Open mic nightmares

In theory, it should work. An egalitarian, philanthropic and optimistic process in which plucky hopefuls or seasoned veterans of the circuit take to the stage to either surprise or delight the expectant crowd. But the reality of the open mic night is so very different. More often than not, open mic nights are about as easy to sit through as a public screening of your parents having sex on the platform of Clapham Junction at rush hour.

So who's to blame?

Often, it's the behaviour of the crowd. Recently, an absolute shower of pissed, jiggling Antipodean harlots descended upon the bar at my place of work and decided to crow inanely about Home and Away (or something) over the top of the guest performer who, predictably, happened to be a sensitive, rootsy singer-songwriter guitary type. These awful women responded to the artist turning up her volume by indignantly ramping up their own horrific squalls. As if this wasn't enough, a bunch of estate agents (see fig. 1) were simultaneously holding court at the other end of the bar, laughing about how they celebrated ripping off a bunch of students of their deposits by playing a marathon game of soggy Ryvita with each other (or something). I had hellish visions of the women and the estate agents disappearing off into the night to furiously copulate with each other in a vomit-stricken corner of Walkabout. And I really felt for the artist.

fig.1
The performers, however, must also show a robust degree of awareness in judging their audience and surroundings. Screaming "RESPECT THE MUSIC, MAN! THIS IS ART" at bystanders who have the nerve to enjoy a drink and have a bit of a chat in, you know, a pub, would raise the hackles of even the world's most reasonable man.

Thirdly, and most painfully, there is no direct correlation between the gumption of a have-a-go open mic hero and their level of talent. Perhaps he grimmest moment of my life happened a few years ago when a drunken troubadour took to the stage and announced that he was about to salute his recently deceased brother via the medium of song. Thirty minutes later, after one chord played a thousand times in an ocean of tears, someone plucked up the courage to get up and put him out of his misery. It was a sad show, but that was no 'Try Not To Breathe' or 'Knocking On Heaven's Door' up there. Put simply: he sucked, and if you suck, the crowd or your own attitude don't matter a jot.

I fondly remember one hazy student evening at the notorious(ly crap) Brighton rock haunt The Hobgoblin, when another such hopeful took to the stage. He resembled nothing so much as a whippet-thin Lenny Kravitz who had traded in the former's legendary sexual appetite for a speed habit of similar proportions. Having taken to the stage after being informed of the strict three-song limit, ersatz-Kravitz proceeded to circumvent the problem by playing a two-song set in which each song lasted an average of 17-and-a-half minutes. His set closer, following hot on the heels of his set opener, was a shamanistic dirge, featuring the anguished mantra "All kinds o' cheeses!" (later corrected disappointingly, but plausibly, to "Bow down to Jesus!" by my friend Tom). Nobody had the balls, or heart, or both, to stop him.

This leads me to the conclusion that this guy, and only this guy, should perhaps play all open mic nights, everywhere. Either him or the guy below. At least you know the audience would shut the fuck up and have something to talk about afterwards... AC




(make sure you watch til the end)