BALTIMORE/DC REPORT


Flarf Mafia Dons: "Coach" Sullivano, "Don" Smithoni, "Lucky" Koeneketti

Flarf in Baltimore is not necessarily irrelevant, but maybe a bit redundant, given John Waters, sure, but even more so: “Blaster” Al Ackerman. The last time I was in Baltimore, Ackerman was featured in Baltimore’s weekly City Paper, although an ankle injury kept him out of Normal’s Bookstore, which I visited, hoping to finally meet the one living poet I can think of who I’d blow off just about anything else to go see read.

He’s now in his late 60s and, according to a couple of people I talked with, apparently suffered a mini-stroke a month or so ago. He’s back on his feet, and has two new books out, which Rupert Wondolowski published, and which I’m very eager to get my hands on. I hope he’s going to be okay.

Baltimore is a huge city, parts of which look like Almost Anywhere in Europe, given the number of 18th Century churches everywhere.

The reading at Dionysus was great fun, even given what felt like a somewhat aggressive edge to some of the readings, my own in particular. Brandon’s films were a big hit, as usual. Drew read a couple of poems, my favorite being “Fuck You For Being a Fucking Fraud.” Katie read a few from Anger Scale, and Nada had several people come up to perform her play, “The Dressing Room.” Michael read a number of pieces from his books and other, unpublished poems, including “Why I am Not a Painter.” Mel brought the house down with her “James Joyce Gone Wild” and Rod did a very convincing Dylan impression, during a reading punctuated with a few Louis Armstrong “Bah bah bah boos.” Rodney read from Musee Mechanique and Sharon read a number of things from her forthcoming Annoying Diabetic Bitch, including the title poem, which ended the reading on its most aggressive, funniest, note. A few more Brandon films, and then we hung out in the bar beneath the restaurant, talking, gossiping, exchanging books. Chris Toll gave me a copy of his and Buck Downs’ Be Light / Recreational Vehicle. I finally got to meet Rupert.

The next morning we piled into separate cars and made the trip to DC for the DCAC reading. Wow, what an amazing reading space. A full theater, with stage area, giant screen, and real (comfortable, even!) “theater”-style seating.

A really good crowd. The readings here--in part because of the nature of the crowd and in part the pitch-perfect theater space--were, I thought, much better than in Baltimore, which is not to say that those were bad. It’s just that the vibe was more relaxed, and as a result, everyone seemed a bit more playful, open to a bit more exploration and improv. Katie read a couple of recent pieces not in Anger Scale, including “I Love Making Love to Finns,” which was utterly sublime. Mike killed with his reading of the “Soooo Presidential” poem (the real title of which escapes me). Nada’s “I Hate Women” was mind-blowing. I read a piece for Tom Orange, who was in the audience, that I’d written Googling successive lines from one of my favorite Coolidge books, Solution Passage. Rod and Mel, both totally in their element, gave equally sublime, relaxed readings. Drew was totally hilarious, the work simultaneously various and on target. Rodney’s from-memory reading of “Pizza Kitty” was even better than the You Tube version from NYC.

But what most impressed me was Drew’s conducting of the Flarf Orchestra. You could not have assembled a more rag-tag group of musicians, myself in particular, all of us save perhaps Leslie Poirier and the Brainwave Chick, being amateurs. Drew has really gotten the flash-orchestra thing down in such a way that he seems to be able to get at exactly what each person has within them, whether they know it or not. What had sounded, during rehearsal, like the potential for the most cacophonous mess, became, at Drew’s shrewd exploitation of textures, individual enthusiasms, and sudden resonances, a set that would not have felt entirely out of place on an early Sonic Youth LP. The readers were great.

After the reading, the snow was coming down so furiously that we worried we weren’t going to get to the train station on time. Everyone else, save Michael, who had a 9:00 p.m. flight, went across the street to a bar—an after-event party that Nada and I sadly had to miss. (We got a ride from M. Magnum ((sp.?)) and made the train on time, despite the sudden snowstorm, which let up just as we were passing the Capitol Building.

Got some goodies to go, as well: A DVD and chapbook from Buck Downs, several Narrow House CDs from Justin Sirois. Talked briefly with the great Tina Darragh, Tom Orange, Buck, Justin, and Cathy Eisenhower, who had put together the event. I told Cathy how jealous I was of that space—nothing like it, other than perhaps the BPC, which is a bit more diffuse of a performance space, given the bar and café in the front, exists in NYC, at least for poetry events.

Nada and I slept almost the entire way home on the train. This morning Nada was up early to upload photos to her flickr account and prepare for class, and I’m about to go chain myself to the drawing table.

[Pics from Baltimore here, courtesy of Kaplan Harris.]