Alex SheremetAs I read Mumbles and the Dust’s liner notes last night, I suddenly had a bad feeling: “Freestyle Theater explores art as community, challenging every person in the audience to become a member of the cast. The result is participatory theater at its best – as electric and mesmerizing as white noise on a tv screen.” I’ll generalize, but… artists with a clique, a grand ‘artistic’ theory, and chronic, nigh-incestuous exposure to little else but their own art, or style, or approach, will rarely do anything of real value. A clique is rarely critical – it’s ‘supportive,’ no matter how gross the artistic indiscretion; a theory, while sometimes workable, is often too intrusive, taking the focus away from art itself; and limited exposure prevents artistic growth beyond a perfunctory sense of talent, or potential. And so, Mumbles, in its philosophical theory, conflates ‘art’ with ‘community,’ ‘audience’ with ‘performer’ – these things are not the same, and although I understand Mumbles’ democratic views, and even sympathize with them, I doubt whether those believing in ‘art as community’ will ever place art first.
Is that a problem? Not to everyone, and certainly not to Mumbles. But, I am here to critique precisely that – art first. I really can’t ignore art and grade the sum based on its political value, or whatever else. In “Black Cock,” there are too many secondary concerns, and rarely enough effort in the alleged core of the matter: art itself, which is why it fails so visibly. And this applies to spoken word poetry as a whole, a ‘democratic,’ performative scene that, in the end, is just sloppy, and justifies the fact with even more slop. Like all poems, a spoken word piece is usually a rambling, verbose, clichéd, and incorrigible rant. And judging by its artists’ loving enunciation of the above, they really love ’em, for reasons beyond art (again, I have no problem with this), and might never budge.
Preface done, Mumbles and the Dust is a duo of Baraka Noel (from what I’ve heard so far, a better rapper than poet) of Citizens of Sleep, and Dusty Rose, a spoken word poet of Code Octopus. I can’t discuss the ‘music,’ as it’s practically non-existent on this album. There are occasional sound effects, drums, and samples, but that’s all – a minimalist affair, which is a shame, really, since Mumbles could have really used something to break the monotony, or otherwise enhance the total package. Some occasional (but brief) rapping helps, though.
“Avocado” starts with a short, obscure sample and drum, but immediately moves into a slightly humorous, disconnected ‘tale’ about San Francisco, an expensive sandwich, and a gay avocado, with Dusty Rose giggling in the background. I guess this is what they mean by “challenging every person in the audience to become a member of the cast.” In “Deb Gets Fucked,” Dust recites a poem on polyamory, offering:
“At school with no teacher
Melissa’s beer kisses leak on Tinkerbell’s belly
don’t know what to do with a girl who doesn’t want me
Rochelle, I’m sorry
late-night van kisses confessions sex party girl orgy
…
Eventually, we re-learned geometry
forming impossible angles with bed-cover parabolas”
Notice the aimless run-ons (indicative of “passion,” in spoken word patois), the squeezing of syllables into breath-lines, and cutesy imagery: “beer kisses leak,” “bed-cover parabolas,” and so on, which mangle a potentially good concept into nothing. In “Thanks, Ma,” Baraka Noel, speaking of his mother, notes “I think she wishes death on others as a kindness,” and Dust offers an emphatic “what?,” to spin, perhaps, some kind of depth, a genuine confusion or curiosity, out of something made neither deep, nor curious:
“She restrains from killing them
I’m glad she hasn’t killed herself
she hasn’t tried in a very long time
and we all appreciate it
Thanks, ma”
Note I said “made” – that is, there is no reason such a concept or, in Baraka’s case, a real-life situation, actually lacks depth, or curiosity, or whatever. Still, there is no way for me to know its value independently – I can only go by the text on the page, or the poem on my headphones, and judge its execution. Interestingly, Baraka restrains himself – slightly longer than a minute, “Thanks, Ma” is detached (i.e., Baraka does not indiscriminately effuse all over the track, like on most of the album), taut, and could, even with its simple language, become a strong spoken word piece with a couple of adjustments: a commentary, explicit or implied, and a few more surprising juxtapositions, as in “I’m glad she hasn’t killed herself/ She hasn’t tried in a very long time,” but actually musical, and memorable.
