The last poetry recital I went to was my primary school’s annual competition 15 years ago.
Suffice to say I wasn’t exactly skipping into The Roebuck pub in Borough for its weekly night of readings, even if Bang Said The Gun does brand itself as ‘stand-up poetry for people who don’t like poetry’.
After sitting nervously in the chilly upstairs, half-heartedly shaking the bead-stuffed milk cartons we had all been given (more fun, and less painful, than clapping) to blaring White Stripes, co-founder Dan Cockrill bounded on to the small, brightly lit stage, to the whoops of the massive crowd (Bang has a cult-like following of regulars). ‘This is about poetry that smacks you around the head and bites you on the bum,’ he hollered. ‘It’s poetry, not ponce; it’s not porn but it’s still pretty damn good.’
The night started with readings from well-known poets on the buzzing circuit. They were a revelation. This is poetry with a modern, urban makeover, heavily influence by hip-hop and rap. I’ve never heard anything so musical and slick, and I hadn’t realised that poets could be so, well, cool.
Resident Bang writer Catherine Brogan, a Northern Irish blonde, kicked off proceedings with a hilarious performance about taking a flight on ‘plane capitalism’, followed by the more serious ‘Jesus was a protester’. But it was her final short reading, musing on how she would rather be in bed with her new lover than standing on stage, that brought the house down.
Anthony Anaxagorou, a well-known 29-year-old North London poet, spoke about love, child abuse and racism in one of the most powerful stage performances I’ve seen. Then the voluptuous Mel Jones regaled us with some serious filth, reminiscing about relieving herself on a busy Tube platform and assorted exotic sexual encounters.
Bang ends with Raw Meat Stew, a short open-mic spot that gives wannabe bards two minutes to impress, with the chance of winning a slot in the following week’s line-up.
The six performers ranged in ability and style, with poems on zombie sex, iPhones and Australia, but by this stage the audience was so buoyed, not to mention lubricated, that they could do no wrong. Even the dishy barman got a deafening clatter of the rattles for his dubious jokes. But it was the previous week’s victor, the dreadlocked Furious George, who stole the show with his poem about an evening spent as a sex slave at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.
The night ranged from the inspiring to the depraved, the hilarious to the tear-jerking. Quite simply, there are no words.
(bangsaidthegun.com)
