Latest news with #openmic
The Guardian
01-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
The one change that worked: lonely and losing confidence, I was saved by an open-mic night
I take a calming breath, then step up to the microphone. Here, in this crowded bar, I know that, despite my nerves, reading out my poetry will be a joyous experience. I had been attending these open mics for a year and this was my first time performing. As a student, I had been active and sociable, but a period of mental ill health in my early 20s dented my confidence. I am partially sighted, too, which means going somewhere new can be daunting; I can miss the visual cues for striking up conversation, while navigating unfamiliar surroundings is tricky. By the time I was 28, I was stuck in a cycle of safe activities, such as dinner with my circle of friends in our go-to restaurants. I also felt disconnected from my community in Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, where I had moved for university. Sometimes, I felt lonely, especially as most of my uni friends now lived further away – social occasions were something that needed to be planned weeks in advance. I didn't know many people locally any more and realised I needed to do something to forge new connections. Then a new friend of my husband asked if we wanted to join her at a poetry open mic that night. I was unsure – at the time, I often felt an internal resistance to new experiences. But I knew I had to move forward. We arrived at the bar and perched on stools at the back. It was busy. I sipped my drink awkwardly. Then the person opposite said hello and we chatted until the host took to the stage. Everyone applauded and cheered as the poets performed. During breaks, I chatted to others with ease. These were people who lived in the same city as I did. They were sharing their poetry with one another, laughing and joking. I was hooked. It reignited the spark of impromptu nights out that seemed to belong to a past version of me. I remembered how much I loved the shared experience of art. I became a regular and started to recognise familiar faces, looking forward to catching up over a pint of cider and spoken-word poetry. The acquaintance who had first invited me soon became a good friend. And it wasn't just the poetry night. I started trying other experiences, eager to make more connections within my community. Yes to a gig at that new venue. Yes to a community fair. I was moving out of my comfort zone. I posted on Facebook to ask for recommendations of places to visit locally and soon found myself exploring a beautiful country park with a friend. I now feel a stronger connection with my adopted home town and with the people who live here. Watching others perform their poetry, I was inspired to write my own. Standing on the stage two years ago, reading my fledgling poems, I felt buoyed by the community spirit. That open mic showed me the joy of stepping out of my comfort zone. It helped me find myself again. I am beginning to feel that I belong. Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here
The Guardian
30-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
The one change that worked: lonely and losing confidence, I was saved by an open-mic night
I take a calming breath, then step up to the microphone. Here, in this crowded bar, I know that, despite my nerves, reading out my poetry will be a joyous experience. I had been attending these open mics for a year and this was my first time performing. As a student, I had been active and sociable, but a period of mental ill health in my early 20s dented my confidence. I am partially sighted, too, which means going somewhere new can be daunting; I can miss the visual cues for striking up conversation, while navigating unfamiliar surroundings is tricky. By the time I was 28, I was stuck in a cycle of safe activities, such as dinner with my circle of friends in our go-to restaurants. I also felt disconnected from my community in Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, where I had moved for university. Sometimes, I felt lonely, especially as most of my uni friends now lived further away – social occasions were something that needed to be planned weeks in advance. I didn't know many people locally any more and realised I needed to do something to forge new connections. Then a new friend of my husband asked if we wanted to join her at a poetry open mic that night. I was unsure – at the time, I often felt an internal resistance to new experiences. But I knew I had to move forward. We arrived at the bar and perched on stools at the back. It was busy. I sipped my drink awkwardly. Then the person opposite said hello and we chatted until the host took to the stage. Everyone applauded and cheered as the poets performed. During breaks, I chatted to others with ease. These were people who lived in the same city as I did. They were sharing their poetry with one another, laughing and joking. I was hooked. It reignited the spark of impromptu nights out that seemed to belong to a past version of me. I remembered how much I loved the shared experience of art. I became a regular and started to recognise familiar faces, looking forward to catching up over a pint of cider and spoken-word poetry. The acquaintance who had first invited me soon became a good friend. And it wasn't just the poetry night. I started trying other experiences, eager to make more connections within my community. Yes to a gig at that new venue. Yes to a community fair. I was moving out of my comfort zone. I posted on Facebook to ask for recommendations of places to visit locally and soon found myself exploring a beautiful country park with a friend. I now feel a stronger connection with my adopted home town and with the people who live here. Watching others perform their poetry, I was inspired to write my own. Standing on the stage two years ago, reading my fledgling poems, I felt buoyed by the community spirit. That open mic showed me the joy of stepping out of my comfort zone. It helped me find myself again. I am beginning to feel that I belong. Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here
The Guardian
30-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Emmanuel Sonubi: ‘I nearly died on stage. Suddenly, it wasn't a big deal to have a bad gig'
What's your new show about?My biggest fear was dying on stage and then I nearly died for real, on stage. Suddenly, it wasn't a big deal to have a bad gig or tell a joke that doesn't work. Going through heart failure changed my perspective. We all know we're going to die, but none of us believe it. That's why we do stupid stuff like bungee jumping. We take so many risks. But when you're actually faced with your own mortality and get a second chance, everything suddenly feels like a bonus – all the things I would have missed. This show is a lot more honest than I've ever been. What was difficult about turning such a personal experience into comedy?Being able to say it out loud without breaking. Even though this happened five years ago, a lot of what's in the show has taken me that long to process to the point where I can actually talk about it on stage. It doesn't necessarily get easier, it just becomes more necessary. When I previewed it, people really connected with certain parts, things hit home. How did you get into comedy?It was through a friend of mine who used to attend the dance class I taught at Pineapple Studios. She was given a comedy course for her birthday and I went to watch her perform at the Comedy Pub in central London. After a couple of drinks, she convinced me I should go and do an open mic night. From the first joke I told, I thought: 'Yeah, this is me.' What's been one of your all-time favourite gigs?The first time I did Live at the Apollo, because that was the goal. When everyone asked what I wanted to do, I told them: Live at the Apollo, within five years of starting comedy. A lot of people told me I couldn't do it. I did it in six years, but that's including the pandemic. Can you recall a gig so bad, it's now funny?During lockdown Jason Manford started organising Zoom gigs to help comedians get work. It was one of the first ones; 2,000 people on this Zoom call. I'm nervous anyway, but before I've got a chance to overthink it, I hear him say, 'And welcome to the stage … Emmanuel Sonubi.' I started my set and everyone's really laughing. I'm thinking, 'Wow, maybe I'm really good at Zoom gigs.' Then my watch started buzzing so much that I needed to glance down. It was Jason: 'Turn your mic on, mate.' I'd been going for three or four minutes! Sign up to The Guide Get our weekly pop culture email, free in your inbox every Friday after newsletter promotion Tell us about a memorable heckleA guy at the back screamed out: 'Are you that guy from The Green Mile?' The way he said it, and the way the crowd took it, just sucked all the energy out of the room. In a split second I decided to bring everyone back in the room and make a joke out of it. So I said: 'Mate, I look nothing like Tom Hanks.' And the room just exploded. You've gigged on cruise ships – what's the best part?Not travelling everywhere. Even though the ship does obviously travel, I'm not having to sit on the M4! It's a week's worth of gigs, where you don't have to drive up and down the country. You get a real test of whether your material works because one I did recently had an average age of 76, and it was a mixture of American and English people. If you can get it to work there, it works in the clubs. Any pre-show rituals?I go to the toilet about 12 or 15 times. I try to always watch the audience, just to get a sense of who's in the room because I never actually plan my set until I'm about to walk on stage. I want to keep it as natural as I can. Emmanuel Sonubi: Life After Near Death is at Pleasance Courtyard, Edinburgh, 30 July-25 August, and on tour until 30 November
The Guardian
28-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
America's dive bars are disappearing. Montana didn't get the memo
