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lydyI live-tweeted this, but it was so very, very bad I just want to memorialize it at length.
The coffee shop closest to my house is Butter, and they are really good people. I woke up early on Friday, so I decided to go see if I couldn't find a dark Pokestop to conquer (I did) and then sit and eat an eclair and drink some coffee. I had forgotten that Butter has entertainment on Fridays. I order my coffee, and see that That Dude is up on the stage.
I do not know the performer's name. He's this white guy who plays keyboards and sings. To give him his due, he's on key, has a reasonable sense of rhythm, and generally his tempo is appropriate to his material. His material, on the other hand, is banal, the aural equivalent of watching paint dry. (As an aside, he should keep Bob Dylan out of his mouth. He makes Dylan sound pedestrian and bourgeois.) His patter is irritating, consisting of talking about famous people he has worked with, and generally stuffed with self-regard. One gets the impression he thinks he's one of the Greats, which the venue itself belies. It's just borderline douchey. He doesn't whine, and he doesn't trash other people, but it's just long on self aggrandizement and short on self-awareness.
I sigh, and sit down at a table. There are a few other people in the shop. He makes eye contact with me, and I smile politely. I am playing Pokemon Go, eating an eclair, and drinking coffee. Little did I know the fate that awaited.
He starts with some patter. He's got a reasonably good speaking voice, and just enough practiced charisma to gain attention. He says that he has been on this stage, always behind a piano. (IN point of fact, it's an electronic keyboard, but let's not quibble.) He makes a joke about always being behind a piano (keyboard!) but tonight, tonight is different. Tonight, he is going to read some original poetry. Lyrics, if you will, music without the music.
Reader, I should have fled. But it was hot as balls out, and I was still eating my eclair, and I thought, "How bad can it be?" This, by the way, is why I should never let my brain make decisions.
He begins with something so amazingly banal I cannot call any of it to mind. My tweet identified it as having denatured Christian themes. It wasn't even as interesting as prosperity gospel. It was more along the lines of isn't it nice that there's a God? He then moves into a poem about driving which is a badly broken metaphor for a twelve step program, with a pretty heavy emphasis on let go and let God. Excuse me, Higher Power. At some point, he also decides that we should snap our fingers, instead of clapping, because it's beatnik night. I do not Howl, though surely I felt like it. I certainly did not applaud, nor snap my fingers. He says a couple of other banal but self-centered things to try to encourage the audience to engage. I begin to look about me for sharp objects. Alas, my coffee cup is plastic, and so even if I broke it, it would not be sharp enough to either attack my assailant or open my veins.
He then -- and Dear Reader, I wish I were making this up but I am not -- begins to read a "poem" in the voice of Mickey Mouse. I believe the conceit is that Mickey is attempting to seal a deal in Hollywood? I am unsure. I am beginning to doubt my own sanity. Surely I am hallucinating this? I begin to think that hot as balls and getting to work 45 minutes early is vastly preferable to the current ordeal.
And then --
The coffee shop closest to my house is Butter, and they are really good people. I woke up early on Friday, so I decided to go see if I couldn't find a dark Pokestop to conquer (I did) and then sit and eat an eclair and drink some coffee. I had forgotten that Butter has entertainment on Fridays. I order my coffee, and see that That Dude is up on the stage.
I do not know the performer's name. He's this white guy who plays keyboards and sings. To give him his due, he's on key, has a reasonable sense of rhythm, and generally his tempo is appropriate to his material. His material, on the other hand, is banal, the aural equivalent of watching paint dry. (As an aside, he should keep Bob Dylan out of his mouth. He makes Dylan sound pedestrian and bourgeois.) His patter is irritating, consisting of talking about famous people he has worked with, and generally stuffed with self-regard. One gets the impression he thinks he's one of the Greats, which the venue itself belies. It's just borderline douchey. He doesn't whine, and he doesn't trash other people, but it's just long on self aggrandizement and short on self-awareness.
I sigh, and sit down at a table. There are a few other people in the shop. He makes eye contact with me, and I smile politely. I am playing Pokemon Go, eating an eclair, and drinking coffee. Little did I know the fate that awaited.
He starts with some patter. He's got a reasonably good speaking voice, and just enough practiced charisma to gain attention. He says that he has been on this stage, always behind a piano. (IN point of fact, it's an electronic keyboard, but let's not quibble.) He makes a joke about always being behind a piano (keyboard!) but tonight, tonight is different. Tonight, he is going to read some original poetry. Lyrics, if you will, music without the music.
Reader, I should have fled. But it was hot as balls out, and I was still eating my eclair, and I thought, "How bad can it be?" This, by the way, is why I should never let my brain make decisions.
He begins with something so amazingly banal I cannot call any of it to mind. My tweet identified it as having denatured Christian themes. It wasn't even as interesting as prosperity gospel. It was more along the lines of isn't it nice that there's a God? He then moves into a poem about driving which is a badly broken metaphor for a twelve step program, with a pretty heavy emphasis on let go and let God. Excuse me, Higher Power. At some point, he also decides that we should snap our fingers, instead of clapping, because it's beatnik night. I do not Howl, though surely I felt like it. I certainly did not applaud, nor snap my fingers. He says a couple of other banal but self-centered things to try to encourage the audience to engage. I begin to look about me for sharp objects. Alas, my coffee cup is plastic, and so even if I broke it, it would not be sharp enough to either attack my assailant or open my veins.
He then -- and Dear Reader, I wish I were making this up but I am not -- begins to read a "poem" in the voice of Mickey Mouse. I believe the conceit is that Mickey is attempting to seal a deal in Hollywood? I am unsure. I am beginning to doubt my own sanity. Surely I am hallucinating this? I begin to think that hot as balls and getting to work 45 minutes early is vastly preferable to the current ordeal.
And then --
-- he says, "And this one is in the voice of Shatner." I gather my plate and my coffee and begin to flee. Behind me, I hear the absolute worst impersonation of Shatner doing bad poetry that I have ever heard. I exit into the steamy, Midwestern evening, chased by the sound of a man, pretending to be Bill Shatner, saying, "But what is the mind?"
I would just like to say, no one died.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-27 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-27 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-27 09:39 pm (UTC)Well, not before you left, anyway.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 09:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 05:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 08:39 pm (UTC)And can I just say that I am sad that no one has appreciated my Allen Ginsburg joke?
no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 08:43 pm (UTC)