(People sometimes ask me what some of the lesser venues in the Liverpool poetry scene in the sixties/seventies were like. …This re-post  is a bit long – but here goes!)

 

 

The scene…Liverpool in the early seventies

 The place…The Gazebo restaurant in Duke street.

 The poet…Me…compering my first gig and ambitious to `civilise` the poetry scene.

 The poem…(printed on all the advert posters)

                 

Come inside and listen for a while

 

………………to the quiet sounds

Sit down and give your ears a little leave

In from the thudding decibels that pound

And grant the concussed spirit no reprieve

Don`t you know, sometimes your heart has need

Of a little space for hush and audience,

Your mind craves rumination – time to heed –

Your sensibility sustaining sense.

Come, join your own word-weavers gentle style

Here inside where friendliness abounds.

Sit down, be still, and –just for a little while -

Listen to the quiet sounds.

 

The warning…across the one posted in The Crack was scrawled the word `SHIT`.

The gig…The compere was late. His assistant whispered that a poet`s performing commune had turned up and wished to remain hidden in the next room, and would I just give a sharp rap on the door when we were ready for them.

 Mystified, he nervously passed Phil and Mick (two regulars) who were ominously wearing red clown wigs and grinning at him evilly.

 An expectant hush as the compere studied his list, then from the rear :

 Phil…Hey Mick, What did the young bull say to the old bull when they saw that herd of cows grazin` at the bottom of the field?

Mick…I don`t know…What did the young bull say to the old bull, Phil?

Phil…The old bull said,  let`s rush down there and f…k a couple of the those cows

Mick…Ah, but what did the old bull say back to the young bull, Phil?

Phil…I don`t know, what did the old bull say back to the young bull Mick?

Mick…The old bull said, lets just saunter down there slowly and f…k the lot of them.

Poetically irreverent sniggers. but with difficulty the compere restored order and called the first reader…a young, delicate chap with a fair, neatly trimmed beard and long blond hair…he gravely read  a very serious poem…There was dead silence

Loudly from the back: `Well, stuff me with the blunt end of a rag-man`s trumpet, it`s Our Lord`.

Again a difficult restoring of order and a lull as several more poets were called and read.

And then (obviously pre-planned) retired old Jewish headmaster Sid rose with four young girls and –hands joined- they pranced around singing a truly atrocious song of Sid`s called `the Gazebo`.  At the end of which caper he stood and seriously offered the copy-write it to any publishers who might be present.

Order was restored, the next reader was called…no one rose. a thin voice piped from the midst: ` I will read from the body of the proletariat` Whereupon a pale, puny, short haired guy in a bib and brace proceeded to read out his personal maoist manifesto in a dreary falsetto for a full ten minutes.

Thankfully there was then a (in those days alcohol–less) break.

Re-starting–it was time for the commune and the sharp raps on the door.

Suddenly, from outside came a deep chorus of Deutchland Uber Alles and a strange thin sound of stamping feet… The door swung open and in marched three guys, each dressed in an impeccable swastika`d German uniform tunic and steel helmet…lower halves clad in sexy, fish-net stockings and wearing smart, high-heeled shoes. They came to a halt and faced the audience, whereupon the middle of the three (with a Hitler moustache) began to rant a typical Hitler speech in mock German, as the other two –chanting `seig heil` - and saluting heil Hitlers -did chorus-girl high- kicks in unison to each side.

The speech and the kicks went on for about five minutes when a fourth, similarly dressed `stormtrooper` entered and – coming up behind the Hitler figure – slowly undone his tunic from behind…to reveal him wearing a plumply-filled bra, which (`Hitler` ranting all the way through) he proceeded to squeeze steadily, oozing out a gooey mess of spaghetti, jam, jelly, and God knows what. When the bra was empty  they gave a final `heil Hitler` turned smartly and marched out singing.

The applause was tumultuous, but – unbelievably – the commune ( I don`t think they even cleaned themselves) Never came back in…they just sneaked out without telling anyone. We never even found out their name (we suspected they were Jewish)    

Nothing could top that and, as some of the guys got out their guitars and struck-up, `Oh my Lord`, The `civiliser` slowly cleared up the mess and meditated on the sheer impossibility of ever civilising anything.