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Category Archives: My Favourite Poets

The Gingerlight/Jeremy Reed at Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin, May 2011

06 Monday Jun 2011

Posted by patrickmartinthewriter in My Favourite Poets, Review

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Frankson, Gingerlight, Jeremy Reed, Marc Almond, poetry


The Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin (I’m sure there’s an oxymoron in there somewhere) is in the throes of celebrating its 20th anniversary. One of the events that grabbed my attention was the performance of The Gingerlight. The Gingerlight are the fusion of London poet Jeremy Reed and his electronic soundscape collaborative partner The Itchy Ear. Together, they form The Gingerlight

I first encountered The Gingerlight when they supported Marc Almond in Wilton’s Music Hall in London (I refer honourable members to an earlier blog posting) and was extremely impressed by the tripartite configuration of a poetry, so dripping in visual imagery that you feel the words fall from Mr Reed’s mouth like diamonds to the floor ; the sophisticated and unnervingly clever electronic arrangements and of course, the filmic over head projections depicting amongst other elements, smartly spliced excerpts from  the seminal Armenian movie, The Colour of Pomegranates.

Jeremy read mostly from his latest work,  Picadilly Bongo. Jeremy was born in the Channel Islands but Soho, London was his poetic blooding as an early adult. He has written many works of poetry, narrative fiction and biography and I will explore these works in more depth at a later date.

The performance space was like a temple, a cathedral, a synagogue, mosque or any other Kasbah of praise, secular or spiritual. Jeremy, at the front, at the altar, giving himself in an act of sacrifice, each recitation, each reading of his kabalesque curlesque, image-quantic poetry, an exposition, a revelation, an exposure of himself.

Reading one’s work is like stripping in a room of the blind. They only hear the words and may not understand them but the poet leaves him or herself vulnerable to the possibility that there may be that  one pair of unknown, invisible eyes lurking somewhere behind the curtains, behind the crack in the wall.

There lies the vulnerability of the poet in performance.

Striking, resplendent in his black beret on a good head of Bowie/Bon Jovi-esque hair, eyeliner and diamonte  stone studded crucifix broach on lapels of a suit jacket commandeered to accompany dark rock-star jeans, the congregation was a strange brew of the dyed in the wool types who  sat at the front, squatting, seeing Jeremy as we figuratively see him, above us, far from us like an angel who stands on a blue  and orange cloud that may have flown in from an alien world, is only inches from our grasp but how we didn’t want to grasp in case touching the Magi kills the magic itself.

Nifty Jim was the first track, one I’m very familiar with from the wonders of Youtube. The Thin Thief of Hearts continued with Closer. The other parts of the audience, the ones who were tentative were drawn in. This was their America, their discovery, the one I made in London last March. One’s ship can  first set upon the shore but only once. There were others who had access all area tickets who didn’t know what they were coming to see never mind whom. They responded warmly and appreciatively yet I wonder how they first reacted in their close encounter with this silver cigar shaped flying saucer of a poet. In the end, no matter the shape, we climb aboard if we feel the urge to fly.

Poetry, to me, is the like freezing a vision of the world or a feeling, scraping it and moulding it into a different shape but still retaining the essence of the original. Poetry may be oblique or obvious but its inner truth cannot be made disappear completely. The poet may smelt the plate into liquid ore and cool it with fresh words and hammer it into a different shape, a bowl, an ear-ring, a spear or a necklace even but the innate immutable truth of the metal remains forever the same.

Jeremy shared his truth with us, with all our truths, like all poets do. Each brushing of a truth against another enhances both, never diminishes. The deeper we dive into the sea of meaning, the more we find it around us for there is never a shipwreck of glittering meanings. The depth is meaning in itself. It’s a rueful day when you touch that ocean floor for where else is there to venture but sideways. There is no floor but only the one you have laid down to greet you before you leap off that diving board of faith.

Marc Almond and Jeremy Reed at Wilton’s Music Hall, London : March 12th 2011

01 Wednesday Jun 2011

Posted by patrickmartinthewriter in My Favourite Poets, Review

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Jeremy Reed, Marc Almond, Martin J Frankson, review, Wilton's Music Hall


We snaked our way in the dark and dim, winding and wet laneways and alleys from Tower Hill tube station, up past St Katherine’s Dock and down the infamous Cable Street and then down Grace’s Alley to reach our destination. The streets were desolate except for a couple of guys who shouted across the road

‘Are you from round here’?

