Deep Wudder Dive: "Bomb Doe (nobody)" live at Philly Pigeon Poetry Slam 3/6/20
It was all good just three weeks ago.
Well, in hindsight that’s not really true, as Italy can clearly attest.
But over here in the U.S.?
Even some of those who pride themselves on possessing a semblance of good sense, or consider themselves to be reasonably cautious, hadn’t yet fully committed to the “social distancing” part of this pending pandemic process.
That brings me to a few Fridays ago in Philadelphia, March 6th, which would be the last weekend crowds of a hundred or more could assemble in Pennsylvania or New Jersey, for any reason at all, until this contagion, or dystopian nightmare we’re attempting to exist in, comes to its merciful end.
Before things got really real Wednesday, as the NBA and soon everything else stopped, I’d spent the prior Friday spitting out some weird, wordy thing that I’d recently jotted down and subsequently been playing around with in my iPhone Notes.
For lack of better description, call it a lyrical tone poem.
Sort of like a spoken-word homage to sonic-collage.
“Sonic collage” as in the chopped, sample-based, cut-and-paste, pastiche production technique, that then-newly lauded musical leaders like the Dust Brothers, Prince Paul, and especially, the Bomb Squad, were doing, as those aforementioned pioneers were digging deeply into countless reams of record crates thirty years ago.
Sonic collages were an arduous stylistic sound choice in ascent at the tail end of the Reagan Era, cresting along straight into the dawn of a new decade, until industry fallout from the landmark 1991 Gilbert O’Sullivan/Grand Upright LTD vs. Biz Markie/Warner Brothers lawsuit heard in U.S. District Court in the Southern District of New York, rendered this newfangled form of curated-n-chopped creativity to be buried somewhere between impractically expensive, or for-all-intents-and-practices, illegal.
This arguably resulted in a few notable hip-hop producers rising to prominence with singular, instantly recognizable sampled loops of prior pop hits, or relying heavily upon original but often simple, repetitive keyboard patches, subsequently heard in heavy rotation on ‘blazin’ hip-hop-and-R&B’ FM stations in the late ‘90’s and early 2000’s.
It’s also a reason, along with Industry Rule #4080, that De La Soul’s early albums remain out of print, and unavailable to stream, in the Digital Age.
But anyway, that’s a story for another day.
Returning focus to this stuff I tapped out one Saturday afternoon, it seemed like it would potentially work better as something spoken, or performed rather than read.
But that would also mean fluidly sliding in and out of different cadences at the drop of a dime, while interspersing a string of seemingly unrelated references into a whole, that no audience could be reasonably expected to wholly recognize, or be bothered to ‘get’.
If they recognize an Emily Dickinson opening salvo, does it make them more or less likely to pick up the Three 6 Mafia and Genesis bits?
I don’t know man, I don’t know man, I don’t know man, I don’t know…
No matter tho, or at least, so I hope(d).
If done right, the end result should still be effective, on some steal-like-an-artist, type ish.
Below was my first public attempt, back when being out among the public was still something people should, would, or could, do.
It was at a monthly recurring event known as the Philly Pigeon Poetry Slam.
It’s a popular Spoken-Word/Slam Poetry competition that routinely sells out its once-a-month date, on every First Friday of the month in Philly, usually at a 150-200 seat venue like the Arden Theatre on 2nd Street, or in this particular case, at the slightly smaller (120 seats, with some people standing or sitting on the floor in spots) at the Pearlstein Gallery at the corner of 34th & Filbert, on Drexel University’s campus.
March’s headliner was Alyesha Wise, an acclaimed poet from Camden NJ, now based in L.A..
She is a founder of this Philly event, who went on to found and host Da Poetry Lounge in Los Angeles, the largest open-mic slam competition in the U.S.
The Philly Pigeon’s hosts are Jasmine Combs, Kai Davis, and Jacob Winterstein.
The rules for the competition are pretty simple:
13 poets compete.
3 minutes a piece.
No instruments or props are permitted.
5 volunteer judges are randomly selected from the audience.
If there’s more than 13 people looking to perform, the hopefuls not preliminarily qualified (i.e. the folks nobody knows) toss their names into a hat.
They then participate in a series of one-on-one sudden-death style eliminations for a Haiku Slam prior to the main round.
Those advancing past the Haiku Slam are into the main Round of Thirteen.
Anything over 3:10 gets you a warning. which you will see in this clip, also dipping into point-deduction-warning-territory.
At the 3:30 mark, one of the organizers physically takes your mic.
I made it thru the Haiku Slam elimination and into the Round of 13 unscathed.
It did not go perfectly.
I did not intend to peek at my Notes, even tho most read directly from a page or their phone.
But once I got over the awkwardness of pausing to dig into my pocket during the mid-section, ironically misremembering the order, or flat-out forgetting a few of my own words, nobody else’s, I did manage to stick the landing, with help from an encouraging and engaged audience, plus a perfectly timed, totally unprompted music drop by the DJ, just as Jasmine was coming to take the mic away.
So since I have no idea when any one of us will be able to perform in front of a crowd, or be a paying member of an audience again, here’s a snapshot of the first shot.
I put the text underneath, hyperlinked to each reference, for those interested.
Special Thanks to Jason QuaranKeenan, my Road Dawg on this adventure, for stealthily capturing this director’s cut from the back of the gallery.
I’m Nobody! Who Are You?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Well, Alright! Cool.
To make a thing go right, it takes two.
Maybe someday me and you, yo momma,
and yo cousin too, form like Voltron into a brand new crew.
But even so, lay low - they data min(e)ding us - you know!
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a frog.
To proclaim one’s name - the livelong June - for an admiring bog!
To sell this game - for chicken change - and some clicks on a blog.
Or leap upon- each passing thought - recorded on a pod.
To curate a pleasant public face,
that perpetrates a fraud.
Or feign faith in an after life,
without real belief in God.
Thy ruminate on Pearly Gates,
reunited with the squad.
Where Grand Pop plays dominoes with Tupac-n-them,
And I get to see all my dead friends again.
If that’s how the story really ends,
Then I’m almost ready to begin.
Can’t call it, so guess I laugh to keep from cryin’ until the time commence.
How weary must it be - to be - Somebody!
Out in public - getting flogged.
To exclaim one’s name - all livelong day - at a politely nodding mob.
I AM - NOBODY! Who are you?
Ain’t you - Nobody - too?
Bcuz if that’s true, we can do the do.
Follow me and I will follow you.
Don’t be afraid, I ain’t neva scared!
Might even hav’ta, act-a-act-a-act-act a damn fool,
Don’t make me take it to the old school.
Please believe, I ain’t 2 proud 2 get down on my knees,
or even BEG, like Keith Sweat, on a slow-jam serenade,
Who wanna be my Athena Cage?
If you’re feelin’ froggy, leap.
This ain’t a game, time is a thief,
Who can say? Somehow, someway…
We may even fall in love before reaching our croaking day.
And Who Can Love You Like Me?
No - Bo - Dy!