It's been over two decades now, but as I remember it: the floor was sticky with peanut shells and beer. I could feel a crunch underfoot amid the din of garbled conversation as my young, righteous girlfriends and I made our way to a wobbly table at the Haufbrau in Bozeman, Montana. I was there to hear a friend play guitar and sing at open mic night. As it turns out, so was my future spouse. I was emboldened by the emotion of a recent breakup, the energy of a girls night and, perhaps, liquid courage. Maybe it was also the magic of the bar, because when I spotted him across the room, I flicked a peanut at him. Within a matter of hours, we were parting, and he was saying 'I love you.' These days instead of a group of friends, I come with a lot of media equipment – straps, cords, cameras, laptop, and a black paper journal and pen – as I set out to explore dive bar culture in Montana. I begin my reporting at the Filling Station, located on the outskirts of now trendy Bozeman, a few miles from my home. Inside, the walls are covered with vintage license plates, street signs, a large red flying horse at ceiling height, a buffalo mount with a Hawaiian lei and a stuffed deer head ridden by a skeleton. 'That stuff just accumulates,' says Bill Frye, who owns the bar with his mother, Cin, and brother Don. 'I think the skeleton was a Halloween prop that ended up on the deer that was already mounted.' 'The deer is new,' he adds. And by 'new' he means within the last 20 years. 'A regular who is a taxidermist brought that down.' In addition to the deer, many other things on the Filler's walls have been donated by customers, some en route to the city dump down the road. Others were collected by Bill's parents more than 20 years ago. 'The bison head is off the record,' Bill says. But then as the conversation unfolds, he reveals a few scant details: third floor, a lodge near Glacier national park, a rope, taxidermy and a bunch of guys who brought it down here. But, he concludes, thinking out loud, they are all dead now, so it's OK to write about it. The variety of people who come to the Filler (and the Hauf) are as colorful as the decor. You see everything from pressed Oxford shirts to cowboy boots to camouflage pants to 1980s attire to bare feet in Birkenstocks (in cold weather). These days, Bozeman is home to all kinds of fancy bars, from social club to wine to rooftop, yet 'there are no more [dive bars] coming in,' says Bill. Because of the high cost of commercial properties and alcohol licenses, '[it takes] a minimum of several million to open a new bar in Bozeman. When we purchased the Hauf in 1969 the whole thing was under $100,000. It was a lot at the time. But we couldn't afford to sell it now with the high property-gains tax. We are caught in a trap.' Given all the new high-end choices, it's a bit of curiosity that people continue to show up in cultlike fashion at both the Filler and the Hauf. 'People like the fact that they feel at home,' Cin says. 'We [the owners] can drive by one of the bars and know who's in there by the cars outside.' It's a community center where you feel relaxed, Bill and Cin agree. 'Several customers tell us if we weren't here they would be gone too,' says Bill. When I enter Dusty's Bar in the dry land farming community of Brady, Montana, my first reaction is: 'This is a dive bar? It's so clean.' The polished wooden bar and shiny floors are the result of a renovation during the pandemic in 2020, says owner Kourtney Combs, who purchased Dusty's in 2019. The spotlessness is a good thing, because many people come here to eat. Every Friday, Kourtney's partner, Travis Looney, starts smoking meat – barbecue pork, tri-tip, briquet, sausage, ribs, turkey – at around 3am so it's ready to go by 5pm. By 7pm, it's sold out. In addition to having great food, Dusty's is also a place where customers chip in. 'If I get too busy, people will just get up and start helping,' says Combs. 'They'll take their dishes back. They'll stock the cooler. They'll clear other people's plates. If I have to leave the bar for 20 minutes, it will take care of itself. Customers will get their own drinks. Honor system. We trust them.' When I sit at the bar with locals Gus Winterrowd, a retired farmer; Jeff Farkell, a crop consultant; and Dan Rouns, a retired farmer and previous Dusty's owner, the conversation spans topics as far-ranging as life before technology to soil samples to memories of spinning records in the disco bar upstairs. This is how we landed on the topic of the 'cancer belt'. Winterrowd tells the group he heard the term from his wife's doctor in Seattle when he asked: 'What's the deal with all the cancer in our area?' And the doctor responded: 'It's the cancer belt,' referring to the rate of illness in women in communities across the midwest to northern plains. 'She put up one hell of a fight,' says Rouns about Winterrowd's wife. 'She did anything any person could do.' At this point in the conversation, I realize that a big part of the beauty of the dive bar is that it's a place of connection, a place where real people come to know each othe in real time. Of course, such moments of gravity are balanced with humor: 'We give each other shit. Ninety-ninety percent of the time we all get along. And we don't talk politics unless we're really drunk,' says Farkell. Forty-six miles down the road from Brady on the Missouri River, in the small city of Great Falls, I'm crouched with my camera near a mannequin wearing a repurposed prom dress in a room overflowing with fabrics, threads and sequins. At center is a Singer sewing machine and at the helm, Sandra Thares, seamstress of mermaid costumes and owner of the Sip 'n Dip Lounge, a tiki retro cocktail bar. Yes, mermaid costumes. Sip 'n Dip features windows with underwater views of swimming mermaids. (Currently, there are no mermen.) As part of their employment, each mermaid receives two tails and two tops per tail – all handmade by Thares. In 1996, the first swimming mermaid was a