George Orwell's great friend Anthony Powell, [author of A Dance to the Music of Time], once suggested that the crucial thing about the average human life is not what happens in it, but what the person experiencing it thinks happens in it - in other words, that the personal myths we construct around ourselves are just as, if not more, important than the verifiable facts of our existence.
D.J. Taylor, On Nineteen Eighty-Four, Abrams Press, 2019
i
The pillared circular space of the main auditorium is impressive. The wash of lilac and violet lighting creates a dreamy world of possibility. I'm attending the 2015 Poetry Reincarnation, at the Roundhouse, London; a celebration of the 1965 Albert Hall, International Poetry Incarnation. Table seating. Round tables, of course; circles within circles. References within references. I realise I’m just a couple of tables away from Jimmy Page and Van Morrison. Jimmy is with Scarlett Sabet, his girlfriend, whom he met as a consequence of seeing her reading her poetry at a London bookshop, the previous year. My heart jumps; jump-starts a memory.
I’m transported back to Led Zeppelin’s Knebworth gig on 11th August 1979 and one of the greatest concerts of my life. It was just before my 18th birthday and I was with my Iranian school friend Shardad. His elder brother Alex had sourced the tickets and given us confidence to barge through the crowd to get nearer the stage and a better view, for our first big outdoors rock experience. I still get thrills remembering the green pyramid of laser lights encircling Jimmy as he bowed his Gibson guitar solo, in the middle section of Dazed and Confused. The red laser-lit violin bow itself had a pencil thin green laser coming out of the tip. Jimmy hit the strings hard with the bow and, on the echo, pointed it to the sky, sending a sharp bright beam to the stars. Lasers soon became a standard rock spectacle, but then it was really spectacular and unique. That was thirty six years ago, and fifty years since the first International Poetry Incarnation, which Jimmy Page actually attended. (See my post Royal Albert Incarnations).
I’m suddenly brought back into the Roundhouse, as Dan Cockrill comes on stage to compere a rich and full evening of performances. Pete Brown and Michael Horovitz do a hilarious rendition Kurt Schwitters’ Fury of Sneezing which they, alongside Austrian poet Ernst Jandl, performed at the original 1965 Albert Hall reading. (See also previous post)
Michael Horovitz announces that his poetry books will be for sale in the bar. I go to the bar. There are no poetry books for sale in the bar. I approach Claire Leavey, the organiser of the event, to see if there will be books for sale. I will check with Michael, and get back to you, she reassures me.
I look round and see that Jimmy Page is heading off, presumably to the bar. I feel that uncomfortable star struck part of me rising up. Well, I could just happen to be at the bar at the same time, or innocently at the adjacent urinal? Just to say hello, I say to myself. I don’t really have any questions to ask the man. The familiar battle of voices: the voice of reason that knows he’s just another human being who doesn’t need my projections and the voice of my ego that want’s to make contact with a rock god and hero. It’s not a reasonable night and I find myself lingering at the top of the aisle, which I know Jimmy will have to come back down, to get to his seat. I try not to feel like a stalker.
Oh, hi Jimmy, are you enjoying the show? I catch his eye as he calmly walks past. He looks at me with a smile and a glint in his eye. I think he is trying to work out if I’m someone he knows or has met before. He’s not sure.
Yeah, really enjoying it thanks! He smiles again and carries on down the aisle. I can’t help but feel delighted. It’s enough for me; I’ve met Jimmy Page, we have exchanged smiles. I know better than to try for Van Morrison who’s wearing shades, a leather peaked cap and a blank expression that could mask a snarl.
The second half is commencing. Clare Leavey comes on stage and makes an announcement: Someone was asking about Michael Horovitz’ books, could they come to changing room four at the end of the show. I smile - ah, my backstage pass!
Salena Godden’s My Tits Are More Feminist Than Your Tits, brings the biggest laughs of the evening. Annie Whitehead, Jennifer Maidman, Michael Horovitz and Peter Lemer as the William Blake Klezmatrix Band carry off surprising Klezmer versions of Blake songs. American poet Janaka Stucky’s set starts in silence. Then the words,
Because I love
a burning thing,
I made my heart
a field of fire.
It makes me think of W.B. Yeats’ The Song of Wandering Aengus:
I went out to the hazel wood
Because a fire was in my head.
John Hegley gives us his popular ukulele song-poem, Guillemot:
I am a guillemot
I use my bill a lot
I get the fish out of the wet
I eat my fill a lot.
I live on ledges
Vertical Edges
Eating-wise, I do not know what veg is.
John Cooper Clarke is on great confessional form and ends the evening with the energetic expletives of Evidently Chickentown:
The fucking pies are fucking old
The fucking chips are fucking cold
The fucking beer is fucking flat
The fucking flats have fucking rats
The fucking clocks are fucking wrong
The fucking days are fucking long
At the end of the show, I track down Claire Leavey and she takes me round to Michael Horovitz's dressing room. Backstage is abuzz with poets and liggers. I introduce myself to Michael. He pulls out a 45 rpm vinyl record and also his book, A New Waste Land: Timeship Earth at Nillennium.
