the American girl performing her ditty about giants and the like. And besides, it's all good practise for her and will hopefully make her better for the next time, the time after that and so on. I sincerely wish her all the best for the future (although I’m not sure music will/should be a part of it).

Why is he still alive?

No with the niceties out the way, from now on I’ll be complaining. First up: The Compéres.  They were a male-female double act that behaved as though they were on prime time Friday night television – Friday night American television that is. I feel the distinction is important as the comperes were inexplicably arrogant, obscenely loud, painfully witless, unoriginal, boring and utterly clueless as to how to actually entertain an audience – in keeping with the likes of Letterman, Leno and Kimmel. Loud noise has never been so dull. And, like Leno, Letterman and Kimmel, they were oblivious to their own character flaws both as people and entertainers and carried on with a smug self assurance as though they were a gift from 'God' himself. The phrases, "Oh my god, that was so awesome", "Duuuude, I can’t believe that performance right now" and "we've got a real treat for you next" were uttered all too often serving to highlight further their obvious lack of sincerity or dynamism. They might as well have played a tape with a selection of generic/inane sentences recorded in a horrible North American whine. The final nail was hammered into the coffin of their dying performance when the female tried to gee up the crowd with, "Like, honestly, who can say that whilst being at AUP they have went [sic] a whole 24hours without drinking alcohol – ‘cause I know I can’t. Like seriously?". No more need be said about the failings of this double act.

"Drugs 'r' baaad... mmm'kay"

Unsurprisingly, there were no "awesome" performances on the night - in fact it would be generous to describe any of them as less than average. But a few people really irritated me (which admittedly isn’t that difficult these days). There was The African American Girl who wailed sentences such as "We are the children" and “We must fight” whilst clutching the sides of her head with both hands and feigning a look of despair and grieving. She was positioned in such a way that she seemed to be throwing the words at her own kneecaps - over and over again, with only the incessant hammering of bongos and a discordant/retarded electric guitar for accompaniment – none of which were harmonious. I was also careful to note her choice of the pronoun ‘We’ in her lyrics (if you can call them that). Bearing in mind she is an American girl living in Paris, attending a university that costs around $35,000 to attend and has probably never had to worry about much beyond the realms of what colour t-shirt will best hide the stains from the shit spewing from her mouth, her message of suffering in both a social and financial context experienced by African Americans in today's society is a little hard to swallow. I have no issue with the message, but the preacher lacked credibility - it would be like having a drugs awareness campaign fronted by Pete Docherty and Amy Winehorse. I'm not sure their respective histories qualify them to speak on the subject with any real authority. Additionally The African American Girl had an awful voice, littered with abysmal attempts at artificial falsetto and other vocal gymnastics. I don't think there are many things more embarrassing than watching a mediocre singer perform as though they’re a professional and put every ounce of themself into it. You are not Beyoncé. You are not one of “the children”. Sit down, shut up and kindly remove yourself from my line of sight and my range of hearing.

The 'Poet'

Next up? The Poet. A 20 something girl that thinks her forté is writing and reading poetry. It isn't. She was a very long girl in the most literal of senses - long hair, long body, long legs, long nails and perhaps most annoyingly, a long face. Like so many artists, she didn't conform to the norm with regards to her choice of clothing. And for the record, wearing a pair of Joe 90 glasses and buying your clothes exclusively from vintage shops and sacrificing any aesthetic quality for simply the age or uniqueness of the garment does not make you an artist. It makes you a knob. But in what I guess was a bid to look interesting and alternative, The Poet wore nothing but black - not too dissimilar to Morticia Adams, except she had a bit more colour to her skin. She definitely looked eccentric (NB Eccentric does not equal Artisitic) but one couldn't help but notice that she was head to toe in designer wear. For me this detracted somewhat from her intended artistic aura and the level of authenticity I felt she was trying to achieve by dressing so differently to everyone else (That's not to say that true artists shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy the luxury of the Gucci's and Prada's of this world mind – I just can’t see them being as interested or motivated by material goods as your average man/woman on the street). To be honest, she looked a little bit… how best to put it.... I'll go with like a slapper. Or maybe tart? No - definitely slapper! She looked like a Grade A slapper. Her poem was absolutely appalling as well - the premise was something along the lines of: if you want to have your TV thrown out of a window, fuck a rock star; if you want to eat good food all your life, fuck a chef; and so on through a list of different occupations/vocations and the respective behaviours associated with them. None of the observations were original, witty or even articulated in an interesting way, so no points there honey. Even the poem was purely meant to shock, again she failed; expletives tend to lose their impact if you flinch and become visibly uncomfortable as you utter them - the vulgarity was often needless and add nothing as well. Not to mention the fact she repeatedly forgot the words and had to keep referring to a shitty bit of paper held in her quivering hand. So no points for delivery either. The poem ended with what I think was supposed to be a list of filthy bedroom antics one might crave ("if you want to hear beautifully articulated moans while your girl's in the saddle" was a highlight), in order to inspire a crescendo of lust and desire, and to slowly build some sexual energy/tension. At the point of climax, just when the audience could take no more (because it was quite frankly, crap), at the height of our desperation to the hear the end and how we can fulfil our dirtiest urges, the words "fuck a poet" fell out of her [potty] mouth. What’s my review of the whole debacle? Well put it this way, I certainly don’t think anyone will be fucking her anytime soon. Poet my arse! As much contempt as I hold for The Poet flaws, she wasn't even the worst thing there. Not by a long shot…

