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Uptown Poetry Slam
Thursday Sep 29, 2005.
By Jessica Herman
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The Green Mill has played gracious and raucous host to the Chicago-born poetry slam since 1986. Hosted every Sunday night from 7-10 p.m. by "blue collar intellectual" and inventor Marc Smith, I had yet to check out the whirling dervish of an event.
So on a recent Sunday night, I parked my bicycle and put on an air of cool intended to overcome my solo discomfort, imagining myself surrounded by hep cats couples who eat, drink and sleep poetry. But after paying the $7 cover and making my way down the aisle, my self-conscious stride turned into a girly swagger; I wished I had a pack of smokes in my back pocket.
It's nearly impossible not to feel sexy in a place like the Green Mill. A film of red and orange dusts the dark wooded space, and restored antique details like ornate light fixtures and scenic murals date the lounge back to its days as a Prohibition-era speakeasy. I slid onto a stool toward the front end of the bar, facing a tidy-looking fella intensely scribbling in his journal.
A few stragglers arrived in the hour after the slam began, and each time, one employee or another was kind enough to show the new guests to open seats or grab folding chairs from the back. I was happy to have heeded the advice of the barmaid on the phone, who recommended arriving between 6:30-6:45 p.m. The booths in the front typically fill up by then, but you'll have your pick of seats at the bar.
Right as the clock struck seven, Smith hopped onto the stage and started playing the funny guy. "Turn off the big bands," he said, referring to the smooth sounds of old jazz recordings playing through the speakers. "I'm Marc Smith," he said, waiting for the audience's Pavlovian reply, "So what?!"
He has trained his audience of regulars well so that they know when and how to reply to his game-show-style "shtick;" a distant cousin of the Alex Trebek family, however, Smith has a dirty mouth that spits sexual innuendos and obscenities into nearly every sentence. On cue the audience practiced the "feminist hiss," "the masculine grunt" and the finger-snapping applause, responses they unleash throughout the evening.
Smith warmed up everyone's appetite with one of his own poems then opened the stage to an open mic session. Broken-hearted, sex-addicted and recently divorced poets appeared to use the captive audience as part of a personal 12-step-type program. Smith saved the "virgin virgins," his pet name for first-timers, for last, teasing out their nervous anticipation. But when it actually came time for the performances, he behaved like a kind granddaddy, encouraging the audience to give a second round of applause regardless of the poem's quality.
A guest poet takes the stage next, in this case, one who read politically driven words about growing up a black man in Detroit, becoming a loadie and "finding the light." The final half-hour is dedicated to the slam poetry contest, judged by randomly chosen audience members. The four competitors were thrown in a hat to determine the order of reading: two virgin virgins, the scribbling fella whom I had noticed at the beginning of the evening and a huffy writer vacationing in Chicago. One by one they each performed a single poem, which was scored on a scale of 1-10.
The virgin-virgins had not perfected the rhythm and seemed bent on making it through their few dozen lines without letting on that they were nervous. However, the huffy poet and the scribbling fella gave it their all and were called back up to do a second reading for the final duel. The huffy writer spouted off a political rant, emoting with his whole body as the words shook like tremors out of his mouth. The scribbling fella stepped up to bat and slid into an inspirational speech-type of poem about being true to one's self, slathering every phrase with his heavy New York accent. It wasn't the most eloquent of poems but it was certainly an accessible read on a universal theme. He hardly exhaled...until he received his near-perfect score.
The full house looked satiated at the end of the evening. There was a sense of solidarity in the air. After enjoying a few pats on the back, the scribbling fella walked out by his lonesome with an extra ten bucks in his back pocket. I hopped on my bike happy that I had seen another glimpse of Chicago history and that, for one of the first times, I didn't feel entirely bewildered by the art of poetry.
Guidebook rating: Should you be interested in checking out an event that's spawned a literary movement of sorts, you're assured at least Smith's quality performance, the Green Mill's great ambiance and the potential to discover fresh young poets.
Stats: For more information on the Green Mill's Sunday evening poetry slam, check out the website at Greenmilljazz.com
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