What's spoken word?

What's spoken word?

Don't tell me you've never heard. That's absurd. You know poetry, right? For one night we do it in the spotlight, rhyming lines about life, rights and fights, completely undeterred. We each take our turn to make the crowd emotionally stirred. Spoken word the opposite of that feeling of being in a group of people singing a song you've never heard.

What do people talk about?

Whatever they need to get out. You can't predict which way creativity's gonna sprout. It's not just about rocking up at your nearest pub holding a bottle of Bud and seeing what you can churn out – that's a cop out. It's about being honest and seeing who takes your hand when you hold it out. It's about getting over your self-doubt and making yourself count.

What types of people perform?

There's not really a norm. Tutors, roofers, Chief Supers, drivers, miners and skivers – everybody can get something from this art form. Come along and you might see former drug addicts explain how they reformed, grieving widows describe a loved one they desperately mourn, and dreamers talk about the moment they were spiritually reborn. Anyone can get up on stage and cook up a storm, open hidden doors and be impossible to ignore. What did you think, we all wore uniforms?

What do they sound like?

It's kind of a cross between poetry, hip hop and rap, with so many blurred lines. People tear open their wounds and make them shine. Every time you turn up you don't know what you're gonna find. Some people shout, throw their weight about and look you right in the eye – others hide behind their phones, and you wonder why, because their words are powerful enough to make you cry. You'll hear rehearsed and improvised rhymes by nervous and confident kinds going up for the first or the 50th time.

How does it make you feel?

It's unreal. Sometimes poetry's a bit of light-hearted fun, other times it's a proper ordeal. It might be politicised and open your eyes to a human rights issue, or it might plan a seed that slowly makes you feel free and inspires you. There's nothing more real than when people reveal what destroyed them and helped them heal. We're beloved, accepted and empowered in our collective ideal.

Why do you go?

At first I went there to meet girls, but at the first show I went to everyone was so old. And they were so slow, their rhymes had no flow – no one there was a pro. But that was so long ago. These days I don't come to meet girls, or bring girls, or escape girls, but to rock my world watching complete pros steal the show with poems that make you go 'woah'. And I'm distant from my family, but what I've come to know, is that spoken word is my home. When I'm low my brothers and sisters here help me grow. So I'll keep coming here 'til I'm old, get all slow and lose my flow – because it's what I owe.

———

Click here for more Poetry

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

Off-Day

I'm having an off-day

But it feels worse than an off-day
It feels like the bad old days
When I ran away from teachers I refused to obey
When no one came out to play cos the sky was all grey
When it all became about how much booze I could put away

They said it was just a phase but it was a gateway to cocaine
Comedowns on rainy days washing my young hopes down the drain
I was destined for an early grave

Til she came along and took away my pain
Led me away from waste, hate and decay
To bigger, better and brighter days
She was from the other side of the tracks, her parents went to the ballet, for the matinee, drinking cabernet, on holiday in Marseille - a total cliche
Though I’ve got to say, they were kind of OK

But man she was my main aim
She made my pain go away
Made my heart fly to the Milky Way
Didn't matter how much more she got paid
Our love ran two ways
I was so lucky and I knew she felt the same

Man she set my heart ablaze
Through her I learned stuff I shoulda known anyway
She taught me not to expect praise
Taught me how to behave
Taught me not to accept come what may but find better way
Taught me Uruguay isn't pronounced U R Gay
Days I saw her were my favourite days
Cos with her, finally, I wasn't afraid

But I was easily led astray
Cos I was raised a tearaway
Addiction struck me down again
Getting into fights, having X-Rays
She never complained
But I knew after that it could never be the same
I'd pushed her away, my welcome outstayed
And now I’d never again wake up to her beautiful face
That privilege - gone to someone else unworthy to claim

I felt shame cos I was to blame
I wanted her back so badly I prayed
And I prayed
And I prayed
And I prayed

But nothing changed
That was three years ago and I still feel the same

I saw her walking with another guy just today
I didn't know what to say
Cos all those memories I hadn't erased
Came back and burned me like old flames
Then she saw me and held my gaze
Gave me a cute smile and threw me a cute wave
We both said "hey" and for a second we were together again

