THE POLITICAL IS PERSONAL - the righteous anger of LKJ Linton Kwesi Johnson and Michelle Scally-Clarke Upstairs at the Social, Nottingham 22.3.01 (review by Jon Horne 2001) © Touch Nottingham (internet magazine and What's On guide) It's normally only dead US presidents who can be identified by their initials - but for anyone who lived through the start of the Thatcher era, 'LKJ' can only refer to Linton Kwesi Johnson. In the period (early 1980s) when every ghetto in the country was going up in smoke, LKJ provided an articulate barrage of verbal protest against an ever-more-intolerant government. For someone (like me) growing up in a white, provincial monoculture, he was the voice of Brixton - never alienating his audience by veering off into Jamaican mysticism ('the Rasta trap', as he used to call it), but equally never compromising his work or his opinions in order to win over a white crowd. Things have changed. There are undoubtedly members of the serving government who are familiar with poems such as 'Bass Culture' and 'The Black Petit Bourgeois'*. LKJ has spent much of the last twenty-odd years working as a journalist (notably on The Bandung File), and as far as the general public is concerned, his profile as a poet has been resolutely low throughout that time. The idea of socialist protest seems an odd idea these days, and even without knowing the context in advance, much of LKJ's past work can be dated to within a year or two. (That said, the title-track of his latest record, 'More Time', is a plain, old-fashioned call for a 35-hour week.) (*Note: Apologies to anyone who might be offended, but I'm not using patois spellings in this review. I'll only get them wrong.) It is an indictment on these times, that the dominant voice of Black Experience has moved westwards from London and Kingston, to New York, and now to Los Angeles, where gang culture - with all its misogyny, queer-bashing, Jew-baiting and general gun-fixated machismo - is the only voice anyone seems to listen to. Expressions of pride have been driven underground because no one's taking a blind bit of notice. The way things are just now, the righteous anger of dub poetry seems (I hate to say this) rather quaint and 'English'. All of which becomes a nonsense when Linton Kwesi Johnson walks onto the stage. Preceded by an attempt at rabble-rousing by the MC David Stickman, which didn't really get anyone going, LKJ silenced the audience with a single judgmental glance. After announcing that he was about to run through a selection of poems in chronological order, what followed was effectively a greatest-hits compilation. 'Five Nights of Bleeding', which details the trouble that followed after police descended on a 1975 James Brown show in London, was explained as a poem from 'when I hadn't yet found my voice'. That may be true, in terms of the rhythm of the piece - it pre-dates his dub-soundtracked work with Dennis Bovell - but the territory is familiar enough: detached from the violence of the subject, claiming to cheer on that violence, but at the same time aware of the thin line between rebellion and thuggery. This is never spelled out, of course - LKJ is a poet, not a philosopher. In 'The Great Insurrection', and in the elegy to Bernie Grant, 'BG' (a much later poem), dissenting voices rage within the text. Riots are celebrated; victims are dismissed as 'a consequence of war'; but ambiguous feelings hang in the air. If you don't believe this, compare one of the angrier poems with the outright celebration of Jamaican DJs, 'Bass Culture', which is an expression of straightforward pride and ambition (along with a poignant hint of we-are-not-worthy fan worship). Halfway through the set, there was a marked change in pace - and perhaps in the voice, although I'm sure LKJ would deny that - as he moved from early material into his 90s work. The link between the two was 'Reggae Fi Daddah', a memorial to his father, and a harsh look at the Jamaica in which he lived and died. Through most of LKJ's work, the struggle of class and race is consciously turned into something personal and subjective (and thus more affecting). 'Daddah' is a rare piece which goes the other way, making the personal political. In the later pieces, the rhythms as well as the settings are more fluid - more images of the Caribbean appear, as background or as metaphor ('Hurricane Blues'). Death is everywhere in the later material, with poems dedicated to LKJ's step-brother Bernard, and to the late German-Ghanaian poet May Ayim, both of whom died young and in circumstances which demanded more than a poem. This was risky. Without musical backing, LKJ depends upon charisma to keep the audience quiet enough to listen. Applause was shunned until the very end of the set. A lesser performer would have lost the crowd after twenty minutes, or would have been forced into making jokes - and aside from 'If I was a Top Notch Poet', there were no jokes. When the applause came, it was unanimous and loud. By playing a set that spanned a long career, LKJ appeared to be announcing his return to the live circuit. With Dennis Bovell still signed to the LKJ record label, and half of the DB Dub Band signed to the same label, making solo records, a tour with musical backing can't be far off. Be there when it happens. But there was music. The night was run by Route magazine, an outlet for poetry and prose based in Leeds. Route's latest local signing is Michelle Scally-Clarke, playing in support of a book and CD ('I Am'). Route has a house band, who backed MSC on the CD, and at the show. Although she identifies herself as a performance poet, the set involved songs, with verses and choruses. Though she would probably hate the comparison, the performance was reminiscent of early-80s experimenters like the Raincoats and the Pop Group (ancestors of Massive Attack and Portishead). The band played with the restraint and the soul of mid-70s reggae and funk, but with none of the precision, leaving room for MSC's lyrics to skip around the beat. She isn't a great singer, and she knows it. But she does sing the words, rather than recite them. Towards the end of the set, with the addition of two backing singers who carried the tunes, and with MSC's confidence increasing, the performance began to take off. The reaction of the crowd was muted at first, but built as the show went on, as people (mostly women) drifted to the area in front of the stage to dance. MSC's work is rooted in the personal. Any points she has to make - about power, sexual politics and the like - are made through the telling of stories, either her own, or those of her neighbours in Chapeltown, Leeds' equivalent of St Anns. MSC is still learning. There was a bit too much of the drama-school in her performance. Where Linton Kwesi Johnson can hold a crowd by remaining passive, drawing the audience in, and making tiny gestures and glances meaningful, MSC tries to emphasise points by using her whole body, and it rings false. She doesn't need it, because she already knows how to use her eyes - she can burn you with a look - and the material is powerful enough to be played straight. When she learns to stand still (as she did during the encore), Michelle Scally-Clarke could become one of the most compelling live performers that we have. - - - Links: LKJ Records (Linton Kwesi Johnson's label). Route Magazine Online. Michelle Scally-Clarke's stuff can be bought here. Also you can e-mail them to send you the magazine free. If you've got a good modem, click the front page to have a look at the very flashy Flash version of Route Online. - - - read more rants and raves