Tag Archives: Adrian Mitchell

Poetry International ’84

There’s a lot of talk about how mainstream poetry is nowadays, but back in the 80s we were covered in national music papers, to a predominantly non-poetry audience. It seems to me, that whilst we are in a healthy place with spoken word, we’re still reaching to niche audiences. Who’s to blame? I leave that for you to decide.
The NME, 5 May, 1984 reviews that years Poetry International.

Latitude 2016

Sunburn: Ouch! Insect bites: 6 Poetry mug: Overflowing.
Latitude was the festival that really got poetry stages working, and popular at festivals. This year was no exception. There was a fine line up of established poets such as Don Patterson and Elaine Feinstein, as well as spoken word regulars Mark Gwynne Jones and Attila the Stockbroker alongside up and comers such as Emily Harrison and Bridget Minamore.
For the poets it’s as much an AGM as a chance to lounge in the sun with a beer and a chance to wander about listening to bands and posh people. The only bands I knew anything about this year were Squeeze, who were excellent, and New Order, who were never my cup of tea. I did get several people believing that John Barnes was gonna do his rap on World In Motion, so they at least gave me some comic potential.
I didn’t get there ’til satuday lunchtime so missed a fair bit, but the first turn I saw was the amiable Martin Newell. The Essex lad is a solid performer and brought humour and charm to his set, and the day’s best outfit.


Martin Newell and Tim Wells

Tim Wells did both a sober set and a drunk set on Saturday, and is gonna get a good review ‘cos he’s the one writing this.


Chimene Suleyman

Emily Harrison followed Tim and showed why she was best Spoken Word Performer of 2016. She gave us a set of poignant poems that were funny, engaging and the crowd warmed to. Her poetry about experiences in mental health wards are written in a way that invite the audience ito her life and see her as just another person rather than scream “I am a victim!” It’s this care over meaning that makes her so good. Emily’s Quinoa Is Only Spelt Like That To Out The Working Class was perhaps my favourite Latitude poem. Great writing, and the right audience. Politics can dress well and have a sense of humour. Pulling the rug from under someone whilst you smile is a far better political tactic than just stamping your muddy trainer all over their rug.
There was a great moment when Attila the Stockbroker exclaimed “So that’s how you pronounce quinoa!”
The lad himself turned in an hour long set and kept the pace frenetic. As you’d expect no shortage of political opinions there, and no shortage of humour either. Great to see him gigging as ever.


Tim Wells, Bridget Minamore, Attila the Stockbroker

Bridget Minamore is another fine young poet, and one who’s been doing a few Stand Up and Spit gigs too. She’s also direct and has a sense of humour.
Holly McNish read from her diary as well as doing some poems about motherhood from her recent collection Nobody Told Me. She had people in the crowd crying, as so many people recognised their own experiences in her sensitive, and human, work.

I managed down an ample supply of lager, the boss of the poetry backstage, Lisa, was an absolute star who kept everything running smoothly and was both helpful and a good laugh. Big up Stephanie on the gate too.
I shared a few jokes with a woman called Jack and she took me for salt beef beigels. Predictably the beigels were spelt bagels and were in fact just bread rolls with an ‘ole and the mustard was Dijon. But still better than quinoa.


It was also good to have a chat with Robin Ince and Josie Long, and to share a few beers with the ever-theatrical Alan Cox over at the Literature tent. Back to Poetry and Henry Normal sat down at the edge of the stage and did a lovely reading of his work. I know he’s a busy lad, but I wish he’d gig more.

Beer, beer, beer and back to the tent. The tent next to mine was I think the best of the festival.


Sunday was one hot day, and the poetry matched up. Helen Mort was the first act I caught of the day, and she’s always a joy. The audience liked her and she was a great start to my poetry day.
Jenny Lindsay is also someone who’s put in the poetry graft, she’s organised so much poetry in Scotland as well as campaigning for Scottish independence. Both feature in her hour long set, one that she’s having to frequently re-wrtie as the political events of the UK (it is at the moment!) unravel ever faster and ever more threadbare.
Chimene Suleyman took part in a panel reading from the anthology The Good Immigrant. She read an interesting peice about her name, it’s various mispellings and different way it’s used. Chimene always writes emotionally but always brings an objective view and a sense of humour.
After a chat with the charming Isy Suttie it was back to Poetry, with a share of Literature beer, half of those pwopah authors just don’t drink. Don Patterson had a bottle of whiskey and wasn’t sure how much to cane it before this reading. I suggested half sober/half drunk and keep the dramatic tension. His reading was quality and he, rightly, shifted plenty of copies of his Sonnets.
I caught Lisa Luxx in full flow and then there was a run of the grime type acts. Some of these just let the label do all the work for them, whilst others really delivered. Yomi ‘GREEdS’ Soli in particular was a lot of fun, nice bloke too, and a great set from him.
Special mention to Michelle Madsen, Rosy Carrick and Johnny Fluffypunk for some excellent hosting, never intrusive they built the atmosphere and kept the poetry flowing. Not to forget the rabbit who visited us several times backstage.


Latitude is famous for it’s brightly coloured sheep, which myself and Kyra went to find. They seemed bemused by their new pinkness, but bright pink they were indeed.


John Osbourne wore an expression of wasted bemusement all weekend, and fair play to him.