One and the same
Feeling pride not shame
Feeling love not hate
Feeling hopeful again
In that moment before she drifted away

Sailed past, leaving me standing there like a castaway
A single tear fell down my face, forever unclaimed
But I know it's me who’s to blame

Sorry man I got carried away, but anyway
That's why I'm having an off-day

That's why I'm having an off-day

———

Click here for more Poetry

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

Writing your life: ode to a pen

Guess what I am: easily broken, easily lost and cheap to buy
That’s right, I’m a pen – and I usually help people write what they want, but listen up ‘cos this one’s all mine
I’m here to ask: what if the same pen stayed with you all your life?
Would you ever notice me there? Would I even catch your eye?

Let me tell you the story of Garry, who I was with for many years
For his 7th birthday we wrote out his wish list but he got none of it and broke down in tears
He got older and when he got bored, we carved stuff on trees like GAZ WOZ ERE
Once he handed me to his favourite footballer to autograph that Panini sticker album he still holds dear

Garry was from a broken home you see – he had to look after his mum
She made us write out shopping lists for matches, scratch cards and rum
Then we went around the supermarket crossing each item off one by one
And when we got back she’d start pouring trebles in the kitchen, and we’d be upstairs wondering when brighter days would come

Teachers fully expected Garry to be a tearaway at school
They’d give him night detentions for drumming beats on his desk, just because he thought it was cool
We were writing out lines as punishment when Garry put me down and decided to stop playing the fool
As he stared at the raindrops racing each other down the windows, he swore he’d be the exception to the rule

Something clicked that night, and fired with a new drive Garry felt reborn
We really knuckled down to his GCSEs despite the skivers and the squares’ scorn
I remember Garry chewing me nervously before that first exam, because he knew this was his time to perform
A couple months later his mum gave him a teary drunken hug when he told her: “I scraped into sixth form”

That was the start of so many great things, because it was there Garry met Elaine
To get her attention he’d roll me pensively against his lips to make him look mysterious, which felt pretty lame
But it worked, and soon we were writing her romantic letters received to great acclaim
Garry was falling in love for the first time – and the best part? She felt exactly the same

After sixth form Garry knew it was time to fly the nest
But he worried about leaving behind his mum, who was even more of a mess
She said she wanted him to leave this dump and do his very best
So me, him and Elaine moved to the city and signed for the cheapest flat they could find to let

It turned out to the best decision Garry ever made
Over the next few years he got good at that career game he played
Thankful, he was, for his humble background, which gave him the grit to take on new challenges unafraid
But we still sent concerned letters back home to mum, with stamped addressed envelopes for her to reply – the postage prepaid

Meanwhile, things between Garry and Elaine were going very well indeed
We spent some lunchbreaks and meetings doodling images of her, which is about as loved up as you can be
They were still head over heels, and between you and me
I wasn’t all that surprised when he got down on one knee

The suit tailor and I wrote down Garry’s chest, waist and leg measurements as the Big Day drew near
My proudest moment was signing the marriage certificate – we were so excited the ink was accidentally smeared
For some reason it was then that Garry’s mum started acting all weird
She stayed for the rest of the wedding reception but by the evening do she’d disappeared

It’s fair to say that over the next few years things weren’t as fun, free and wild
Garry and Elaine wanted a house, so endless lists of budgets and bills needed to be compiled
Work was pretty tough for Garry too, but for the first time in ages he smiled
When he got home at 10pm on a Friday and Elaine said she was expecting a child

They were living the dream with their new country home and beautiful young daughter Anna
Who after much debate had been named after Garry’s mum – her nanna
In the family Garry took on more of a parent role, while Elaine was very much the planner
Our favourite times were when we helped Anna perfect her handwriting and pen heartfelt letters to Santa

Garry was determined to give Anna the childhood he’d never had
He opened her eyes to the world and really was the best kind of dad
Then one day in the middle of winter, his mum called up sounding lost, troubled and sad
So Garry thought he’d cheer her up by taking the family to see her, but Elaine refused and that’s when things turned bad

