Slam 'n Me
I'll admit it. I had preconceived notions about Slam.
The people -- strange looking folks with wild eyes, bizarre hair and thrift shop duds. The kind of people to avoid, never date and never, ever bring home.
The poetry -- disjointed, obscene, no vanilla sex and confrontational political rants guaranteed to get you a thick file with the FBI.
The places -- smoke filled bars on the waterfront, or the land-locked equivalent. A whiff of something herbal in the air, menus with tofu and couscous, uncomfortable chairs and bad lighting.
Slam may not go over well in Richmond, Virginia, the city that wishes it were in England but can't forget the War of Northern Aggression (the Civil War to you). With great trepidation and not a little cynicism, I prepared for my and Richmond's first Slam event.
Up front, I should tell you there is plenty of poetry in the city where Edgar Allan Poe's mother is buried. We have regular readings, poetry jazz groups and a museum series that draws the top international poets. Poetry books sell well, and the local universities have excellent creative writing departments. We are nothing if not civilized.
So, on Friday, January 14th, Barksdale Theater (formerly a tavern on the Highway 1 to DC, known for bedding famous folks in colonial days and fabulous regional theater today) hosted a Slam. The theater has recently moved to a mall just this side of the city limits, bringing a cozy, woodgrain atmosphere & better bathrooms but a house that is dark between productions. Randy Strawderman, executive director, wanted to bring in a younger crowd and keep the lights on between shows.
Enter Clay McLeod and his friend Keystone, Robert Elstein from Brooklyn, NY, on a mission. Seniors at Sarah Lawrence, Clay is a well-known local performance artist, more storyteller than poet, who makes it a habit to go into schools and art galleries with his peculiar and wonderful talent. Keystone is a New York slam master with some pretty high-faluting pals in the biz.
They spent a week preparing the ground, going to schools, contacting newspapers, getting the word out. At the high school where I teach, they did a mini-slam on Friday afternoon, handing out cards for scoring and revving up the kids with fast wordplay, constant motion and poetry that was right-now-in-your-face. The scoring was uneven but fun, and the poem that made the teachers squirm the most won -- no surprises there.
Over one hundred people turned out to pay three to five bucks for tickets. Some had been to slams in other cities, some saw a little bit on 60 Minutes, but most just came for the ride, ready for anything, poems clutched in ink-stained fists. There were a lot of familiar faces.
I wore my poetry duds, the usual black. Eight of my students attended in various outrageous states of dress -- a velour top hat and faux leopard coat grabbing the “oh yeah” prize from the rest of the crowd. There were suits, jeans, all manner of Friday night wardrobe, people clumped and chatted, edging the dance floor stage outside of the main theater. The lighting was subdued and the cash bar sold spirits, coffee, sodas and candy bars.
The most amusing before-show entertainment was eyeing the Barksdale volunteers, a dedicated bald and blue-hair brigade, as they looked at what the promise of poetry drew to the place. These people had weathered the stage show Rocky Horror in the summer, a wonderful production that was underattended by the Richmond subscriber base (the aforementioned B & B brigade) but loved by the kids, many of whom were here tonight.
It was a tough crowd. We weren't sure how to behave: “Do we clap and shout now? What's all this about voting? Is that really necessary? If I vote can I read? Get this thing started, I want to read my poetry!!”
As a teacher and performance poet, I wanted to get up there and do the prelims myself, but I was good and stayed still. Twenty-two people had signed slips of paper and put them in a hat. Mike-grabbers all, we were anxious and a little crazy when Keystone told us only twelve could participate. I heard the mumblings. We were accustomed to getting our shot, even if we ran late. We were competitive, not big gamblers.
He started drawing names. I knew most of them. I think there may have been ballot stuffing -- a fair number came from one particular group -- but one of my students got a shot, so I relaxed, both relieved and irritated when I didn't make the cut. It was a “well, why did I bother shaving my legs?” moment.
Before we started officially, we did a practice set. Keystone has some fine stuff. He is clearly accustomed to performing, not quite as adept at crowd control. Being a great MC is a skill that needs time to grow; he's on the right path. The voting took too long to get out of the way. Someone behind me said “if we could get rid of the scoring crap, all of us could read,” spoken as a true poet who didn't get picked.
The revelation was -- can you imagine? -- poets are lousy mathematicians.
The first reader, a Professor Nabi, was tattooed and thin, and had his rant memorized. My limited experience told me he was a true slammer. A couple of women read from chapbooks, a ten-year-old did a monologue. (What? Yeah, that's what I said, but who's gonna chase out a kid?) A formal guy read a long thing about a local serial killer, the same character as in Patricia Cornwell's first mystery, Post-Mortem. I'd heard some of the poems elsewhere, I expected more confrontation and edge, but Keystone and Clay kept our interest with a little patter going in between.
My student bombed like stinky cheese at a wedding, he was so nervous, but I was proud of the effort. He came in dead last in the voting. He brags about it now.
Three of the poets blew me away. They scored well, which ruined my suspicion of the process. But the process almost did in the poetry. It was time consuming and silly -- that's my opinion. It takes a pretty dull jack not to have a clue about what goes over well and what gets attention, but maybe I have an attitude because I really wanted to read.
We had a break before the second round, the “play-offs.” Not being experienced slammers, some of the finalists had only one poem with them. (I always carry at least a hundred, but I'm a blatant overachiever.) The self-styled professor won because he was clearly the best.
We had a short break and the remaining poets read one each -- another mixed bag but fun. I was disappointed to see about half the people leave, including the big crowd containing the most readers, but I've seen that before around here. It's rude but whaddaya gonna do? Lock the doors?
I'm hoping to get to a slam in Baltimore next month, where the audience knows the ropes -- that should help. Clay and Keystone are planning another event for spring break, but I called the theater today to get a date and the woman who answered had no clue about poetry, much less a slam.
When I get the date, I'll post it to the Museletter. If you're anywhere near here, come on and see!
Want to share your opinion on slam poetry? Come join the discussion in the About Poetry Forum.
Shann Palmer is a high school chorus & creative writing teacher in Richmond, Virginia, a performance poet (she works with Villanelle, a jazz poetry group), editor of La Petite Zine at webdelsol & the Virginia/District of Columbia correspondent for the About Poetry Museletter. You can read many of her poems on the Net:
Eclectica Magazine's August 1997 issue.