Beers with Jemima Foxtrot

John Hegley wound up the poetry with a textbook set. He involved the whole crowd who sang along and danced. He’s the most loveable grumpy teacher I know. Thereafter we managed a few beers and were delighted to meet Adrian Mitchell’s grand-daughter. The last time I’d seen Adrian was at latitude where we shared a portacabin. I as checking my flies before going onstage and, reading after me, he was checking his false teeth were in firmly. “Always be prepared, Tim” he told me. He’s a sad loss to both Latitude and Poetry but Poetry marches ever on. Based on the bill curated by Luke Wright it’s in good health.

Adrian Mitchell and Pauline Melville, 1978

International Times, March 1st 1978

IT was a hangover from hippydom, but both Pauline Melville and Adrian Mitchell gigged with ranters and had some edge.
The last time I saw Adrian Mitchell I was reading before him at Latitude and we were both backstage checking our poems. He asked if I had any rituals to calm nerves. “I just check my flies,” I told him, and asked ‘You?’.
He took out his false teeth and then stuck them in firmly, ‘Always good to be sure’ he said and laughed.
He was several generations before ranting but had a great love of poetry, especially when it had some heart and connected with working people.


Third Poetry Olympics, 1982

Rant Or Be Damned!
Third Poetry Olympics
Young Vic London

NME, 11th December, 1982


‘Poetry’ as a social force is no nearer the mainstream of rock, TV, football and politics than it ever was before.

The immortal bard C S Murray after the first Poetry Olympics NME Oct 4th, 1980

And so another year, another Poetry Olympics. The Michael Horovitz circus has come to town, or to be precise, the Young Vic – a precious outpost of alien, middlebrow culture landed somewhere behind Waterloo station.
The Horowitz groupies are here once more and so too Horovitz, “a man whose name is often mentioned,” (as CSM noted two years back) “when the question ‘Who is the worst poet in Britain?’ is asked.”
It is schlock-Horovitz – resplendent in cream waistcoat, green shirt and matching voice – who directs the proceedings, interrupting the flow to announce each poet with rambling excess.
Michael Smith lopes on oblivious, tam askew, to recite some cool verse. Skinny in casual trousers, stooped and stepping lightly to gentle rhythms, he has a slight humour and a narrow outlook.
Lacking the anger and snap-rhythm of LKJ, Smith spends too much time muttering about “the oppressed and the dispossessed” (Bah! A muttering black nationalist is a poet without rhyme or reason) But, at his best, he strews pert one-liners and clever declamations and, anyway, ‘Mi Cyaan Believe It’ has a truly great chorus.
Kevin Coyne came on twice, warbling warmly and ending his final reprise with a quote from Frank Randle, that hardest of comics. Others, like Elizabeth Shepherd, whine more miserably and quote the wrong people.
It takes Benjamin Zephaniah to shake up the flaccid banality of it all, the only poet to use words (to brutal effect) – the only poet who wasn’t a poet at all but a ranter.
The Olympics’ first PERFORMER., Zephaniah was magnificent. He flails his hands and heavy locks and shakes in a fit. Crashing thru’ lively monologues and linking sweetly, he talks to his audience, pulls them in and cracks them up.
A rare force, a class-conscious internationalist black writer, Zephaniah combines a taut, percussive vocal rhythm with a wicked political intelligence. If rant always meant rock, TV, football and politics, then now it means dreadlocks as well . . .
Roger McGough, lapsed king of beat alliteration, came back in a grey Mao suit to finish off the event.
He’s some fine moments as a writer, ‘struth, but though he pulled some laughs and laughed himself he sounds too tired, too best-years-gone.
Rant took the day and ‘poetry’ is still deluding itself. When the metre runs out, it’s time to go . . .
X Moore

Second half of the Poetry Olympics saw organiser Michael ‘Thatcher is a fascist dictator’ Horowitz introduce an assorted bunch.
Before the evening started I thought poetry was compositions in verse. Something I found impossible to squeeze from my school pen. Alvaro Pena Rojas (the Chilean with the singing nose) was the first of many to prove me wrong. He frantically chanted mainly incomprehensible lines – with the occasional four-letter word giving the impression of an asthmatic pervert.
Adrian Mitchell, a camp, beat poet was very funny – reliving schoolday bullying in ‘Playground Blues’ and advising us not to bind down our limbs with mortgages – maybe poets can never afford houses.
Heathcote Williams could be the epitomy of modern middle-class poets. A jumble clad pseudo tramp, with carefully placed holes in his jeans, who likes to shock his audience with swearing and references to Jesus’ sex life. The girls at the back tittered and blushed. Give me Benny Hill or Frankie Howard anyday.
The token black for the evening was Michael Archangel. A Lenny Henry dread who was serious and the all-white audience loved him. Preaching to the converted will not help.
Richard Jobson spat out his words with passion and fire. Acting out an account of growing up in Scotland, he convincingly played the various roles of priest, father and son. Like a radio play concerning hard drinking and religion, a Jobson ‘poem’ illustrates his intention of trying to establish himself as a serious actor. Maybe he should leave the 1930’s and join us in the 1980’s. That’s definitely where Attila The Stockbroker is.
Attila is relevant and understandable, not introspective and self-indulgent. Music is introduced, as Red Ruth (flute) and Lynn (squeezebox) helped Attila with his punk/folk/reggae/rap ‘Punky Civil War’. Highlight of the event was the Pythonesque monologue ‘Albanian Football’.
A breath of fresh air to finish off a very ‘alternative’ evening . . .
Alan Marke