Slam-ily?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been in Sydney too long. You know you’ve been in a city too long when the beautiful attractions become mundane. The food no longer interests you. You stop being able to distinguish between your accent and the accent of the people. You become cynical, spoilt. Yes, that is what I’ve become. The opera house, once strange, alien, artistic has become nothing more than a pretentious eyesore, the harbor bridge might as well be the brooklyn bridge, the surfers lost their sun-bleached blonde appeal, the poets lost their novel originality. I'm spoilt, I'm cyincal, bitter. I'm looking to the west once more. I'm looking for narrow ancient streets with no side walks, mediterranian sunlight, men in tight pants racing down the wrong way through a one way street on Vespas. I'm tired of English for a bit. I need to be immersed in the foriegn. I need to be overwhelmed, lost, in the best way possible. In a way that only southern European countries can.

It's not that i haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I haven't learned a lot. Australia was probably the country where I've experienced the most "personal growth" than any other place. I hit my wall here, and I came out alive and kicking. It's probably one of the most beautiful countries I've been to, with some of the most bizzarre personalities.

The concept of a slam-ily has crossed my mind mulitple times throughout this trip, and I often wonder if it is even possible to have a functional slam-ily. Spoken word artists are a strange cross-breed, a mix between entertainer (read: egotistical diva) and poet (read: introverted loner). So the idea of a functional slamily might exist, if only the entertainer part was less powerful. Oftentimes, especially in the case of poetry slams, because of the competition that exists (although, in theory slam poets “know” the competition doesn’t matter) poets begin to compare themselves to eachother. In certain places, places like Sydney, you just feel it. They size up their opponenets, whisper comments about stage presence and snicker at the useage of trite phrases. Healthy competition is great, it keeps poets original, keeps the audience interested, keeps the MCs on their toes. But I'm not convinced that's what's really going on here.

But the danger is, of course, that any sense of “family” will be eventually lost to the competition. Poets will eventually stop backing eachother up, and instead attempt to backhandidly sabatoge the other’s work, reputation, or both. Gatherings of poets will cease to be about getting feedback, sharing contacts, networking will be more of a preditorial activity, poets will sleep with event organizers and fabricate stories about other peots sleeping with event organzers in order to secure a gig. It will stop being about the poetry, it’ll start being about the ego.

I know this development is inevitable in the arts. In some countries and cultures, it’s a development that won’t occur for many years. In others, it is almost inherent within the scene.

Driving home from my last poetry event in Australia, I looked out my window and sighed. After being around so many performers in a group with a dynamic like this, I often walk away feeling drained but also thankful. Thankful for my third party status in the scene. Tired of the drama, the ego, the glitz and glam (an extention of hollywood theater, with fake plastic girls, fake plastic smiles). Not all poetry in australia is like this. I’ve seen amazing performances, met amazing people, been completely blown away by diversity, generosity and sincerity. But it was an interesting way to sum up my trip.

I know I try to be as polite as possible, after all, this isn’t my poetry scene, and so I don’t even have the right to comment or criticize. But at the same time, it is my job to examine. And after examining the australian scene for 3 months, I can honestly say that though there is a potential for a great big sydney slamily, it’s creation is doubtful at best.

Here’s the thing. At the night words festival, the phrase “modern day poetic campfire” was used in describing the festival. I can say fully, that nothing could’ve been farther than the truth. At a campfire, there is no diva. There is no host. It’s just people sharing their stories for no other reason than because it is what they love to do. It’s for the word. It’s for the poetry. It’s for the people.

It’s almost like the only thing important in a good poetry show is the poetry and the audience. The poet is simply a transport system for the spoken word to reach the ears of the audience. The poet is nothing.

But we are artists! We proclaim We have art! High art! Sophisticated art! Art that is more high and sophistcated than our peers! Sit back, audience, shut up and be amazed at MY art.


After the festival, I had the most bizzarre urge to take my notebook and a pen, find a secluded spot by the harbor and wrie something. Not just anything. Something sincere. Something honest. Not for me and my own enjoyment or fulfillment. Something for the sake of poetry and the sake of people and the sake of laughter and not taking it so goddamn seriously anymore. Something childish and innocent and true. Something that will hold attention not with on-stage shenanegins, but because it’s true. Not high art. Just words.