This is Utterly fascinating. I guess I never thought that much about caricaturists, but seeing how meticulous he goes about his work, the different traits you can exaggerate, how this suggests nuances within Conan's personality, the methodology, I guess the "things are always more complicated than they seem" saying rings true yet again. Watch. (It is 30 captivating minutes long.)
If you buy 10 or more Tickets,there's a 10% discount!
Dates | 27th Sept - 1st Oct | Show: 7.30pm Tara Theatre, 356 Garratt Lane, Earlsfield London, SW18 4ES | BxOffc: 020 8333 4457 more info: http://bit.ly/pGvjez
I haven’t performed at a single festival this year, partly because no one invited me to any, partly because I was afraid. I still to a great extent believe that my kinda work does not go down as well in festival. Because I work with scattered rhyme, I think it is hard to for the ear to latch on to if one is in a field or forest and there is so much else to distract, so much sound pollution, so I find those settings unsettling. Either way, Scroobious Pip invited me do to read some poem for 30 minutes in Bestival and I accepted. The journey took three hours. Had to catch a train, a bus, a hovercraft and another bus to get there. I jumped on at Waterloo Station having rolled outta bed, into the shower and onto the train station, sans breakfast, water, money, starving my way through the city whipping past, blending into suburbs, fields and finally the country side. At Portsmouth Station - the final train destination, I grabbed some cash from a machine just as the bus arrived to take us to the hovercraft. Waiting for the hovercraft to arrive, I couldn’t help but eaves drop on a conversation, they were sitting beside me failing to whisper. A lady - lets call her Mel - was talking to a man - lets call him Bill - about his dress sense. The man wore dark RayBan sunglasses and Mel was complementing his looks, his demeanour, his clothing, saying repeatedly how gorgeous a pair of eyes he had, how amazing a personality he owned, that he dressed well enough, to not bother comparing herself to anyone else, that he should feel secure. She compared herself to him, “Look at me” says she, “I’m not the best dressed woman I know, me boobs are drooping, but I think I have a nice smile, I don’t take myself too seriously and I don’t judge people like that, none of us do, so you shouldn’t be like this, you are a fucking great guy... why isn’t that enough” “It is not enough for me” he says slouching into himself on the chair.
We got off when the ferry had crossed to Ryde Esplandale. I proceeded to walk about a little baffled in the way tourists do, asking for directions to Bestival when Bill called out “you going Bestival mate?” I turned to catch the rich sunlight bounce of his sunglasses and smiled towards him. “Yep, you going?” “Yeah” says he “But we don’t have any tickets. Yet.” He introduced me to his friends: the lady I saw him talking to earlier, two more guys and another lady, lets call her Louise. Louise thrust her had forward and vigorously shook mine. “Inua?, that’s a nice name, but I’ll forget, I’m crap with names.” “Me too Louise, you have no idea...” The gang began to stop people who got out of taxis, on their way from Bestival back to their various homes. They asked, begged, pleaded for the festival wrist bands they would get them on site. It worked! They got some for free, paid £20 for a couple, but they were all successful. We waited for a big enough taxi to take us to Bestival and the chit chat flowed freely.
Louise buzzed with excitement. She was loud, blonde, pink lipstick and flirtatious. She asked my name a few more times before finally mastering it - I told the slightly cheeky joke: “Think if it in a sexual context, IN - OOH - AAH” she cackled like three witches, got it and called out to her mate, “come hear this.” When they’d stopped laughing an odd silence settled. Bill had grown momentarily quite in his RayBans and noticing the light awkwardness, Mel piped up “they are married...” and I apologised for what now seemed and inappropriate joke. Mel walked off with one of the guys - lets call him Colin - as Louise and Bill showed off their diamond studded wedding rings, offering me a drink of something dark and strong. The taxi came and we climbed in to wait for Mel and Colin’s return, but they failed to answer their phones. “They are having a domestic” Louise explained, “they are married as well, they weren’t talking on the ferry you know” she laughed. Bill was getting angrier by the minute, swearing loudly how he wanted to get to Bestival and see Bjork. He tried Mel and Colin over and over again, his language getting worse and worse, every other word an expletive. I had the growing sense of sitting in a cage with a lion. The last friend - lets call him Steve - sat between Bill and Louise, Louise kept reaching across to calm her husband, slapping him sharply on his arm “don’t be such a dick head, don’t be such a mug” she kept on saying, varying the similes a little. Eventually, Bill erupted and asked the taxi driver to go. We pulled out of the parking lot and sped up hill, it never once crossed my mind to get outta the taxi and get a bus.
