If you’re in Chicago and you want to visit the home of the poetry slam, be sure to visit the Green Mill. But don’t bring your Visa, Mastercard, Discover, Diners Club, debit card or personal check, because the Green Mill takes anyone who wants to read their poetry, and they only take American Express.
Who the hell only takes American Express? The Green Mill, that’s who. The upshot of this situation was that I found myself about to face an open mike poetry reading only able to fortify myself with whatever five American dollars could provide. “Of all the things you can say to impress a cocktail waitress, “What’s the cheapest beer you have? is pretty low on the list.” This did not bode well.
I went to a lot of poetry readings in my younger years, back when I thought a beret was perfectly acceptable headgear for someone not either a British soldier or a Frenchman. I used to go to a weekly reading in Raleigh in the ’80s that started at the Berkeley Café downtown and soon moved to a store called The Paper Plant, owned by a poet and papermaker named John Dancy-Jones. It was a great scene and always interesting, especially when people like Bob Rogers and Ralph Dunn, the Cabdriver Poet, would read. Everyone was very supportive, and it gave me a weekly impetus to come up with something new to read to the group. But you know, poetry readings. You can never tell. I’ve heard my share of doggerel, not to mention the over-earnest style of highly affected angry poetry read in a shouted, hey-look-at-me cadence. And we also got a weekly dose of teenage girl angst. “We dubbed that category “Black Tears Dripping””
Despite the lack of a proper defense fund, the reading at the Green Mill turned out to be very cool. It’s run by Marc Smith, who in addition to being a hell of a poet himself, is also a perfect master of ceremonies, alternating between heckler and coach, with a big dose of stand-up comedian. We heard a lot of good stuff, some read by people who were practiced and comfortable, and a few by “virgin virgins “people who had never read at the Green Mill or anywhere else”, including a novice poet who had traveled all the way from Scotland specifically to make his “highly successful” public debut at the Green Mill, and one skinny young man in thick glasses whose hand shook violently throughout.
Unfortunately, the poet that stands out the most vividly was a guy in his late forties who looked like the kind of high school guidance counselor who truly believes the kids think he’s cool, and is horribly wrong. He pony-tailed his way onto the stage almost meekly, but when he got the mike in hand he turned into some sort of caricature white rapper, complete with excruciating hand gestures. He quickly invoked the name of Tupac, and declared that he was in actual fact not only black but a Rastafarian, which he supposed gave him the right to use The Word That Black People Can Use But White People Can Never, Ever. He also entreated us to “smoke the word and read the herb” which made me want to climb the stage and kick the ass.
The crowd was more than a little shocked, but once they recovered their composure, they expressed their displeasure in the approved Green Mill fashion, by snapping their fingers in ironic parody of a beat coffeehouse audience. MC White Liberal Guilt left the bar as soon as his set ended, which was probably about 20 minutes later than he should have.
It was a great night, though. Because we were sitting right up front “I mean, right up front: I wished I had brought a raincoat to shield myself from the plosives”, Jean got picked to be one of the judges for the poetry slam. During her introduction, Marc had the band join him as he created her impromptu theme song, “Jean, the Sexy Librarian” Once the judging began, she proved that she is not to be trifled with, poetry-wise. Let’s just say she has high standards. At one point I was afraid we’d have to spirit her out through a side door with a coat over her head.