It would be easy for a show that’s been going so long to fall into a formula, but even after twelve years this annual spoken word battle remains as full of surprises as ever. The queue outside the Concorde is proof of its ongoing and growing popularity: by the time we make it into the rammed main room the showcase round is already underway. With Tom Hines (Slip Jam:B) and Rosy Carrick (Hammer & Tongue) at the helm as joint hosts – themselves an amusingly antagonistic double act – the two teams take turns to limber up with some solo set-pieces, before the battle proper.
From the poet’s side we hear Chris Parkinson’s comedy prophesy about the rise to power of the Grammar Nazis in the wake of “the night of shattered syntax” as well as newcomer Michael Clark’s letter from St Paul to the Corinthians set to the structure of Eminem’s ‘Stan’, minus the Dido bit. Continuing the letter-writing, Verity Spott addresses the Tory Party on behalf of the people of Brighton, lambasting the city’s gentrification and general slide into smug yuppiedom, all epitomised by the phallic erection of the i360 tower. The mix of styles and esoteric themes don’t jar at all in this strange hybrid scene; it goes down a storm.
Meanwhile, from the other side of the stage, we get some new talent from the rap stable. We’re introduced to Bobbie Johnson and her fierce, tightly-packed wordplay before being treated to Slam & Kema’s impressive to-and-fro rhyming routine, backed by some effortless beatboxing from Karel Cox. However, the biggest cheer of the round goes to Gramski’s ‘British Girls In Bangkok’ – a true story about tourists taking the piss out of showgirls which morphs into a tribute to all the women in his life and ends as a kind of triumphant feminist shout-out. Even more apt coming the day after The Sun’s stupid Page 3 wheeze, Gramski’s piece also debunks several rapper stereotypes along the way. As one poet told us last week: “Misogyny and homophobia were booed off stage years ago, never to return.”
That’s not to say there isn’t any fighting talk. Following a freestyle cipher in which the MCs remind us how they’ll always have the edge over the poets when it comes to on-the-spot lyricism, the crowd is suitably stoked for the final battle round to begin. Things get nasty quick – but first a little history. Last year the poets’ winning streak was broken by a concerted effort by the MCs which included recruiting one of Rizzlekicks, getting Professor Elemental onboard and persuading a former poet to cross the floor and swap sides.
Tonight the defector in question, Spliff Richards, is called out for harsh lyrical grilling by head poet Rosy Carrick. Denounced as a traitor and an infertile dopehead, Mr Richards is also forced to witness his material cut to pieces by Rosy’s surgical sarcasm. We all assume it’s nowt but a joke between friends, but Spliff seems genuinely thrown when he tries to retaliate. The floundering rapper is rescued by his teammate Harry Truman, a fifteen-year-old whose turn on the mic is as fearless as it is flawless.
By now the atmosphere has changed. Though many of the pieces are rehearsed, most of the onstage goings-on clearly aren’t. Verity returns, visibly drunk, and slurs her way through an otherwise on-target diatribe about Margaret Thatcher, the very mention of her name eliciting room-wide booing. The sense that anything can happen is heightened when Michael Parker is halted mid-poem by a rapper challenging him to improvise. Starting slowly, the poet takes the gauntlet, forcing out words for the sake of saving face only to explode in a full-throttle freestyle that settles the score.
Then Spliff Richards makes his return, conducting a spoken word slam against himself. Jumping from mic to mic he delivers a kind of schizophrenic Fight Club rap which turns the whole concept of the night on its head and earns a roar of applause, like some prize fighter comeback – prized all the more for dodging the below-the-belt stuff and going for something self-deprecating and totally inventive.
After this the teams leave the animosity behind, perhaps taking their cue from Spliff’s reconciliation with his alter ego (“the gear will be cheaper if we go halves”) and possibly the spirit of the Poets/MCs pre-season friendly at the Spiegeltent last summer. Poet Robin Lawley hilariously abstains from the battle, while MC Jon Clark and co come on for a show-stopping singalong pointing out the obvious kinship between all tonight’s wordsmiths and urging them to “call the whole thing off”. Then Michael Clark (no relation, but the name helps make the point) closes the night with an excellent multiple persona mini-play couched in faultless, rapid-fire poetry. It encapsulates all that’s gone before and is funny as hell. The traditional end-of-night crowd vote is then called off, in favour of mutual respect, as the crowd surges outside for air.
Later that night we see people in the street discussing the show, people on buses telling their mates about it and pubs full of punters recounting favourite snippets. They might be arguing the toss, but it’s all testament to the simple power of words. We’re already waiting for next year.
Concorde2, Thursday 22nd January 2015
Words by Ben Bailey
Photos by Mike Tudor
