Acoustic Night

A (LATE) Blog by Sir Paul McDarkney

Santa (played by host Ian) was seen drinking early in the night while his helpers flashed him dirty looks- very fitting for Santa was a very dirty man, indeed.

Dirty Santa started the night off with a very un-Christmas spirited poem. I think it’s time for a career change (or retirement) for Santa.

Dan Wellman was the first guest and started the musicians out on a high note with his blend of warm guitar tones and equally warm voice (both aided in warmth by his ample beard).

Craig Wilson then spit some high-octane, high-energy poetry as fast and hard as a filthy Christmas. I think I see a pattern developing for tonight.

Eddie D. calmed the savage beast with his fine clarinet (anyone playing a Thelonious Monk tune deserves my respect). His second tune was a Rhumba that made me wish I had brought my bongos. Azucar!

Eleanor, self-proclaimed grandmother of the night, told a story about a monster tree with blue apples. Some extra sound effects from the audience helped to make it real (or at least, a surround sound story - making it modern).

Having recently been spared from having to attend Oxford, Monty was primed to prove his worth. The youngster crooned the crowd into submission with a voice as confident as his stage presence; as easy to listen to as he was to watch (what do they know at Oxford anyway)!

Deadpan and dead funny: my hat goes off (well, it would have had I not taken it off when I walked in to the room) to Dan for even attempting stand up at an open mic night (shiver) scary - I know, I’ve tried it…and failed, miserably). Kudos.

Okay, James White (dude, seriously diggin’ the hat): apparently the microphone stand was well aware that it was his first Acoustic Night performance because it made every effort to remain below the level of his actual mouth (as opposed to his chest). It didn’t stop him from performing his ass off (though I was hoping he’d perform his hat off so it could mysteriously disappear into my bag).

Gina Briganti speaks like a singer and walks like a dancer. Her words moved like honey and sounded just as sweet. Probably helps that she is a sweetheart at the core.

Santa’s helpers took to the stage to end the first half as the Four Faeries of Apocalypse. Let me tell you, it was a very smart move for none would have wanted to have to follow this act.
Andi dazzled us with flash and a bit of melancholy humour, Helen surprised us, a (well-intentioned but) naughty tooth-fairy, Hazel’s sugar-plum fairy was randy for sweet music, and Kathy did it her way as the pink fairy that advised us to stuff the lot!!! A great end to a wicked first half.

Dirty Ian, I mean Santa, let us in on a dirty little secret: he once bought a Celine Dion cd. It was, of course, for someone else; but he bought one!!

Nancy, the medium, is aided by the ever-so-helpful Sandra to the front of the stage after it was announced that the next performer had ‘crossed over’. Nancy connected us to Sadie, from the Bronx, who was kind of like a switchboard operator for the ‘crossed over’ and she put us through to limbo where we heard from storyteller Jim McNeil.

Mary, a Halo virgin, shares her loving Christmas wishes and Wendy shares her warm vision of the countryside which segued beautifully into a song about a summers’ eve in Cornwall skilfully played and sung by Keith; just before he tickles us all with a tune about a Mr. Chicken (trust me, you had to be there and if you were you were giggling like a school kid).

What do you do with all those unwanted Christmas gifts? David C. Johnson (always one of my favourites) came through with some imaginative ideas.

Sally & Holly made me feel like I was back in Carolina with skilful strumming and the voice of an Appalachian sweetheart. Somewhere June Carter Cash is swelling with pride.

Richard Lawson’s Father Christmas mows ‘em down with a Solstice ballad that’s both cheeky and clever. (Mental note: must check out these metaphysical poets.)

After a romantic villanelle for the wife, Christmas dies in the poetry of Poetry Jack.

Halo stalwart, Phil Baber, then treated us to a tune inspired by the affair of Picasso and a silly maiden that played with knives and then reinvigorated a Leonard Cohen tune (maybe he should have recorded it a bit faster).

Freestyle blues and jazz from improvisational vocalist, Josie, led us straight into another one of my favourites, Peter Hunter, who gave us a proper English Santa - complete with swearing and job hating that spread germs, fought epileptic fits, and came out of the closet; all whilst preparing to squeeze down chimneys again.