As we drove, we talked of work. Louise was a dog breeder - this I was fascinated by. Steve was between jobs and when I asked Bill’s work, the other laughed and said ‘he makes the tea’. Bill smiled sheepishly and leant back as though he’d given up on something, but I prodded. He told me he worked a managerial position as a railway inspector, leading a team of 15 guys. “I don’t walk as much as I used to these days. When I first started, I walk about 6 miles of railway a day.” Is it hard? I asked “Not if you know what you are doing, is fine. There are some tough times though.. suicides..” He took of his RayBans here and leant forward. He had a round longish face. He was balding, as I am, but further down the line. His bottom row of teeth were crooked and layered on top of one another. Mel was right, his eyes were clear-tropical-beach-water coloured, childlike and something frail about the way they scanned my face flicking to the window and back. As he spoke, they shook ever so gently from side to side, “It is hard sometimes when you have to deal with the suicides, I have to liaise with police, organise for forensics people to come and do the scene, gather up the body... it’s not right seeing a human being in so many pieces like that... cut to bits on the tracks... I have to switch of... you know, sometimes?” “You have to I said” suddenly shuddering in the taxi, “there is no other way...”
A few weeks ago, I took part in an Apples and Snakes writing workshop led by story teller ‘Sally Pomme Clayton”. The workshop was at the Imperial War Museum and our task was to go through the artefacts on display, choose one item and write something based on it. The steps were to conjure up a character, conjurer up the world of the character and see what comes. We focused on the world of evacuees; kids who were take out of the city of London during the second world war, who stayed in the country side. I found a letter by a girl called Charlotte which simply read: “Dear Daddy, I have eaten the beans I grew, I can tie my shoe laces in a bow. Charlotte”.
We also had to write in the 3rd Person external at first, THEN slip into the 3rd Person internal, which was brilliant. Writing in the 3rd person is typically ‘the voice of god’ which is used a lot in novels, an all seeing, all knowing voice that describes everything and anything. An external 3rd person voice is purely observational, says things as the appear and attempts to hint a emotional depth by which things are focused on. 3rd Persona internal is when the the voice slips into the head of one of the characters and tells you straight up. The interplay between these voices can be quite affecting.
So, this is what I came up with:
The sun is half sunk and slips soundlessly into the room in the way it has done since the summer turned. It brings with it the after rain, damp grass, the watered shell of a beehive and cold stone flowing through the window, past the just-lit lamp, settles comfortably in the kitchen. Charlotte’s sat transfixed on a space just above her pencil tip and the end of the chopping board resting on her lap. The sheet of paper on the board is ruled and waiting for words. Behind, her red coat droops a soft shadow onto her walking boots and the tabby cat purrs greedily rubbing her fur against the buckles.
Mrs Bennet calls from outside startling the cat, “Have you finished yet pumpkin?” Charlotte replies, “almost” and resumes her frown. ‘There are books’ she thinks, ‘rivers that run mayflies and magpies...’ She has watched the fog come in to rest on the house, her dreams aren’t stuffed with smoke anymore and though she tries, her mother’s scent has left her memory. Mrs Bennet calls “I’l be off to milk the goat, when I return we’ll be off to the post office, okay?”
Charlotte lifts the stub of pencil as the dusk light drains away. Mrs Bennet returns, lifts the letter, “Dear Daddy, I have eaten the beans I grew, I can tie my shoe laces in a bow. Charlotte”.
Work in progress.