To find out who, in this collection of talentless dullards, irritated me the most tune in next week… or whenever I bother posting the next bit. I think this is already a bit long for one blog entry and I want to [at least try to] keep my audience interested - all 9 of you. A cheeky cliff-hanger (although it’s probably a bit generous to call this one) never hurt anyone. Apart from maybe Sly Stallone.

So, A la prochaine…

Enchanté... or maybe not.

Meeting people can have its advantages.

In Paris I meet new people all the time. My job alone means that I see around 20 to 25 different people every week, but I also meet lots of new people socially. It means that bumping into and spending a lot of time with complete strangers has become the norm for me. There are always new names to learn (and inevitably forget), new faces to study, and new stories to hear which can be great. I don't want to sound like one of the many mindless cretins on this planet and say that one of my interests is 'meeting new people', but I do generally enjoy it. (In my experience, people who list meeting people/socialising as one of their interests, are generally not worth talking to. They'll probably cite 'Goin out wiv m8s' and 'Drinkin' as hobbies too. Meeting new people isn't a valid hobby, it's simply something that happens. Whether you like it or not, it's just one of life's inevitabilities. You wouldn't list 'taking a dump' or 'getting old' as your main hobbies and interests? Although, if you do class doing a jobby as one of your past times/favourite things then feel free to get in touch as I think you'd probably provide some interesting conversation - much like this idiot abroad at 1min 28 seconds.

Whether it's a new colleague, a friend of a friend or just a chance meeting with a stranger it definitely can be an interesting and enjoyable experience. English author Danny Wallace actually lives by the mantra that “strangers are friends we haven't met yet”. A lovely sentiment sure, but my cynicism gives me a firm pat on the shoulder when I read it. I actually think I hate everyone I don't know. Come to think of it, I probably hate most of the people I do know as well. But I really despise strangers. Whether it's the knob’ead breathing on my neck in the metro, the owner of the rotten armpit that's melting my eyes or the absolute "C" that thinks I want to hear the accordion being played at 9 in the morning. I hate dawdlers, old women that let their dogs shit all over the place, the arseholes that wear the shiny, puffy jackets and have both ears pierced. I hate other people's children, people who talk too loudly on public transport, people who have no manners, Phil Neville – the list goes on. I loathe them all. Strangers aren't friends we haven't met - they're all tossers that are yet to have the chance to change my scornful opinion of them. To quote W.C. Fields, “I am free of all prejudices. I hate every one equally”. That said, I can still be won over; basically I'll hate you until you talk to me and prove you're not hate worthy. NB not many people can prove that

Recently, I went to Jim Hayne's Place which is just down the road from my flat. Jim's an old American expat who has been in Paris for a good few years now and every Sunday he opens his house and holds a dinner party for around 70 or so strangers. Guests range from just 18 yrs old to 80 yrs old so it’s definitely an eclectic mix. You simply call Jim during the week, tell him you're coming and he'll make sure there's some grub for you (He's also nice enough to provide some beer, wine and soft drinks). There are no tables though as there are just too many people in his converted art studio of a kitchen which means you have to precariously balance your paper plate in one hand and your drink in the other. It makes eating rather difficult, but if you’re like me and just turn up for the grog, you’ll be fine.

 Some say, it's a "great place to meet people" so I went with an open mind and my best 'smiley-come-talk-to-me' type face so as to welcome as much conversation as possible and really get involved. Predictably, everyone was a bit tense and stand off-ish at first. I mean, of all the people, how do you decide who to randomly introduce yourself to? Won’t the other people in the vicinity be offended that I didn’t go to them? And what if you get stuck with a right nutter? Obviously I headed straight for the booze, and then with a cold beer in hand, I started talking to an English girl called [inset name as I've forgotten] and her French friend called [who knows?]. They were genuinely nice people, but it was classic small talk; what do you do? Why are you in Paris? Etc. Nothing to write home about so naturally I made my excuse to revisit the bar area (which was basically a table that had been shoved next to a bush outside) and tried to select my next ‘new friend’ for the night. It turned out to be a Scottish bloke who was actually writing an academic piece about Jim himself - turns out he was quite influential in Scotland in the ‘70s or something like that. To be honest, the Scottish guy was a bit boring a well so I went to the bar to get yet another drink. 3 bottles in the first half hour was probably a bit excessive (In the end my ‘I’m getting a drink’ excuse popped up many times throughout the night as I dodged the dullards that had decided to burden the party with their presence).

My social prowess knows no bounds.