He went alone, stayed for two nights, and when he returned his life had changed beyond recognition
Elaine and Anna had gone and on the table was a divorce petition
Elaine had used me to sign it along with a letter explaining her decision
She said Garry’s mum was to blame for creating a growing division

Garry hit rock bottom the day he moved out of their family home in the hills
It happened when we were writing down the meter readings to pay the final bills
He felt a strong surge of sadness and a pain that more than just hurt – it killed
From that day on his first glass of water on a morning was accompanied by a pill

Garry moved into a two-up, two-down, and couldn’t help feeling bitter
We’d write angry notes to neighbours about bad parking, stolen wheelie bins and litter
Even when Anna came to visit, Garry couldn’t stop talking about the way things were
It just made his daughter think her parents had it so much better before her

Things got worse when Garry’s mum was suddenly rushed to hospital
Liver poisoning it was – and everything the doctors could do was too late, too little
For the funeral we wrote an emotional speech, but his heart felt cold as metal
But he started to feel human again right after the ceremony when the dust began to settle

When Garry walked through his front door that night he opened some rum and poured a glass
He offered some to Anna, but she said: “no thanks, I think I’ll pass”
There was no TV in the house so we did a crossword – a hard one that put us all to task
Whenever we filled in a word it felt like the good old days when we’d write together in all those years past

Garry felt like a different man when he rose the next morning
A dark cloud had lifted and his spirits were warming
Over a strong coffee we started writing a poem of his life and realised this was our calling
When Anna woke up he read it to her and couldn’t stop his tears from falling

As she got up to give him a hug, she knocked me off the table and I smashed on the floor
They threw me into the trash and my final days were spent spooning a rotting apple core
There was no emotion when Garry realised I’d gone – he just got another pen out of the drawer
Don’t worry, I’m so disposable I’ve learned to expect nothing more

There are billions of pens just like me, so it’s fine if you get rid without saying goodbye
Just remember that we’ll spend some big moments together – happy or sad, laugh or cry
See, the sun may rise then set and people are born then die
But us pens remain mighty forever, and our ink will never run dry.

———

Click here for more Poetry

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

The best stories you find are the ones that find you: the #foundfiction launch party

By staging a night of anonymously co-written stories, art-poetry crossover performance and insightful talks within the gorgeous interior of the Leeds Library, #foundfiction has made a strong bid to be part of the city's literary history - and future. Here we reflect on the night's highlights, the journey to the launch and the project itself.

'Smile, it might never happen.'

'Live every day like it's your last.'

'Be true to yourself.'

Many of us have words to live by - particular phrases that define who we are and guide how we handle life's curveballs.

For #foundfiction it's 'the best stories you find are the ones that find you'. This is the idea that literature is about a reader taking the outstretched hand of a writer they might never meet, and making a powerful bond through a story they didn't know they were looking for.

The concept behind #foundfiction is very simple. Writers send us their stories, which we print out, fold into envelopes marked 'READ ME', and leave in public spaces for someone to find. To date, around 100 stories have been found and shared on social media - throughout the UK and Europe, and as far away as the US, Canada and Australia. We've also published Polish stories to be distributed in Poland.

After initially starting out as a means by which one shy writer could get his work anonymously read by others, we now publish work by around 30 authors.

In July 2017 we applied for a grant from Leeds Inspired, which funds many arts projects, venues and organisations across the city. As part of our application we proposed to stage a launch event that would encourage Leeds' writers, readers and lovers of literature to join the growing #foundfiction community and help take the project to the next level.

We were awarded the grant in October 2017 - and immediately got to work planning a launch event that would capture the imagination of the city.
 

Countdown to launch

Booking a venue was our first step. We were spoilt for choice, with cool bars and quirky spaces adorning every street in Leeds. But as soon as we entered the Leeds Library to discuss hiring its New Room for the night, our decision was made.

