Slam Grows Up as it Blows Up:
Report from the Austin National Poetry Slam

Dateline: 8/25/98

The 9th Annual National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas was a treat and a tribute, a coming of age and a Headbanger’s Ball. Austin, Texas proved a perfect site for poetry as bloodsport -- the controversies that had marked the past few years’ Nationals were for the most part put to rest (troublemaker Taylor Mali, recusing himself from this year’s competition,

Austin. . . a perfect site for poetry as bloodsport

was on the Grudge Committee that helped resolve disputes). Austin po’ honchos Phil West and Mike Henry orchestrated a mix of venues, volunteers and open-attitude, constantly tweaking via cellular and footpower, into a rich, personal experience for all. And la jefa de

sofa-surf, Juliette Torrez, organized daytime po activities that featured a pret’ near continuous open mike, book parties for those what deserved ‘em, readings for segments of the Slam Family whose voices continue to battle to be heard, and a groaning board of a merch table celebrating the continuation of the mimeo tradition all the way to homemade CD’s: a fitting balance to the verbal stormfires that raged each evening as 45 4-poet teams, the most ever, word-warred their way to the Verb o’ Purgatorio that is Slam.

It all came down to Saturday night’s showdown at the gorgeous 1200-seat gilt vaudeville Paramount Theater. Patricia Smith, making her first return to public life after the Boston Globe scandal, announced that Molly Ivins and

Dan Rather were inside, and that tickets were being scalped outside, a first for US poetry. The Asylum Street Spankers, a 10-piece all-acoustic good-time band with Slam poet Wammo on washboard was a perfect opening act. Wammo, whose

Molly Ivins and Dan Rather inside

all-purpose response, “It’s a fuckin’ Slam, man!” became a mantra throughout the event, then introduced a line-up of poems to tune the ears and set the tone: yours truly opened up with “Why Slam Causes Pain and Is a Good Thing” which first appeared on this e-site, team Austin did

tickets being scalped outside, a first

a rockin’ feminist all-female trio, Glenis Redmond Sherer of Greenville, South Carolina, drew a standing O for her “Ode to Blackness,” Patricia Smith was welcomed home big time, Beau Sia and Amanda Nazario from team Manhattan did their “Beau is Gay”

duet which had drawn three protests the night before, Rev. Bart, fresh out of jail, did his classic version of “The Lord’s Prayer,” and team Albuquerque closed the opening with their all-team rendition of Matthew John Conley’s “Group Piece.”

El Poeta, the burly, masked Mexican wrestling icon for this year’s Nationals, growled with pride that the four teams in the finals crossed the country from Cleveland, Los Angeles, Dallas, to New York. Phil and

Mike hosted, Ginger Lee was Vanna on scores, Nave was a stalwart house manager, “Down with” Jeff McDaniel was the calibration poet, and the crowd went from higher to highest, finally boiling over into the eternal. New York jumped out on top and never lost the lead, despite final sensational poem threats from Jerry Quickley of LA, Clebo Rainey's

finally boiling over into the eternal

over-the-top from Dallas preachifyin’, and a penultimate rendition of “(Black/Redneck/Gay) Superhero” from Dallas that got the night’s only perfect score. But it was the hiphop political poetry of team New York that consistently drew the judge’s nod. Stephen Colman, Guy LeCharles Gonzalez, Alix Olson and Lynne Procope were the first team from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe to win at Nationals, a tribute to, among other dynamics, the fine coaching of Roger Bonair-Agard. The Cafe has had a long-standing tradition of sending new poets to Nationals each year. Bonair-Agard, who was on last year’s Nuyorican team, held with the old tradition of no repeats, had no group pieces, and sharpened each poet, with a keen eye on the clock.

At the mid-point, Marc Smith, Slam’s creator seeming relaxed and happy, and Patricia Smith took over the hosting reins from Phil West and Mike Henry to introduce the poets up for the Individual Championship. After a heart-wracking calibration from last year’s champ, Da Boogie Man from Cleveland, Derrick Brown, Brian Comiskey, Reggie Gibson, Cass King,

sear the judges' brains into a single lump of love

Patricia Johnson, Sara Holbrook did two poems each. But here too it was clear from the get, as it had been the night before at semifinals, that this was Reggie Gibson’s year. (He was the poet behind, and in, the movie love jones.) Representing Bellwood, a suburb of Chicago,

Gibson's bravura “Jimi Hendrix,” complete with vocal renditions of psychetectronic guitar solos and dance-moves into unknown territory, would sear the judges' brains into a single lump of love. In second place was Derrick Brown, from Laguna Beach, who was making his first appearance at Nationals. 25 years old, with a self-produced CD, Brown is the antithesis of Slam performer -- quiet, brainy, but hilarious, with odd gestures and a surrealist streak that’s not afraid of sentiment. Patricia Johnson read two poems to and dedicated her set to her cousin Jimmy who was the victim of a horrifying race murder last year, the second poem a low chant intense and pure, and incidentally three minutes over the time limit.

But the poem inside the Slam this year went like this:

At the Saturday morning Slam Family Meeting (which up till now had been called the Slammasters Meeting, but this year was truly anti-hierarchical), Genevieve Van Cleve of team Austin, having been up all night after losing

a bout to Dallas and a subsequent protest, brought her case directly to the Sal Fam. She read a poignant manifesto about why Clebo Rainey’s removing his shirt was unfair, an issue that had plagued the Rules Committee for years, as clothing is exempt from the infamous Props Rule. Finding the crux beneath the superficial, Genevieve proved her point by removing her shirt,

the political merging headlong into the poetic

making clear that while Clebo might strip to indicate a moment of passionate intensity, women do not have this option, a point indicative of a wide range of gender issues. It was stunning political theater in real life: Ms. Van Cleve’s raw courage and language mixed with a simple, telling gesture, the political merging headlong into the poetic.

In the same meeting, Providence, Monterey, and Minneapolis presented bids for the 2000 Nationals. (Next year, the 10th National Slam, will be in Chicago, where Slam began.) At last year’s Nationals, no one has been willing to step forward, and it seemed that the movement was on tender ground. Providence asked for a full vote, saying they needed to procure the proper venue now. That approval was granted, and the Nationals now have a home for the next two years.

There was great national press at the Slam this year. CNN, with a prescience rare for the mainstream media, had been covering New York and Fargo for weeks (Fargo was a sweet team that finished near the bottom), and PBS was also in the house. MTV was scouting for Real Worlders. Borders and Microsoft hosted an online slam for the inner city writing program, WritersCorps, linking San Francisco, the Bronx, and Washington, D.C., with a live event in Austin. On another front, Annie MacNaughton of the Taos World Heavyweight Poetry Bout was present, linking the two great competitive poetry movements in the country.

On their own turf, the Austinians were much more subdued than they’d been in Connecticut last year. There was no skinny-dippin’ party, and

there is a place for poetry in these States

beerkegs were often unemptied. Maybe it was because the organizers worked 24 hours a day -- putting out squabbles till 4:30 a.m., dealing with a math error that caused a rescheduling of semis on the afternoon of the day of, attending, tweaking, being part,

leading quietly. But the partying lasted till dawn, the poetry never stopped, and the 45 teams who were there will go back home all over spreading the word of slam. Marc Smith’s brainstorm baby is growing up,

creating the very stage it is taking its place on. The slacker vibe of Austin was just what was needed to let everybody in on the secret that there is a place for poetry in these States, and it's everywhere.

and it's everywhere

--Bob Holman

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