Review : The Fringe is an Utter! experience

From here on in - it's all going to be Edinburgh reviews - to kick start here is an interview with Richard Tyrone Jones who is running the Utter! Spoken word nights

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

ThreeWeeks has a word with the ringmaster of Spoken word

‘Utter!’

Roll up, watch poets

Read, drink, then eat their words, free-

flow, fall-down comets!

Comedy, musicals, dance, opera and street acts are all performance arts that the average Fringe adventurer might expect to see in abundance. However, one art form - like a nervous marmoset - who has rarely tested it’s popular appeal by elongating its spindly paw into the bright roaring jungle of festival madness, has stayed in the dark. But now, one man - who is so unnerved about being popular that in his own words he “is as proud to be a ginger as any other ethnic minority should be of their heritage” has dared to snare the marmosetian art form and unleash it - in all its glory - under the scorching heat of the Fringe audience. This scarce and endangered medium is spoken word, and its ring-master is Richard Tyrone Jones and his varied show Utter!

Having successfully run Utter! on the London circuit for the last five years, Jones has decided to bring his show to “one of the most poetic countries in the world” to “reach a wider, non-London audience and tap into the talent of Scotland”. And tapped he has, hosting a variety of different shows such as: “Utter! Scots on Tuesday, August 12th,” simply “because often Scots feel like us Sassenachs are invading for a month so we’re showcasing talented local bards”, “Donut Night on Saturday 15th, featuring the recently published works of John Hegley, Tim Wells and Tim Turnbull from Donut press collections” accompanied by “a Cool Hand Luke-style donut eating competition” which is “open to all” and “Utter!’ Dead poets & puppets society on Friday 21st” where the man himself will “channel the spirit of Ted Hughes for ‘The Sylvia Plath story: in puppets” promising us that it is in “not as poor taste as you might imagine!”

But why now? After years of poetic dehydration, why will a spoken word show quench the thirst of Edinburgh’s eloquent elite? Is it enjoying a revival due to the acceptance of Carol Ann Duffy to Poet Laureate-ship and a few well placed shows on BBC 4? Jones believes the former to be true, but not due to the copious amounts of sherry that have become available to Duffy, explaining “the quality’s always been there but now it’s getting press thanks to lively nights like: ‘Utter!’, Luke Wright and his Latitude festival stage, and acts like Scroobius Pip, PoeJazzi and MC Dockers, some of whom have beards, but don’t mumble into them.” He adds that “festivals are open-minded enough to put poets on alongside top name comedians, authors and musical acts, and so am I. In ten years, I’ll fill Wembley with spoken word acts. Wembley Social club, that is.”

He also rightly suggests Edinburgh is the perfect pitching ground for less-mainstream performance types due to the “open-mindedness” of the audience; “An Edinburgh audience is up for comedy, music, cabaret, puppetry, all in one day, and at ‘Utter!’ they’ll get a bit of each in one hour, in poetic form, often from the same act.

It seems then, that if your bore of the usual Fringe safari and fancy a real adventure off the beaten track, to see the rare and the beautiful, you should venture down to the dark recesses of Fingers Piano Bar because, as Jones states, “Edinburgh should expect the unexpected from us,” and be rewarded with “poetry with a good sense of humour and humour with a poetic sensibility”

Utter! Spoken Word, Utter!/PBH’s Free Fringe, Fingers Piano Bar, 8-29 August, 17.30(18.30), Free Non-ticketed, fpp 108

Tom Peel

Poetry : Your insistent disregard for my blatant sexual desire for you, has left me bored of life and equally unfulfilled at the prospect of death

Through grimy back door pubs,

Through lonely time-stopped queues,

Through dour, drab taxi ranks,

I still couldn't find you.

Through green growing hills,

Through the layered dog poo,

Through rotten, starving live stock,

I still couldn't find you.

Through towns without a home,

Through greyscale avenues

Through tenants housed to die,

I still couldn't find you.

Through slave driven commodities,

Through a tongue-scorching brew,

Through worn, cracked china plates

I still couldn't find you.

Through the latest playground fad,

Through middle-class fondue,

Through kids mixing in adult games,

I still couldn't find you.

Through the shoes of the crocodile,

Through the meals on kangaroo,

Through piano's played by elephants,

I still couldn't find you.

Through all the different mindsets,

Through each day being your debut,

Through different reactions to mundane things,

I still couldn't find you.

Through spelling your name with an S,

Through getting a tattoo,

Through realising your name was spelt with a C,

I still couldn't find you.

Through finding different cultures,

Through escapades in Peru,

Through finding culture all the same,

I still couldn't find you

Through smothered in my bed all day,

Through catching my final flu,

Through realising t'was but a cold,

I still couldn't find you

Through waking up for twenty years,

Has faded life to blue

And death's as exciting as tea at nans

So I just don't know what to do.