Some American punk named Derrick then proceeded to stand on a soapbox for nearly five minutes with a diatribe he called Writers’ Block.

WRITER’S BLOCK

…Brow furrowed, shoulders tensed, fingers cramped from tightly gripping the pen…fifteen minutes? It’s been fifteen minutes and, to my amazement, I am still staring at a blank page. Now I usually do experience some level of difficulty whenever attempting to collect and record my thoughts in a comprehensible manner, but this?!? This feels completely different. I am suddenly struck dumb by the realization that I truly don’t have anything to say. I then begin to feel the mist of depression as it threatens to crash down upon me like a wave of terror on the shores of a moon-driven tide of emotionalism. The dimly lit brood of gloom plants its seed deep within my ego, and begins to sprout questions like, “was I ever any good?’” and, “will I ever be any good?” and I find no comfort in the fact that I have absolutely no idea what it is I’m doing…well, I don’t think I ever really did. I guess my confidence never came from knowing what it was I was able to do; I was just happy to be doing anything. Hell, I’m obviously literate, and I do have the vocabulary of a high school graduate, at least. Hey, some people don’t even have enough fingers to hold a pen, much less, a hand to have fingers on; and what about those that don’t have enough money for notebooks or pens; or those would be great writers that have no place to write, as if they even had time, for the bulk of their day is spent fighting for their next meal- which would never be enough to replace the energy it took to get it in the first place…and here I am complaining when my biggest worry is how much closer will I be able to get to touching my soul today. I then begin to feel guilty for not realizing before how lucky I am to be aware, for so many have the desire but are constantly bombarded with the blinding circumstances of everyday existence. So many are taken in by the promise of shiny things if they play by the rules of illusion, and all at the risk of their existence being diminished to becoming only a shadow of life if the game is lost. Play, at the risk of being reduced to a mere mirage in a world of high-powered laser-light shows and mirror tricks; and here I am whining about a few minor frustrations when there are so many who haven’t been afforded the same opportunities that I have been able to take advantage of. I may not have a lot, but I realize that I have more than those who have very little…And at that moment I am moved to stillness. In that quiet moment of revelation I begin to feel my soul stir. My spirit begins to change frequency as I am slowly tuned in to those that are less fortunate. I am now able to hear the before unheard cries of those unable to use their spirits’ voices; those writers, those poets, singers, actors, dancers, artists…all prophets unable to share their messages of joy through sorrow, the bittersweet happiness of the blues, the love of life near death…the messages sent from creation that have been stifled by circumstances, the lack of understanding, fatigue, or just plain laryngitis. And I feel a sense of duty, of responsibility, to do my part in avenging their lost opportunities by utilizing all of mine. I will help to release their frustrations by relating them to mine. I will help them to use their voices by channeling them through mine, for I realize now, that’s what we’re meant to be; channels for the creator’s individualized experiences. We have only to live and communicate, experience and express. It is then that I notice the movement of my hand. It’s almost as if the pen has a life of its own, bobbing and weaving through barricades and blockages to tell a tale of victory. Inactivity has been defeated by inspiration for when the soul is inspired it moves, and the inspiration is always there. The songs are always there. The poems, the images, movements, and music are always there. We just have to be still long enough to feel them; quiet long enough to hear. See, as long as we can remember this we will never again have a writers’ block without a tackle.

Whew, that boy is long-winded!!!
Carla gave us a bird’s-eye-view of the joys of singing and a clever (and poignant) poem about the pig in her belly.

I’m still not quite sure who, exactly, the last performer was. He was introduced as Boydon Goodman then proceeded to tell us his name was Jason but that he was better known as Ghostboy.*** Well, whoever he was, he was definitely funny as hell!!!! He ended the night with a ‘celebrity-gone-bad’ tale of Rudolph and his formerly red nose.
‘Til next Year,

L8-rrs

B8-rrs

(don’t act like I’m the only one!)

*** Somewhere near the end of the evening we also had the pleasure of a brief hi-jack set by Nathan Filer, we can’t remember when exactly as we were all a little ‘mellow’ by then but it was really good to see him lose his Acoustic Night cherry…a great end to our first season at Halo.