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…