The single was done with Paul Weller and Damon Albarn, he explains. Are you into vinyl? he asks. Oh, yes! I lie, because I think it looks interesting, unusual and rare. But, Michael, I would love the book, but I only have enough cash on me for the vinyl, I explain. After some general chat Michael hands me his book. Don’t worry, pay me in Manchester, or read it and give it back to me later. I have explained to him that I am one of the co-organisers of Still Howling, an Allen Ginsberg celebration in Manchester coming up in October, to which he is invited. He signs the inner lyric sheet of the vinyl. Next to us is Veronique Dubois who took the cover photos for the sleeve. So I ask her to sign too. I thank them both and decide to make my departure. On the way out, I overhear people saying the after-party is in the Roundhouse Bar. I make my way there. Poets are milling and chatting, some of the women are dancing. Adam Horovitz (son of Michael and Frances Horovitz) and musician, Duke Garwood are nearby. I approach Chuck Weise and Janaka Stucky (both from Jack White's Third Man Books), and Asturian poet-musician, Vanessa Vie. Vanessa launches into an animated conversation, speaking about her love of the pagan roots of Britain, Blake, and the bardic tradition. I find her enthusiasm electric. She has a circle of fresh flowers in her hair. I fall in love. Michael is my mentor and inspiration, she says, referring to her partner Michael Horovitz.
It is getting towards 1.30am and people are drifting away. The bar staff are getting restless. I join Michael, Vanessa and Gwyneth Herbert. Gwyneth launches into an improvised rejoicing of Michael. Her words flow out with joy and passion. Michael is beaming, smiling and taking it all in. We laugh and I find myself with tears trickling from the corners of my eyes, not just from the laughter but through being moved by such a heartfelt waterfall of love. It seems like she continues for five minutes, but it is timeless really, a condensed poetic heart pouring. Part way through I lean on Michael and say to Gwyneth, You are breaking my heart open. She looks at me, takes me in, and continues her lyrical outpouring unbroken, now including my presence in the flow - I don’t even know who you are, and it doesn’t even matter. Michael is radiant. Just a hand-full of people left, maybe ten or so. The, now irritable, security man asks us to leave again. Gwyn says she is violently happy and tells us how her new partner, an online gambler, who makes it for a living, is so supportive. One final time we are asked to leave. Michael checks where I’m staying. Hugs all round. I float back up Chalk Farm road.
'Poetry Reincarnation' - strange concept, I muse, as I lie sleepless, listening for stray whispers of William Blake, rolling down from Primrose Hill. Oh, the body of poetry is always dying and arising, he says to me, keep studying the signs, it will be obvious, subtle and surprising.
ii
A few months later Michael Horovitz is in Manchester. Myself and Beat pop & rock journalist and writer Simon Warner have co-organised Still Howling: a celebration of the 60th anniversary of Allen Ginsberg's first public reading of his influential poem Howl, at The Six Gallery, San Francisco in 1955. Our venue is an anarchistic, under-heated, vibrant, community centre in central Manchester called The Wonder Inn, founded by singer-songwriter Kirsty Almeida.
An afternoon symposium includes talks, a panel and interviews with guests Peter Hale (from the Allen Ginsberg Foundation, New York), Steven Taylor (Ginsberg's guitarist for many years - originally from Gorton, Manchester), Barry Miles (Beat and British underground historian, friend/biographer of Allen Ginsberg), Andrew Barker (head of special collections at Liverpool University Library) and Michael Horovitz. The day gets super stressful when Simon, looking pale, has to tell me that he is ill and will have to go into hospital for some emergency check-ups. My heart sinks and my fear rises as I realise I will have to carry the whole day, without my much more experienced co-host. Fortunately, Oliver Harris, leading Beat scholar and William Burroughs expert, although there as a guest, is willing to step in and host the key panel. He jokes, it is all ok, I have left my wife and kids in the Arndale Shopping Centre, just round the corner. Oliver is here in part due to local musician, performer and writer C.P. Lee, who, years back, introduced him to the work of Allen Ginsberg. The whole day goes well with anecdotes and information flowing formally and informally. I give a talk about Allen Ginsberg's visits to Manchester (to come in future posts). Miles interviews Steven Taylor about his twenty one year stint as Ginsberg's guitarist. I'm always pleased to hear new anecdotes involving serendipitous connections. For example, Steven met the Chinese artist Ai Wei Wei through Allen Ginsberg. What Steven didn't realise was that Wei Wei had taken photographs of his punk band, False Prophets, at a protest rally in Tompkins Square Park in 1988. It was only years later, when he saw photos from an exhibition of Wei Wei's New York project, that he realised who took them. Peter Hale chipped in, from the audience, that he had got a $2 chalk drawing caricature done by a street artist on 6th Avenue. It turned out to be Ai Wei Wei, long before he was internationally famous. As Steven said of Ginsberg, he was a great knitter together of people.