I have one suit. My mother chastises me about this, begs that I purchase another, but I counter argue saying I’ve no place to wear the one I have to; only worn it twice. I have two corduroy blazers that pass for ‘smart/casual’. But when I gotta look fresh, like say I were to meet a queen, it’s what I’d wear, and what I wore to Buckingham palace on the 9th of May 2011. I caught a bus from Peckham High Street, through Victoria to Hyde Park. The irony was not lost on me, I, the son of immigrant parents, going through the chicken strewn streets of South East London - here, where our representative at the House of Parliament feels it necessary to wear kevlar before walking through in broad daylight - from here, to pretty much the heart of British establishment, class structure, colonial history, slave ships, warts and all... I got off at Hyde Park corner and walked down Constitution Hill, lost in my thoughts, nerves surrendered to Mos Def’s familiar voice, half closed eyes, oblivious to the cyclists flashing by till one cursed ‘GET OFF THE CYCLE PATH ASSHOLE’. I turned to retort with something its equal, till checking my footsteps, realised he was right. I was at the traffic lights, crossed the street towards the main gates and waited for KC and YB, friends of mine who too had been invited to the ‘Reception for Young People In the Performing Arts’. Another friend BM was across the road, her mother and aunt who fussing over, making sure her blue dress sat right, that her curtsey was perfect. I crossed over to say Hi, got a text message from KC who’d gone in already. BM and I waved to her folks, showed our invitations at the gates and stepped into the palace grounds.
It was big, grounds covered in reddish gravel crunching beneath our feet. We walked the inside perimeter of to the main entrance, up the red carpeted flight of stairs to the cloakroom/desk and deposited our bags/jackets in return for a rectangular white disk. Mine was numbered 333 and I made a joke to BM about a Nigerian in Buckingham palace and the devil’s digits. We retraced our footsteps turing right and up a wider, red-carpeted set of stairs. As you can imagine, the walls were draped with paintings, classical ones depicting who I took to be old royals in varying poses; everything gold leafed, foliage patterned, chandeliers, royal seals.
At the top, we turned into a row of stands differentiated by letters. I reached the one that held the first letter of my surname. ‘Mr Ellams?’ says he. ‘...er Yeah?’ says I. I believe we spelt your name wrongly? I looked to my invitation card where ‘Inua’ had been spelt ‘Innua’, a commonly made mistake ‘...er yeah?’. ‘Here’s another with the corrected spelling, we apologise for the mistake, keep the card with you at all time and enjoy you visit’. ‘Thanks’. Far end of the huge hall, a large number of suited and gowned folks, wine glasses tinkling, laughter tickling the air. BM and I were directed left and into another room. We grabbed drinks, looking over our shoulders for anyone else we knew. We spotted CB and TA from London’s Southbank centre. Every other face we knew was recognised from television or film doing their best, like us, to look like we fitted in.
Suddenly it was time to meet The Queen. A door I took to be a wall opened, we lined up and began marching towards that famous hand of hers, the one that waves. There were attendants flanking her and Prince Phillip who’d take the card from you, speak your name out loud so she’d say ‘How are you doing’ after, and you’d mutter something in response. I did not bow although my father advised me too, partly cause I feared I might head butt the lady, partly cause I didn’t think it necessary. She wore black gloves, I reached out for her hand trying to squeeze it lightly and she gripped mine with such force, I just about stifled my wince. ‘How do you?’ says The Queen. ‘Fine thank you, its good to meet you’ says I. That was it. We moved on. Through an even more elaborately decorated space, left, right and through to the performance room. It was massive, about 5 times the size of my house and garden. An orchestra in the far end, seats all around and the long rectangular stage in the middle. We sat and had to half-squint to make out other faces in the room. We stood up when The Queen came in, sat after she did then the show began.
It was quite clever actually. Sections of the story of Romeo and Juliet told through different stage arts: Ballet, Musical Theatre, Opera, Street Dance, R’n’B, Hip and Hop - all performed by young people. Good performers, alright music, crap sound and acoustics. At the end, we stood in utter silence for the Queen to leave, and the nervous quiet was broken by Helen Mirren, I imagine the only person who’d dare to, who whispered/spoke to the young performers waiting uncomfortably and statuesque on the stage ‘You were great by the way’. We filed out into another long space for the networking/drinks and little canapés/finger food bit. I made sure I used the loo just so I could say ‘I went to the palace and had a royal flush’. The most surreal moment of it all, was walking past Ellie Golding, who was chatting to Duffy, past Jamie Cullum who was talking to Jools Holland, to reach Speech DeBelle who I knew ages before she won the Mercury Prize. We talked for a few minutes and on the way back, saw Andrew Marr introducing Goldie to the Queen, with Kevin Spacey laughing in the background.