Well I wasn’t but I wished I was so I said something like ‘No but can I help?’

“Do you know where Wilton’s is?”

I smiled and replied ‘Marc Almond?”

Icebreaker or what!

That warm feeling of finding fellow traveller rushed back to all of us and the four of us all walked together to Wilton’s, floating on our verbal exchanges of mutual fandom and admiration for, who is, Britain’s and even arguably, the world’s greatest living torch singer.

We reached Wilton’s Music Hall. Have you ever seen the movie the Queen of the Damned, the movie that a hybrid of the Anne Rice novels The Vampire Lestat and Queen of the Damned itself? Remember the vampire bar, the Admiral’s Arms that was set in a very lonely derelict corner of the decaying docklands? Well, that’s exactly the setting and mood of Wilton’s Music Hall (http://www.wiltons.org.uk). It really is in the arse of nowhere but like all gems, best found and never forgotten when found in the junkyard and not the jewellers. The music hall is on the site of a Victorian sailor’s pub and the interior put me in mind of a derelict church – with a bar.
Supporting Marc Almond was the wonderful poet Jeremy Reed (http://www.jeremyreed.co.uk) who performed with his trip-hop accompaniment/partner The Ginger Light. I had never seen or heard such an imaginative manner of the performance and portrayal of poetry – and I have been to quite a few poetry evenings let me tell you but for some reason, I can’t actually remember any of them. This is something I doubt I’d ever say about Jeremy Reed however. Born in Jersey and formerly an acolyte and under the patronage of Francis Bacon no less than, he has been described as the David Bowie of the poetry world. A former winner of the Somerset Maugham Prize for Poetry, he has written over 40 books of poetry and literary criticism. He cut a dash on stage, black beret, and red scarf and every so often would scatter silver glitter over his head like confetti. The music would not have been out of place in a Future Sound of London CD. It was atmospheric and sending and was set to the wonderful Soho poem Nifty Jim.

A treasure of a cultural find and Jeremy Reed is certainly a seam of culture I will be mining and seeking out for a long time to come.

And then the main act, Marc Almond himself. The audience, a veritable mixture of Gutterhearts and Cellmates (a true fan-gang never dies, we merely lie in wait for the next gig), trendies, Goths, untrendies and ultrafashionable peacocks gave Mr Almond a rapturous reception. The set was an acoustic affair, piano, guitar, harp (played by the wonderful Baby D, ex Anthony and the Johnsons ) of Marc’s solo work plus a few well chosen covers too. Very few if any of the songs on the set list would be that well known but only to aficionados but aficionados we all were. No Tainted Love in sight but we didn’t mind. I won’t bore you with song titles of songs that you may not know. Sometimes the fourth wall was broken by Marc coming down from the stage and performing up and down the aisles. He did say that he felt overwhelmed by the acute reverence he was getting from the audience hence the assuaging of heavy vibes by being physically present in the midst of said worshippers.

God, if you are reading my blog, take note. It worked wonders for Marc Almond.

What really electrified the audience was Marc’s acappellas of self penned Soho songs that sounded almost like folk songs. In fact, I did think they were folk songs but the lyrics belied that illusion. Lyrics of ‘Billy Fury’ and ‘Jukeboxes’ are not the stuff of Fairport Convention. I later found out that these were written and recorded only recently and are only available on CD as part of Jeremy Reed’s poetry anthology Piccadilly Bongo. Songs such as Eros and Eye, Soho so Long brought shivers to many a timber in the audience’s spines.

The evening ended with a standing ovation and an encore of the seminal Marc Bolan classic Hot Love which went down like a firestorm.

An amazing, enigmatic, beautiful, imagination-firing evening of delight and discovery. The whole evening lasted over 3 hours and I wanted every second to flow like frozen treacle. I was sorry that it ended but the art, in combination with the venue was a potent fusion ; an alloy of art itself.

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