 

 

 

As well as being a beautiful space that was very relevant to #foundfiction, the Leeds Library was celebrating its 250th anniversary - and looking to add to its 2018 programme of events.

Next we focused on creating a striking visual design for promo. Working with dogeatcog, we produced posters and flyers to distribute around Leeds, bookmarks to hand out on the night, and a gif to share online.

We also had a video made by Ben Porter, of Hewitt & Walker, to share on social media.
 

 

But we wanted to do something different to promote the launch party. Something specifically related to #foundfiction and the associated concepts of serendipity, anonymity and inspiration that are key to the project.

We bought a cheap desk, put a piece of paper on it, and encouraged members of the public to co-write a story by adding one line at a time. The #foundfiction writing desk was born. We took it on a tour of Leeds, leaving it unmanned in:

Hyde Park...

Chapel Allerton...

...and outside the Leeds Library on Commercial Street.

Sure enough, passers by got involved, co-writing two short stories. We thought it was amazing that people were evidently keen to get creative with others they probably didn't know, in a place they were likely just passing through, for a project they'd almost certainly never heard about.

The main event

The #foundfiction launch party was a night of talks, stories, film and live art. Among the presenters on the night were:

• Carl Hutton, chief executive of the Leeds Library, who spoke about the venue's 250th anniversary programme
• Lewis King, writer and presenter, who talked about how graffiti he'd captured in Leeds related to the concept of street art and serendipitous discovery
• Owen Clements, co-founder of Open Letters, who discussed the personal significance of letter-writing as an art form

We heard from Marta Polap, from Katowice in Poland, and LA-based Sol Armada, both of whom recorded video messages about how #foundfiction has touched their lives and how they've been supporting the project in their respective countries.

We also had three of the area's best spoken word poets - Rose Drew, Phil Pearce and Colleen Pilkenton - take part in a unique creative experiment. As the poets performed their work on stage, artist Jay Sillence drew a visual interpretation of the poems on the screen behind them - illustrating that storytelling transcends artistic formats.
 

Finally, we invited attendees to co-write a story by passing a notepad around the audience - producing a similar result to the #foundfiction writing desk we'd toured around Leeds.
 

Looking ahead

 

All photos by Sarah Whitehouse

It's always been our goal to grow #foundfiction. Ultimately, if every major city across the world had the scale of a following we have in Leeds, we'd be making a considerable impact on the way people publish and consume short fiction. Like Airbnb, Uber and Deliveroo have disrupted their respective industries, we could one day be doing the same in publishing. If we're ever going to get there, we need more writers, more distributors, and more support. We've come a long way in a few short months, so it's possible. If you want to be part of helping us get there, get involved.

In the short term, the #foundfiction writing desk will be back on 3 June at the Northern Short Story Festival. And keep your eyes out for another event this year.

#foundfiction is your project too. Keep writing, keep sharing and keep in touch.

Twitter: @fictionfound

Facebook: foundfiction

Instagram: found_fiction
 

———

Click here for more Poetry

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

 

Open Letters podcast

I sat down with Owen Clements (founder of Open Letters) to chat about all things writing, inspiration and #foundfiction. It was recorded for the Open Letters podcast.

Click the image below to listen.

———

Click here for more Prose

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

Festival review: Latitude 2012

Published by theartsdesk

Thursday 12th – Sunday 15th July 2012
Henham Park, Suffolk, UK


As a giggling toddler posed for a photograph next to a pink sheep, a man in a Barbour jacket moaned about losing his garlic-crusher. On the lake, smitten newlyweds enjoyed a gondola ride, while, somewhere else, an elderly couple watched a show so moving it made them cry.

Yes, this could only have happened in one place – the leafy surroundings of Henham Park, near Southwold in Suffolk, at Latitude Festival.

The arts event has just enjoyed its seventh July, and retains a vibrant cultural miscellany. In fact, 750 music, theatre, art, comedy, cabaret, poetry, politics, dance, literature and everything-in-between acts appeared across more than a dozen stages this time around. ‘It’s like the Edinburgh Fringe, but in a field,’ some spectacled reveller enthused, gesturing with a rolled-up broadsheet, as if to further illustrate this point.