Anyway, they kicked us out at 8pm. KC and I had chosen sofas to sleep on till breakfast the next morning so reluctantly we left, down the stairs, collected our bags/jackets and crunched out towards the main gates. Someone kindly took a photo of us on YB’s phone, the only true evidence of the whole affair. I called my lady KL as soon as I left the palace grounds, and on the bus ride home one question nagged me, What was more expensive? Goldie’s gold teeth or the Queen’s outfit?
Inua x
Hit play and listen! Breis King EPMD - headbanger Common - Resurrection
Charlie Dark Eric B - Eric B for president Tribe Called Quest- Electric Relaxation
Zena Edwards Grand Master Flash - The Message Queen Latifah - Ladies First
Jacob Sam La Rose The Roots f/ Common - Act Too (Love of My Life) Blackstar f/ Common - Respiration
Joshua Idehen Method Man Feat mary J Blige - All I need Dizzee Rascal - Fix up look Sharp
Musa OKwonga Jay-Z - So Ghettp Nas - The World Is Yours
Nii Ayikwei Parkes Eric B. & Rakim - What's On Mos Def - Ms Fat Booty
Polarbear Aesop Rock - Daylight Pharcyde - Runnin'
Kate WuTang: Triumph Mos Def: New World Water
Gemma Dead Prez - Hip Hop Public Enemy - Rebel without a pause
Hit play and listen! Jay Bernard // Edan - I see colours 2Pac - Changes
Yemisi Blake // Mos Def - Umi Says Soweto Kinch - Intermission
Richard BLK // Nice & Smooth - Hip Hop Junkies London Possey - How’s Life in London
Malika Booker // Slick Rick & Doug E. Fresh - La Di Da Di A Tribe Called Quest - Scenario
Kayo Chingonyi // Nas - It ain’t hard to tell Jean Grae - Love Song
Hollie McNish Lauryn Hill - Doo Wop Dead Prez - hip hop
Roger Robinson // Freestyle Fellowship ft. Daddy-O - Innercity Boundaries Anti poop Consortium - disorientation
Nikesh Shukla // Respiration by Blackstar Eye Know by De La Soul
Ross Sutherland // Biz Markie - Make the music with your mouth Busta Rhymes - I make everything raw
Belinda K. Zhawi // Slum Village - Get Dis Money Black Star - Respiration
Inua Ellams // Common - The Light Lupe Fiasco - Superstar
Edinburgh, 2009, I collect my award and sit back to watch the rest of the show. A lady called Camille O’Sullivan gets on stage and sings a song that floors me, rips my guts out and rises a lump to my throat. The song was written in french originally by Jacques Brel. Jacques' birthday was this week and I got on the tube to find the lyrics. It is pure poetry, the rhythm is tight, the words, the language so precise and powerful: In the port of Amsterdam There's a sailor who sings Of the dreams that he brings From the wide open sea
In the port of Amsterdam There's a sailor who sleeps While the riverbank weeps With the old willow tree
In the port of Amsterdam There's a sailor who dies Full of beer, full of cries In a drunken down fight
And in the port of Amsterdam There's a sailor who's born On a muggy hot morn By the dawn's early light
In the port of Amsterdam Where the sailors all meet There's a sailor who eats Only fishheads and tails
He will show you his teeth That have rotted too soon That can swallow the moon That can haul up the sails
And he yells to the cook With his arms open wide Bring me more fish Put it down by my side
Then he wants so to belch But he's too full to try So he gets up and laughs And he zips up his fly
In the port of Amsterdam You can see sailors dance Paunches bursting their pants Grinding women to paunch
They've forgotten the tune That their whiskey voice croaks Splitting the night with the Roar of their jokes
And they turn and they dance And they laugh and they lust Till the rancid sound of The accordion bursts
Then out to the night With their pride in their pants With the slut that they tow Underneath the street lamps
In the port of Amsterdam There's a sailor who drinks And he drinks and he drinks And he drinks once again
He drinks to the health Of the whores of Amsterdam Who have promised their love To a thousand other men
They've bargained their bodies And their virtue long gone For a few dirty coins And when he can't go on
He plants his nose in the sky And he wipes it up above And he pisses like I cry For an unfaithful love
In the port of Amsterdam In the port of Amsterdam
David Bowie covered the song to great acclaim, did this gentle man did a good job, But here is Camile’s which struck me:
Camille voice does the song justice, it is emotional, strong, she gives it everything... again the voice lifts poetry, combined they are greater than the sum of their parts. And Camille is Irish, yup, we run tings!