I did genuinely meet some interesting folk though. Jim himself obviously has some tales to tell, what with being a writer, a traveller and a major influence on Scotland. Not that I heard any first hand though; my attempt at interacting with him was woeful to say the least. Here sat a man who has had a dinner party every weekend for the last 20 odd years, met thousands of people from all walks of life, each surely with something fascinating to say and the best I could come up with was, "Must be a lot of dishes to clean every week eh?” He has a cleaner come in on the Monday if you're wondering. And he didn't smile when I jokingly suggested bringing some of my own dirty dishes round for cleaning. He didn’t show any signs that he wanted me to stay near him either so I moved on. Amongst the guests was: an Australian banjo player who'd popped in for a beer as his gig had been cancelled; an exceptionally tall and ginger-bearded Englishman who was in France attending Clown College; a Canadian guy just making a quick pit stop on his tour of the world; one of those models that is a bit ugly but was presumably chosen for her height and 'interesting' features; and a writer who has had some of her plays produced professionally. I was impressed until I met her husband who conveniently happens to be a director of arts at the very theatre where her plays were performed. Turns out it's his job to select the plays that are to be produced each year. Funny that.

So as much as I tried to be an open minded, friendly and all round good guest, at this point my cynicism reared its ugly head. I was getting agitated with people talking about themselves (ironic as that’s all I do in this blog), started doubting their stories and began spending my time deciding what physical feature I disliked about them the most as I pretended to be listening. I was on a slippery slope to all out misery so when I met two English bimbos that had nothing worth talking about (but took great pleasure in talking a great deal), I was pushed over the edge. Woody Allen said that "Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable” and I think he’s not far off with that. These two bints couldn’t stop bragging about how cosmopolitan their lives were, what with travelling to all of Europe’s major cities and meeting so many “amazing artists and creative minds”. They then proceeded to make racist comments followed by a justification of "I'm allowed to say that because my parents are Indian and she’s got Indian in her too". I'm afraid that doesn't cut it with me so I left and hoped she'd go and antagonise someone else (preferably a ‘Fred West’ type character with a soft spot for those suffering from intellectual poverty). Racism eh – is it ever funny?

I blamed Jim for subjecting me to such drivel-spouting, shit-for-brains daddy's girls. It also started to become clear that some people were using the party solely as a networking event and were only interested in talking to you if you could help them in some way. This was also a little grating. There was an ugly, soulless approach to conversation exhibited by many of the guests - they were like social vultures scavenging the room for any morsel of opportunity for personal gain. I blamed Jim for that too – after all he was the one that provided the meeting place for all these abhorrent folk. Add on top of that the way he dismissed my (admittedly abysmal) offer of ‘washing up’ based conversation, you can imagine I wasn't such a happy bunny by this point. In fact, the more I thought about it, the less I held the opinion that Jim was the wonderful and kind man everybody said he was...

Big Jim and one of his fans.

Sure he opens his house, provides food and drink and a place to meet - but it certainly isn’t cheap! He’ll argue that the 25 euros charge is optional, not obligatory – but it’s interesting to see that his site spells out very clearly the recommended amount to 'donate'. He knows full well there’s unlikely to be a hoard of tight arses turning up without it, I'm sure. His web site also gives precise instructions on how to put together your envelope containing your donation, and recommends you have it ready before you arrive in order to save time. I bet he hears a little ker-ching in his head each time he ticks a person off his presence sheet. You could go to a restaurant for 25 euros a head and get much better food and service. So yeah, people say he is a sweet and brilliant man, but he’s taking in about 1750 euros every week and has been doing so for the last few decades. I’d be a sweet, brilliant, wonderful, all singing all dancing man for that kind of dollar. In fact I’d be anything you wanted me to be. And I'm yet to mention all of his books that he flogs whilst you're there – he has hundreds of them lining the room to make sure you can’t escape noticing them. Come to think of it, we basically paid him to enter his house/shop where he proceeds to take a further 15 or so euros from you by guilt tripping you into buying one of the many books he's written. The sight of middle aged women cooing, giggling and drooling all over him as he personally signed their books made me sick. Let it be known however, that from now on I openly invite anyone to come to my flat every Sunday; just leave me a message below and I’ll put on some sausage rolls and Panda Pops, sell you some of my doodles and you can hand over the readies at the door.

“Oh but he offers a wonderful social opportunity - a really great place to meet people”, says Joe ‘the moron’ Public. Well I'll say this; if you need a 'social opportunity' to meet new friends, then you don't deserve them - hang yourself already. If I want to socialise I’ll go to a bar with no entrance fee or obligation to buy merchandise, and I’ll moan incoherently at whatever collection of cells that happens to be standing next to me - human or not. I’m sure it’ll be a damn site more amusing, and won’t leave me feeling quite so bewildered about the utter pointlessness of so many of the people on this planet. So Jim, if you ever read this, you can shove your place, your books, and your gaggle of middle aged, cooing women up your arse. 

Rant over. Now go and be nice to people and make some friends. Do come again soon -  I promise I don’t hate you* 

Bye now.

*as much as I hate some people.