Talking of newspapers, this year’s controversy was undoubtedly the introduction of the i Arena (formerly the Sunrise Arena). The change was only in name, of course, affecting neither the general feel of this smaller, more intimate musical stage, nor the variety of bands performing on it. But symbolism is important to some Latitude purists, who bemoan further advances toward – dare I say it – the mainstream.

With no fewer than eight corporate sponsors, and now priced at £175 a weekend ticket, the festival continues to develop in spite of their tuts and sighs. Though, to be honest, I can think of far greater crimes committed that weekend (more on those later), and anyway, isn’t Latitude still ‘more than just a music festival’?

One of the first acts to answer that with a defiant ‘yes’ was Theatre503, which staged new play ‘Billy Chickens Is A Psychopath Superstar’ on Thursday evening. Visceral, satirical and exasperatingly physical, the story of the piece surrounded a charismatic but homicidally unstable cockney gobshite who somehow becomes the media’s flavour of the month.

'Billy Chickens Is A Psychopath Superstar' by Theatre503

The Theatre Arena now stands significantly taller and wider than its smaller, quainter predecessor, where you could relish the finest pleasure in the world – watching a piece of drama with the sound of rain pounding on the canvas above your head.

You might have said I got what I asked for when, that night, I returned to my tent and was forced to appreciate the sound of rain on canvas all night long. Indeed, Suffolk’s sky water inspired a survival-like mentality that was novel to us optimists – with apparently inadequate tenting that required an inner lining t-shirts, loo roll and newspaper to keep the water out – who used it as an opportunity to relive our days at scouts.

After suffering a lack of sleep because of these heroics that would have made Captain Scott proud, I felt a little hazy on Friday afternoon, and so decided to give my brain a workout by going to see an interview with Siri Hustvedt at the Literary Arena. Sure enough, watching the acclaimed novelist, essayist and poet shoot the breeze with Suzi Feay about art, humanity and psychology just about did the job. Bemusingly, though, the tent was only half-filled. I assumed that such academic, intellectual and existential discussions were the things most ‘Latte-tuders’ dreamed of – though perhaps this particular event had simply been overlooked by those who’d been distracted by the other 332 pages in the festival programme.

Another show in danger of getting lost in this bulky text was Battersea Arts Centre’s ingenious ‘Paper Cinema’s Odyssey’. In something of a first for myself and much of the audience, Homer’s cornerstone of literature was told in inventive fashion with a projector, a couple of puppeteers, four musicians and a bunch of paper cut-outs. It was a truly magical 60 minutes, after which I left my seat feeling rather uplifted.

'Paper Cinema's Odyssey' by Battersea Arts Centre

And some performances were not listed in the programme at all. These included many of the shenanigans in the Mess Tent – out in the Faraway Forest – the smallest venue on site. One of its acts was a corset-clad, loud-mouthed Aussie gal, who showed off some of her circus skills (or something) to a crowd of about 30. She called herself Lilikoi Kaos, and I’ll never forget those bawdy, brash but brilliant ten minutes we shared on Saturday evening.

Another equally memorable ten minutes occurred at midnight on the Writer’s Bridge. I say ten minutes – it could have been longer, or shorter, because time isn’t really of the essence when you’re watching a trapeze artist being carried majestically across the lake by a balloon that changes colour. You’re right, it sounds achingly pretentious when recounted, but did inspire true wonder at the time. ‘Is this really happening?’ expressions were worn by many who were simply incapacitated in bedazzlement as they witnessed – I’ll say it again – a trapeze artist being carried majestically across the lake by a balloon that changed colour. I had some strange dreams that night.

Saturday in the Obelisk Arena, and many would argue the entire festival, belonged to Elbow. Topping the bill on the main stage, these gentle alternative rockers with their soaring, anthemic songs, were the perfect star attraction. Everything an onlooker could want from a headliner was present in the set: stunning backdrops, constantly changing images of the performance, good-natured banter with the crowd and, above all, great songs spanning their impressive back catalogue.