The day is indeed a knitting together. Keen to make sure we include younger voices and cultural diversity, we invited in The Reclaim Voices (Kwame Ibegbuna, Veronika Murtagh, Nia Mack, Kaya Dilon), poet and film maker Christina Fonthes and Manchester-based poet and performer, Elmi Ali. These contemporary voices confronted issues of racism in the UK, using real-life examples such as the death of Stephen Lawrence as a stimulus for their work.
C.P. Lee, creator of the rock comedy band Alberto y Lost Trios Paranoias, Lord Buckley aficionado, raconteur and beat poetry enthusiast, is here for the day. He emcees the evening show with aplomb and reliable wit. The evening performances include, The Isness (an offshoot of the Manchester-based band Folks, led by Michael Beasley); Heath Common and the Lincoln 72s featuring Mark Hoyle from Dub Sex); Chris T-T (beat influenced singer songwriter from London); and Steven Taylor who brings along Allen Ginsberg's harmonium for some Blakean accompaniment. Actor George Hunt performs a very impressive full rendition of Howl, backed by jazz saxophonist Christophe de Bezenac. Miles said that, Hunt's recital was the best version, beside Ginsberg, he had witnessed.
To top the day, we conclude with the UK premiere of a beautiful choral setting of Footnote to Howl by Steven Taylor with The Howl Choir.
Our event is covered favourably in several local news media outlets. We are featured on That's Manchester TV. One of my favourite reviews is by reporter Lloyd Bent, for the online news site, Mancunian Matters:
The real triumph of Still Howling was its success in combining the old and the new. A longing for the past coupled with a desire for creative progressivism meant that a prevalent dichotomy existed within the work of Ginsberg and the Beat poets. Traditional American ideals of discovery and survival lived in the poetry alongside a use of language and form that sought to reject the tired influences of past generations. It is only fitting, then, that an event celebrating the longevity of the influence of Ginsberg’s Howl evoked in equal measure an appreciation for the past and an excitement for the future. Still Howling achieved this without question; those involved ensured the cultural importance of Howl continues to be recognised and enjoyed.
Michael Horovitz sent some moving praise: It was far closer to what I intimate as the spirit of Six Gallery as I could have dreamed up or of.
I was especially happy to read Steven Taylor's message to myself and Simon Warner, which he sent when he got back home:
What a great week. I can't tell you how much it meant to me to connect with the city again, to see Michael [Horovitz] and Miles, to participate in such a wonderful afternoon and evening. Peter [Hale] and I did a kind of modest pub crawl on our last night. Very happy. Overall, I feel a lot of stress came off. I've been carrying a lot for months and then it was a bunch of guys laughing and walking around town. That alone was worth the trip. I feel renewed. And to get to know Roger. And to see Gorton, because I have been writing about it, and then to be there. There are benefits in every direction.
I will post a fuller piece about Steven Taylor, but for now, suffice to say that the event fulfilled a need in me to make meaningful connections all the way from the 1965 Albert Hall Poetry Incarnation, to the 2015 Roundhouse Poetry Reincarnation, the Still Howling celebration and onward. Although I never had a chance to meet Allen Ginsberg, I feel honoured to have met Miles, Steven Taylor and Michael Horovitz who were all close to him. Somehow the energy and inspiration does get passed on, or through. Incarnation implies a spirit embodied. It is maybe up to us to honour the timeless in the fragile. The idiom passing on actually has a sweet double meaning.
iii
Michael Horovitz died on 7th July 2021. We had a few email exchanges between Still Howling and the end of his life. He was generous in responding to my questions and always humorous. When I was going through a difficult time of change and upheaval he sent me this:
...here’s wishing you well through this transitional phase – your mention of house-selling brings to my mind one of J C Clarke’s gags:
We had the divorce.
We sold the house.
I got the outside.
To which I replied:
Thanks for the John Cooper Clarke gag - made me laugh! Yes, my transition also involves a separation. I got the paperwork.
Poetically playful to the end, Michael's email sign-offs were always varied:
Tinks tanks tonks
Tarra
Dig and totter
Toodle-oo
Tata for now
On we totter
A delicious three-headed distillation, Roger, which I read with great relish. Great recollections of rock shows and poetry bashes! What a marvel that you picked up the baton in October 2015 when, as you say, a serious health issue arose for me. I'm not sure I even said that I had been in hospital with a withering UTI for three or four days in the week leading up to Still Howling. I should never have even travelled from Yorkshire to it. But it was brilliant that the event happened essentially as planned and your stories around and about that wonderful occasion bring largely very good memories to mind. RIP Michael Horovitz. And CP Lee..