Written on 03/04/2010. // His name is Ben.
We haven’t been introduced; I haven’t said ‘Hi’ to the waist-coated, blue blazered, artful dodgerish man smashing a red suitcase to the grounds of the courtyard. He is of the tribe of street performers I will meet over the course of the day. This is my first as Covent Garden’s creative in residence, I have a chesterfieldesq chair parked on the side of the courtyard close to the Royal Opera House. On my right is the rich food market, which to my unbreakfasted self, is both pleasure and pain. Sophie, who I have introduced myself to behind the Laveli stall waves, I make towards her but hear Ben, raw and relentless demanding attention, confidence thick as Covent Garden’s history cracking off his shoulders. ‘This is the home of street theatre’ he declares, ‘Not that that matters to you...’
He starts his act this way - cute, condescending comments at passerbys, ‘This is my mother’, he says gesturing to an older lady, who blushes embarrassed, playfully strikes his arms, but poses for a photograph. Five minutes pass and he has charmed the streaming pedestrian into a small pool of an audience. He spends the next ten setting the props for his performance about the grounds. He asks randomly, ‘Where are you from?’. Answers come thick and fast in varying accents, Spain, Portugal, Oslo, Edinburgh. To the American he asks, ‘You a tourist or have to come to learn the language?’
He then mime’s instructions on how to applaud and leads the gathered audience on a clapping and screaming spree until anyone within earshot is drawn. Finally, Ben begins the show. He juggles pins then knives. After the applause dies, he throws the pins at selected men in the audience asking them to hold up the objects. Keiron from Ireland, Tom from London and one simply called ‘Ipswich’. ‘Ladies and genl’men, for my grand finale, I need three volunteers and as these men have their hands up, give ‘em a round of applause!’
My phone rings, I find a corner for the call and when I return, Tom and Ipswich are on either side of Keiron, and Ben, Ben is standing on Keiron’s shoulder; ‘Stand Still! Keiron! I am speaking English!’. He proceeds to juggle knives. As he berates his ‘volunteers’, Ben asks for money, encourages the audience to be generous, that he does this full time, that this is the most honest way to earn a living, please give what you can. This is the show’s climax, a relatively unimpressive trick, I think.
But in the crowd’s dispersal, in their reach for wallets, as the the walls of the street theatre created by their bodies crumble and disappear, I realise the real trick had little to do with knives or juggle pins. The real trick was the set up: Ben’s ability to pull the child like want for a spectacle out of an audience and make, in a world of iMAX cinemas, death defying stunts and special effects, make the idea of a man throwing and catching things, mean something more.
Wouldn’t it be Laveli? (for Sophie)
I stride purposefully, point at her sign scoffing at its stylised misspelling.
Her impish grin glistens like a young Oliver Twist’s. It’s a French bakery
Sophie says correcting my mistake. Name is combined from his family’s
daughter LA.ura, wife VE.ronica and LI.bor his name. Round the corner
Drury Lane boasts a classic musical. Coupled with tourist feet, a new one
from this cobbled street plays among the Italian cheese, Ethiopian coffee
and other stalls. Hoping for change in a pocket or two, wouldn’t it be Laveli?
I have seen a bunch of these type videos, but never for scenes from movies! They work so well:
'coz he 'bout to drop sumn nu, I gi' you the king: Pharoahe Monch.