If you’ve been visiting Latitude Festival for a number of years, one arresting observation that never escapes you is how busy it has become. For a third consecutive year, the capacity has remained at 35,000 – a reasonable level for a medium-sized festival, you might think, yet still three times what it was in 2006.

Many of the faces behind this statistic are young ones. Teenagers who, partying in their gaggles of 15 or 20, you’d expect to be attracted to somewhere a bit more lively – like Leeds/Reading Festival, maybe. Put another way, at Latitude, you’re now more likely to meet a red-eyed lad called Dekky spilling Tuborg over himself than you are a fortysomething chap called Oliver eating flafel – contrary to popular opinion of this ‘middle-class festival’.

Unsurprisingly, I didn’t see a soul under 25 in the Film & Music Arena on Friday, where avant-pop violinist Hahn-Bin took to the stage to deliver a typically flamboyant and effortlessly perfect performance presented by the Royal Albert Hall.

He was followed by a trio of darkly comic gems from the London Short Film Festival. ‘Friend Request Pending’, the first, was about two elderly women with an alarming Facebook obsession. A psychotic London copper’s shift quickly descended into nightmarish mayhem after he mistakenly took a hard drug in ‘Disappoint You’, while ‘Long Distance Information’ – exploring familial fragmentation with a tale about a son who accidentally calls the wrong father, but still manages to communicate just as well as the pair fail to realise they aren’t related – completed the set.

'Disappoint You' short film

A good few clusters of little people, however, could be found linking arms as they weaved in and out of a full house in the Word Arena, where pop icon Lana Del Rey and a string quartet performed an set of epic singles on Friday. Wearing a white dress and taking delicate drags from a cigarette – at a guess, a Lucky Strike – in between songs, the bewitching singer-songwriter crooned her way through hits like Blue Jeans, Video Games and National Anthem. And yet she did nothing to suggest that she, and her music, isn't simply a beautiful, but somehow empty, nothing.

Even the performers at Latitude are getting younger. Who could forget Harry Baker, the 20-year-old rapper-turned-poet who had his audience in stitches with a dessert-themed reworking of Ed Sheeran’s single ‘The A Team’?

But there was absolutely no doubt as to who owned the Poetry Arena that weekend. Weaving impassioned stories and sound advice into jaw-dropping rhymes, Scroobius Pip appeared at home in front of the thousands who’d gathered to see him on Saturday night. People were spilling out of the tent, and into the neighbouring food queues, as the Essex wordsmith remarked: ‘This is the largest spoken word crowd I’ve ever seen.’

Carrying a healthy sense of humour outside of his melancholic verse, Pip joked about fans illegally downloading his self-released first album ‘No Commercial Breaks’, and how, aware of this, he had created a ‘guilt button’ on his website for them to pay up. Suddenly, the stage was showered with flying coins and notes, which, although disbelieving, he dutifully collected. ‘People shouldn’t throw money at me when I’m on stage, because it distracts me and then ruins the show for you guys,’ he said, bending down to pick up another quid.

'A Letter from God to Man' by Scroobius Pip

I think everyone would agree he was worth every penny, and his mesmerising set ended with a full two minutes of applause, before the awe-filled crowd reluctantly dispersed – hopeful of an encore.

If I hadn’t made a very late call on packing my wellies, and was stuck with my blue Converse all weekend, then I’d have missed this. Because I would have never left my tent. The campsite sludge squelched with every blasted step, and there was a perpetual need for woodchip – even when things finally brightened up on Sunday.

I think Lang Lang had something to do with the arrival of blue skies. They came at around the same time he headlined the Waterfront Stage, where crowds had gathered on both sides of the lake, and across the Writer’s Bridge, to catch a glimpse of the classical pianist. They witnessed a flawless performance, including pieces by Schubert and Chopin, that was every bit as elegant as Lang Lang’s entrance – via gondola.

