Recently went to an open mic night with a friend, who’d put together a couple of tracks with his son and wanted to ‘air’ them … his words, not mine.
It was interesting, I have to admit, but also, it was ‘odd’. I didn’t allow him the word weird, because weird can be good too, and even head-twisting cool.
This wasn’t the first open mic night I’ve been to, nor the only venue.
But, I have to say, even after more of these evenings than I care to mention, so far, all of them seem to pan out in a similar fashion. They’re all ‘odd’.
There’s a pub, a club, a hall, a venue, a space … you know the kind of thing.
There are individuals wanting to do their thing, and there are bands wanting to do their thing … you know that kind of thing too.
There should be an audience …
I’ve seen some good stuff over the years. I’ve seen some beautiful people doing good stuff. I’ve seen some beautiful people doing to their good stuff to other people, and then, I’ve seen those good people doing their good stuff, right back at them. Those were even good nights too!
I’ve seen bad too. Don’t get me wrong here.
There should always be an audience …
A man singing about being dumped, to other men waiting to sing about being dumped, to women, singing about being dumped, or dumping men, who were so wet they had to dump the buggers … well, that whole lonely life dumping cycle kinda gets to wear on ye.
There’s talent there no doubt, but something about the whole shebang is all wrong.
For a start, the setting’s only suited to those crying about being dumped. Why the fuck is that? It’s like a hidey-hole for down-in-the-dumps dumped dudes.
This ain’t my scene, in that kinda possessive posse way. I’m kinda too old for the posse game. I don’t do, or play music. I like music, don’t get me wrong, and musicians too, when I can stay awake, or get them off talking about music, or picking out two second samples from tracks that float their boats … I thought that little foible had died with vinyl, but how wrong I was about both.
These new open mic heroes, well, it seems to me they just upload their outpourings to iTunes, and spread the half-baked misery of comparative articulated futility they’re feeling, desperately hoping someone finds it poignant, meaningful, connecting, anything … or just finds it, perhaps. And then buys it, of course.
Is that what the writers’ forums on twitter are too? Is that what the multitude of self-publications are doing? Is this the e-book revolution? Writers writing to other writers about writing, and how their writing is all about the beauty of writing, and about how their need to write overrides all other needs? I write to write what I write knowing that what I write I must write, in order to be a writer … a sort of poor man’s Sam, with the hope someone takes it seriously?
Are we talking in shit circles, or talking shit circles?
Am I missing something? There’s gotta be more than this self-promo, plagiarised paraphrasing, smart-ass, bigging-me-own-ass-up, bullshit!
Is anybody just reading good fucking books by authors who give, or gave a damn, and know how to ask questions, or give answers, when telling stories about why, and what the fuck we’re doing here?
Am I the only one at the open mic night who wonders this shit?
The shower tonight, were utter crap btw.