And, musicality – as poetry, and especially as spoken poetry, I’d expect some creative rhythm. Spoken word sometimes has it, sometimes not – above, it doesn’t, and could use it. Of course, not every poem has the same needs – some need length, others brevity; some, a clash of sounds, others, more subtlety, and so on – but I doubt there have been many good pieces, in poetry, or prose, purely inattentive to sound. At times, Dust on “Ryler” does this well:
“As I watched your eyebrows
like pine boughs on snow
drawing your mind across your forehead”
as sound follows sense, but does not clutter. It still fails for lack of depth and sheer verbosity Рthree minutes can be cut to thirty seconds, to great effect. Instead, it is the same idea, wound over and over again to no real conclusion, and a few nature/person clich̩s:
“That if I held out my arms under the sun
my grey skin would sprout buds
that would unfurl into green stems and leaves
and my eyes – blossom, like purple poppies”
“Car Poem” is performed by Dre Johnson, who is not a member of the group. It is the prototypical spoken word piece: a shallow but cutesy string of double-entendres on sex, driving, and braggadocio. In short, it’s full of “stick-shifts,” “rides,” and so on, with precisely the subtlety and nuance you’d expect here. It’s not memorable, and you’ve heard it all before, and if you haven’t, I have. In fact, if you’re not sure how common these sexual themes, or humor, run in spoken word, consider this. I spent a few months with a spoken word group in New York City in 2004, and the moderator asked us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object. About half chose a condom. And I bet the other half at least thought about it.
“The Nigger Song” is the album’s only real highlight – or, at least half of the song is. It starts out rather well, a bit sing-songy and folksy, like a parody of minstrel shows, which works far better in performance than it does on paper:
“The wonderful thing about niggers, is niggers are wonderful things
Our cocks are made out of rubbers, our autumns are made out of spring
We’re bouncy, trouncy, pouncy, flouncy, tra-la-laaaaa
And the most wonderful thing about niggers is our next president’s gonna be one”
Unfortunately, Baraka does not keep up with the momentum. I suspect, then, this parody was not really conscious, as it degenerates into strange and almost random outbursts, like “Marilyn Monroe blowing Jackie Robinson on Mount Rushmore,” or “The Harlem Renaissance fucking J. Edgar Hoover in the ass on video!” In fact, it could have been an excellent little sarcastic piece – cap it at 15 or 25 longish lines, like above, give it some body, a point, a strong, philosophical bridge, and a memorable closing, and it could have been genuinely good. But…
In “Sailboat Moon,” Dust sums a few of the album’s problems up quite well: “Be half of a tuning fork with me/ we will eat the Bible together/ chewing its pastry pages,” but, alas, I resist. In “Confessions of a Sex Slave,” Baraka goes on for nearly five minutes, tenderly revealing the intimate details of his life:
“Confession #3: I love eating pussy! I love it!
I would rather eat pussy than make out
The only thing I would sometimes rather eat than pussy
is dessert.. specifically, cinnabuns and coffee cakes
Still, I genuinely and sincerely love to eat pussy”
Lest you think he’s all about altruism, he is, in another confession, similarly appreciative of his own penis – or, more accurately, he paraphrases others’ appreciation for its sheer bulk and gross tonnage. It’s poetry, after all.
Of course, I don’t expect spoken word to be or even approximate ‘real’ poetry – it’s not the same thing, and I have no problem with that. It is somewhere between rap and theater, poetry and music – again, I recognize this, and it does not bother me. Great things are possible in almost any genre. But, its hybrid nature does not license spoken word to be lazy, inept, or unimaginative… it’s a critique most spoken wordsmiths have not come to terms with, and, judging by how little progress they’ve made over the past couple of decades, I suspect they don’t want to.