Host Dan Vaughn takes the stage. The music comes down.
“Welcome everybody. Thanks for coming out. We’re not starting yet. I’d like all the slammers to meet me by the front door and after that I’m looking for judges, watch out.”
Six poets head over to the doorway and form a huddle with Dan. I can’t hear what he’s telling them but I can guess. He’s laying out the format of the evening which turns out to be two rounds with the scores being cumulative, and the high-scoring four out of the six till go on to the finals night for determining the Milwaukee national slam team.
Ten minutes later the room has filled up. All the seats and sofas occupied. About fifty people. Dan is back at the microphone. “Welcome to the Still Waters Poetry Slam. How ya doing? … I said, How ya Doin’?”
And with our cheers the show begins.
I’m so wrapped up in the music I fail to notice that its 45 minutes past the schedule show time. Ron points that out reminding me that one of the founding principles of the Green Mill slam was “start on time and finish on time.”
That principle ran contrary to almost all poetry readings of the day and was critical to the Uptown Slam’s early success. No new audience member wants to arrive on time to an event only to wait … and wait … and wait for things to get started. It’s bad form. And no matter how enjoyable the pre show music might be that newbie will probably never return. But it hasn’t this night.
Dasha Kelly delivers a love poem as the sacrificial poet and rocks the house so well one of the judges scores her performance 11 breaking the one to ten rule. Next, another love poem that scores 23.5 and the competition is rolling.
Nigel Wade and a young man named Ryan are the high scorers in the first round. Both with a 29.7. Both with tributes to past musicians and singers.
I am gladden by the fact that each of the six competitors has their own style and own perspective. No one is shouting. None of them felt like they had to fill up all three minutes of the time limit with redundant phrases or overwrought language.
As is anywhere some performance clichés were surfaced: the spread-fingered hip hop hand gestures and rapid fire deliveries. And some over-used, needless, and meaningless phrases were inserted into the texts for fake authentic emphasis: “you see I …” But for the most part Round One was an enjoyable spectrum of thought, language, style, and passion.
Then this old guy got up and spewed a lot old school philosophical “do be do.” When he finished we were all ready for Round Two.