So, those are my highlights – bar one. Thrash metal and anti-Conservative sentiments, anyone? Yes, #Torycore, in the Literary Salon, involved a woman screaming: ‘A HEALTHY AND FLEXIBLE ECONOMY’, and other short excerpts from George Osborne’s speeches as Chancellor, ironically of course, as some dude played power cords really, really loud. ‘And now,’ she said, very calmly, when that bit was over, ‘I’m going to read out a list of the Lords who voted for the Health and Social Care Bill, and their links to the private healthcare sector’. Then she erupted again.

After that ordeal, I rather conveniently concluded that the contrast between Lang Lang and #Torycore appeared to describe the sheer spectrum of cultural plurality that Latitude continues to represent. It remains remarkable, miraculous even, how arts followers of radically different persuasions are squeezing – and squeeze they did – through the same entrance gates to come to this place, year after year.

Latitude hasn’t become so inflated that it’s not still an artsy, lefty, intellectual event that continues to attract artists, lefties and intellectuals from across this fair land. But, as the swathes of sloshed young people demonstrated this year, not exclusively.

Arts preview: Kieran Hurley: BEATS @ The Arches, Glasgow AND Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Published by METRO

Tonight (18 April) until Sunday (22 April), Wed/Fri/Sat 9pm, Thur 7pm, Sun 2pm, £11 (concessions £8), The Arches, Glasgow. Tel: 0141 565 1000. www.thearches.co.uk

AND next Wednesday (25 April) until next Saturday (28 April), Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh. Tel: 0131 228 1404/226 2666. www.traverse.co.uk


We weren’t all ravers in the early 1990s. Hell, I was still pretty wobbly on my feet when acid house was emerging – so I’m way too young to recall how a controversial piece of legislation impacted this generation.

The Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994 gave police the power to disperse public gatherings where amplified music ‘characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats’ was played. In short, it made raves illegal.

Tonight, a new monologue piece – written and performed by Kieran Hurley with Arches resident DJ Johnny Whoop – focuses on this clampdown and explores the energy of young crowds.

Part of The Arches’ Behaviour festival that finishes next weekend, Beats enhances our collective memory of this celebrated era through storytelling and techno, and is an absolute must for anyone who’s passionate about music.

Spoken Word preview: Henry Rollins @ Royal Concert Halls, Glasgow

Published by METRO

Friday (13 January), 7.30pm, £18.50, Royal Concert Halls, Glasgow. Tel: 0141 353 8000. www.glasgowconcerthalls.com

So, you ask me, who’s this Henry Rollins fellow? Well, he first found the spotlight when he fronted the hardcore punk band Black Flag in the 1980s. But since then, he’s authored a few books, acquired an array of film and television credits, and become an outspoken political activist. He’s busy with a lot of different stuff, basically.

But it’s all about his spoken word this Friday. Yes, Rollins’s greatly varied one-man shows – in which he shares his sharp perspective and quirky anecdotes – are doing the rounds in Glasgow.

And if there was any doubting this spirited performer’s energy levels in his 50th year – he’s currently knee-deep in a mammoth world tour of North America, Europe and Australasia.

The American may have used many art forms to channel his insatiable imagination over the years, but his humanity shines on the spoken word stage as it does nowhere else. For a jack of all trades, he’s the undisputed master of this one.

A short review of Latitude Festival 2008

Published by Qmunicate

Stretching my legs on yet another local East Anglian platform – it was my fourth change since York – I had the feeling that giving Latitude the nod over a closer Leeds option was already a regrettable decision.

Not so. This year – its third birthday – played host to headliners Interpol, Sigur Ros and Franz Ferdinand… but Latitude is of course “more than just a music festival” as it claims to be, with the Cabaret, Literary, Poetry and Theatre tents creating a vibrant fusion of the arts. In many ways it was like the Fringe, but set in the leafy Suffolk countryside.

The lineups featured both established and upcoming acts across the various stages, attracting fans of culture in all its diversity. It seemed remarkable that break-dancing fans, Bill Bailey lovers and Radio 4 listeners had all squeezed through the same entrance gates, prompting the Independent on Sunday to review that “One day, all festivals will be like this.”