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Dog Walking

The reeds welcome us on avenues.

They wave their tiny heads.

We walk long trodden paths.

My infant footprints more your size now.

I imagine we used to rest here.

You naming the trees and hills.

I standing precariously on trig point.

The wind battling me for the peak.

They scattered you down, glen-side.

You overlook the brook on flat tamed ground.

You're bored and cramped by inner city tourists.

They have days out on accessible moorland.

You should be here, on highest moor top.

The four foot marble pillar, your testament.

You orchestrating the elements.

People on pilgrimages to your point.

I only have other peoples memories.

I invent one here for you and me.

We are sat together, Grandpa and Grandson.

Appreciating the frozen bite on our nose tips.

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Tommy's Asylum

How proud I felt, sat there, gazing in my

mirror, as purple gel swept through my scalp,

braking the silk feel as I massaged my

hair in circular motion into hard spikes.

I drew my face into equinous shapes

as I applied moisturiser with heavy

hands, gouging my skin into a youthful

face. Donning my violet shirt, I ventured out.

With the rain flashing in puddles like snakes,

sky-blue, writhing in a pit, the fifteen

minute walk, was drenched out of my lazy mind.

I took out my phone and called for a taxi.

"Fifteen minutes" they said. Ironic, but

I would be warm and dry. Twenty minutes

later a car pulled into my street, with

Goat's Taxis emblazoned on the door side.

I arrived at the Asylum, standing

among the hordes, pushing and jostling

as we entered the shadowed hall - the light

attracted us to the bar like moths.

"Five squashed frogs" was the generic order.

Sickly yellow shots, burning like hot oil,

as one by one we pushed them down our throats,

while our greedy eyes gurned and searched for more.

An as the poisoned-drink, hit our bellies

an then our eyes, I saw you there, a cow

on the dance floor. In an bluey dress, pushing

up your tits, right inyuh face, you looked nice.

My insides was fiery with brimstone as

I lustfully watched and sumat twiched down

there, yuh-no. I leaned to my mate an said

"She definitely wants one from Tommy!"

"Not if that cunt has ought tahdo wid it!"

He sez, as some lad who thinking that hes

tha dogs bollocks, starts getting off with you

an slips one of is finguhs inyuh bra.

"Youse lookin green pal" ma mate sezta me

"Go furah chunda!" Threw the toilet daws

ah spilled ontuh duh sink where ah splashed

some icey water inmeh fuggin face

"Looks like you've had one too many!" I ears

I lugs upinduh fayse of duh cunt who

was pullin you (slag) "Fugof" ah shouts an

swing fuh him, but the fugin cunt doghis

Es got me in a bear-hug an smashes

me onduh mirra. i sees vuh red stuffs

triglundun mafayse as he threttens tuh

brake alohme lugs and alohmeams

I get he schort ted owt of Aslyum

Sos ontuh Primea tuh get sum Ratmeet

ina pitta layed owt in one ofvem

litul oringch bockses an ex ter ra cheeps

Fuggin hav a bur gur too justabe

shaw wasa cunt itsgundunmehshurt Fuc

Sit on vis parkbench an wipe it aroff

ah vink parcbencheese are undahrighted

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : My first Hai-kiss

The girl that is sexy,

Is the one that with a glance

Turns her back to me

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : An Idiots Guide to the Death of Human Beings by a Literate Fly on a Variety of Walls

A human "being" is a curious name for

a species who spend half of their lives

lying in the dark competing with each other,

to see who can silently imitate their deaths.

Yet, when they have mastered this art

they are tested in the purest buildings

to see how many blips are left in a

machine connected to their soul.

The victor receives a glorious ceremony,

where it rains (without clouds) on the faces of the herd.

The human "resting" is then either, stored away

in the basement, gravely marked for later use,

or digested by grabbing orange spear-heads

until they are baked in a ceramic pot filled to the

brim with colourless sand and taken to

a cliff, trig point or mantle piece

to be disposed of, as the herd huddles

together against the wind and the weather

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry :The Overdressed Whore

Among the strobes and the beer-stuck floor,

You will find my protagonist, the overdressed whore,

Wearing loose clothes, which she left at the bar,

Unless she came out wearing just knickers and bra.

She spins like a whirligig, twirling her head,

Whilst the lads, for a bet, will take her to bed.

She's the last resort, the three am vice,

If you've had a barren night, she will suffice.

You can see her every morning, walking back at eight,

A degraded reflection of an amorous night,

Panda-run eyes, stilettos in hand,

A false number on her arm, blurred and signed

"I should find out the name of the overdressed whore,"

I think, as she slips shyly out of my door

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated