Author: Gail

Mark Grist at The Vaults Devizes Festival

Review published in Wiltshire Gazette and Herald today (unedited version)

Devizes Festival has embraced poetry this year. We’ve had John Hegley, Arthur Smith, Professor Elemental and the Poetry Slam and last Monday at The Vaults, Mark Grist; Rogue Teacher, spoken word artist and battle rapper. Over a pie before the show Mark was happy to chat about poetic rivalry and revenge, Peterborough and whether poetry should be more art than therapy. He is a cheerful, accessible, energetic man with a twinkle in his eye and a plan to pay off his mortgage with his craft.

His act is comprised of anecdote, flowing prose, blank verse and rhyme. His work is insightful, angry, touching and respectful in turns. His story weaves through his set; he has been the Poet Laureate of Peterborough and has gone by the name of the Count of Monty Gristo; he taught difficult children who liked to set fire to things and were easily distracted by seagulls; he inspired his pupils and was in turn inspired; he took up a challenge from one of the kids to enter a rap battle and creamed a lad called Blizzard with Mum jokes, the video of which went viral, and he has skirmished with and worked with people with names like Omen and Mixy.

He engages his enthusiastic audience with tales of visiting dead poets’ graves, of nutmegging in Keynsham in his teenage years, and of the day when one of his pupils shot another in the head. He chooses Maisie from the audience to serenade with his deliberately bad poem about “gingers”, for bad poetry is in itself an art and some words just don’t have a rhyme. He answers a request for “Girls That Read”, his homage to women of intelligence, another internet sensation. He berates the habit that some poets have of deriding and criticising each other’s work and recites a tale of tomatoes thrown at a competition where the last poet standing bashes his own brains out with a tin. He wants us to “cheer on the Keiths” for every poem has a place.

The Vaults was the perfect venue for this Fringe event, which attracted a younger, well informed audience, who loved Mark and his exciting work. Who says that poetry is a niche interest? Not Devizes Festival. We’ve brought it out of the closet. We rock.

by Gail

The Ruts DC and 2 Sick Monkeys do Devizes Festival

Review published in Wiltshire Gazette and Herald Thursday 18th June (unedited)

Those of us who ventured out in Devizes on a school night to The Corn Exchange couldn’t quite believe our luck. The evening kicked off with the heavy sound of 2 Sick Monkeys, Wiltshire punk royalty. Pete “We just want to make people happy” and Fred Monkey, a man of few words, from Swindon, are an in your face two piece who steamed through their set with No Brakes and cheerfully instructed us to leave the building in no uncertain terms.

Then on came The Ruts DC, in their second incarnation since 1977, when they burst on to the scene as The Ruts, on the front line of punk and protest, rocking against racism and railing against injustice with their unique combination of roots, punk, reggae and ska. The book of the band is titled Love In Vain, after the hypnotic lament released only months before the death of the charismatic Malcolm Owen to heroin in 1980. Many bridges are under water since those days, and one might have expected world weary cynicism from a band so haunted by loss, but we were to realise swiftly that The Ruts DC have spent the years evolving their magnificent sound to the point of perfection.

Segs Jennings played mesmeric bass and sang with poignant tone, Leigh Heggarty surprised with intelligent riffs and the genial Dave Ruffy on drums co-ordinated the trio with a twitch of an eyelash. They’d got us with SUS, we were Staring At The Rude Boys and reminded that there is always a Jah War somewhere. We were no longer In A Rut and our Babylons burned with exhilaration and joy. We marvelled at the glory of this band and wondered where the years had gone, we remembered songs we had forgotten we loved, we danced and shouted and generally rejoiced. One bloke was heard to say that to his shame he had been just too out of it to see them years ago but is beyond excited to see them now.

The Ruts DC are still fresh, polished and relevant. They still rehearse diligently, and it showed. They kept up the quality and pace for ninety minutes, leaving us delighted and wanting to follow them on the rest of their musical journey. On the way out after the gig a band member whispered “Thanks for keeping the faith.” On behalf of those of us who were there, the pleasure was all ours.

by Gail

Tin Pot Dictator

Just stood on a stage and read this at the Devizes Festival Poetry Slam…

Untitled

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, you’re Kim Jong Un

Blasting me to pieces with an anti-aircraft gun

For momentary guard slip and forgetting of pretence

Public execution for your Minister of Defence

*******

There were less dramatic options, like demotion and sacking

Not as entertaining, mind, as death by ack acking

As for that piss take poster in the Ealing barber’s shop

You’d show them a Bad Hair Day with a more severe crop

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, you’re that bloke Pol Pot

Who tried to turn the clock back to Year Zero, or Dot

It must have been torture, being rubbish at school

So you got rid of all the clever ones that made you feel a fool

*******

Clad with a well cut uniform and medals on your chest

A gun, a throne and megaphone you’re better than the rest

Making up for all those failings that you feel so acutely

Power that tendeth to corrupt, in you corrupteth absolutely

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, going by the name of Vlad

As in Lenin and Putin and that weird Impaler lad

You’re Saddam Hussein and you’re Ho Chi Minh

Declare resistance to be futile and dissent a sin

*******

Flatter your enemies lest they stab you in the back

Equip the walls with ears to hear what loyalty you lack

Hide the Stasi in the khasi to hear the shit go down

Watch for subtle facial movements like the nuance of a frown

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, but Godwins Law states

That the first to mention Hitler loses rational debates

From bad art and rejection came forth carnage we presume

Stick a moustache on the elephant in the middle of the room

*******

Rally troops remaining, keep the enemy at the gate

For there just might be a coup and it just might be too late

There are movements in the corners of the bunker in your mind

Where one eye is always open in the kingdom of the blind

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, mowing down the picket

You’re the warden who gave a crate of vegetables a ticket

Pass the tar and feathers if I ever call you Mate

I am the voice of decompression in a Tin Pot State

by Gail

Arthur Smith at The Corn Exchange

Here is my review for the Wiltshire Gazette And Herald http://www.gazetteandherald.co.uk published online today

Arthur Smith at The Corn Exchange on Saturday 6th June

Arthur likes Devizes. He takes time before his gig to wander round the streets with a fag to get a feel of the place. He’d like to tarry a while but has to rush off afterwards to catch a train. He has done his homework, much to the approval of his old physics teacher, Terry Hall, who has bought a ticket to see how the old boy turned out. He is world renowned and prolific, with regular appearances on television and Radio 4, yet there are no airs to this man and he is frankly not Grumpy at all.

Arthur has read the Gazette and is party to the sorry tale of the scamming fish salesmen in the villages. He places Devizes firmly between Melksham and Marlborough in the socioeconomic hierarchy of Wiltshire, remarking that, in comparison to Balham, our kebab shop reminds him of Downton Abbey. He refers to the quirks and foibles of other parts of Britain and likes a nice regional variation. He jokes about the Festival, aware that we have Bran the Blessed booked and that our Chairman is not to be messed with. He plays with the audience, getting us to bleat like sheep. The lovely “Carrie from Melksham” has a sheep cry to die for and she gets to read out the comments from the audience about what makes us grumpy: Cyclists without bells saying “Excuse me” on the towpath, litter on the Green, having to stay sober to take Arthur to the station and other inconveniences.

He sings, recites his own poetry and that of others, cracks off one liners and rambles through longer tales. He shows how Ladysmith Black Mambaza wrote a song about him and does Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah like Lee Marvin; reminisces fondly about his childhood, telling a tale of a shower of shorts and giggling girls; touches on controversy, proposing a society for the promulgation of assisted suicide for those deemed by the grumpy to be suitable candidates, yet never goes too far; upsets Yorkshiremen, but only slightly; he judges his audience wisely and pulls himself up for swearing; he makes us laugh, a lot.

Arthur Smith is a bit of a paradox. He reads John Dryden’s “Happy The Man” and finishes off with “Simon (Arthur) Smith and his Dancing Bear”. His act is laid-back and laissez faire, delivered deliberately as if he were middle-aged, disillusioned, tired and past his prime, yet through his material shines hope, joy and empathy for the human condition. Devizes loves him and it appears that, as he is observed cheerfully posing for photographs with Terry Hall and the event sponsors from The Kennet and Avon Brewery before departing for the train, he shares the love.

Gail Foster

Computing Rhythm

Computing Rhythm – the Computers at The Corn Exchange

Scary Beatle rock

Style, venom and melody

Blue soul crashing sound

 

Computing rhythm

Turning tables, turning air

Too cool for old school

 

Riff of rebellion

Tidy, tight, provocative

Rattling of The Bin

by Gail

Elizabeth

A poem for a beautiful old soul, Elizabeth Gibson, who left this earth tonight.  Her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, relatives and friends will remember her for all the humour and wisdom and love she gave.

Elizabeth

Soft rain in darkness

Blown upon the wind your soul

Whispers a farewell

 ***

Owl call from the woods

Deep, dignified, of ages

Wise as ancient stone

***

Laughing fox cubs play

Games with moonbeams ‘til the dawn

Wakes new life to birth

 ***

Seeds and flowers, fruit

Trees in orchards blossoming

Harvest of your love

by Gail

United, Reformed

A poem for the wedding of Martin and Jayne, who married at the United Reformed Church in Malmesbury on Saturday.

United, Reformed

The Marriage of Martin and Jayne

When the Queen of Sheba, so ‘tis said

Came to ask of Solomon the King

Whether the tales told of him held true

He saw her beauty and entrusted her

With knowledge and the wisdom of all things

 *******

In this dear church today bedecked, with

Country flowers from Wiltshire gardens plucked

She comes to plight eternal troth to him

He stands beneath the Rood with certainty

The Rede she brings his true heart comprehends

 *******

In lilting voice the kind Welsh minister intones

A rare and ancient Scottish wedding rite

Rings grace their hands as tokens of their love

Engraven with the joy of Cornish lands

Solemn the vows they speak to man and God

*******

Today so many complicated threads

Are bound together with simplicity

Two become one within the blesséd Trinity

Faith from the halls of history made new

United, reformed and sanctified with Love

 

 

by Gail Foster