housekeeper dressed in a green plastic tablecloth on New Year's Eve. Over time, the concept became popular and grew into a regular weekend event. It's now a defining aspect of the bar, with mermaids putting on a show six or seven times a week. Mermaid Bingo Night was added in 2024. The evening entails three rounds of bingo in which the mermaids hold up the number cards. It is, as Thares puts it, 'something to do on a cold Montana winter Monday'. Usually, everyone gets a Hawaiian lei. The prizes are not monetary but instead they are 'fabulous' rewards. No matter what is happening on any given evening, Thares says, 'I always tell people that the thing about the Sip 'n Dip is that it doesn't matter who you are, where you are from, what your background is, what your political beliefs are, none of that matters [at] the Sip' n Dip; there's always something to talk about. And no matter who you are, you make new friends.' At each dive bar that I visit, people share the details of other dive bars that I should go to. More than once, people point me in the direction of Sun River and the 'bra bar', more formally known as the Rambling Inn – a place where customers leave their bras behind to hang on the walls in exchange for free drinks. Alas, the bra theme is great fodder for good-natured double entendres regarding 'cups' and a fun starting point for lighthearted conversation. Throughout my dive bar tour, the Helsinki Bar – the last remaining building in Finn Town in the small mining community of Butte – kept calling me back. I was previously there on St Urho's Day, a Finnish holiday celebrating the fictional St Urho, when I met Fiina Heinze. Heinze is of Finnish descent, and I witnessed her crowning as the 2025 Queen of St Urho's Day amid a packed bar, jello shots and premade plastic bags filled with a mysterious mixed drink. According to Heinze, St Urho is celebrated for driving away the grasshoppers that were destroying the grape crops in Finland. The holiday is something of a whimsical Finnish rivalry to St Patrick's Day: 'It's just a day that the Finns decided to have [on] the day before St Patrick's Day. It's not a national holiday.' I think that's the thing about dive bars: in large part, they are about stories. The stories that we listen to and that we share. The stories we experience while we are there. And if you're lucky, it can mark the beginning of a new story with a lifelong partner. All this, I think, is like the dive bar itself: an expression of that imperfect, enduring and sometimes sticky thing called love.
Irish Times
27-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Dublin poet Stephen James Smith: ‘I'm just holding a mirror up to the city, trying to tell the truth'
I came to be a poet by accident. I did loads of different things before that, from building sites and bar jobs and sales jobs. Being a poet is a surprise to myself: I thought I'd be an engineer. But when I was 15 or 16, I started to learn to play guitar and I started to write a few songs. I heard about an open-mic night, which I went along to out of curiosity. Then I heard about Poetry Night and went along to it. Poetry Night challenged my perception of what poetry was and what a poet could be. All of a sudden, poets became my friends. In my early 20s I wrote a poem called Ticking Clock. When I read it in public, it was the first time I thought, All right, there's something here. I got a different reaction from the audience. I didn't realise that what I wrote could connect with people and resonate. My biggest inspiration is probably Pat Ingoldsby . His poetry is different to mine, but Pat made a huge difference to my life. He gave me huge encouragement. Pat was a poet of the people. When I work in schools, I often bring his books in. When I found out about his passing, I was in Bordeaux, getting a bus to San Sebastián to walk the Camino , but I turned around and flew back to Dublin to attend his funeral. I only discovered I was dyslexic at around 32, when I was in second year in college as a mature student. Now that I have been labelled, as it were, I'm less embarrassed asking for help. Before I probably would have had a degree of embarrassment or shame: now I've been liberated from that. If somebody's got an issue, they're more the asshole. Going to open-mics and poetry nights, where poetry is an oral art form and I'm speaking the words, I don't need to worry too much about spelling or punctuation. I can just deliver the lines the way I see fit. Dublin inspires me all the time. Dublin was my hometown for 39 years and I feel incredibly connected to the city. Now that I live in Wexford town, Wexford is informing my art. I moved here about 4½ years ago, and I love it here. I'm connecting with the community, with musicians and poets and actors, and that's been a revelation. I've got a mortgage on a place here, and that's taken away some of that anxiety that so much of the nation is going through. I still have my anxieties, but I should be able to afford to keep this roof over my head even on a bad year. READ MORE I don't have a proper routine. Do I sit at a desk and write? I probably should but I don't. I like to walk: if I'm out walking, ideas will flow. Then I jot things down on my phone. Or I might find a bench and work. Commissions are a different beast in that you have a deadline and a brief. With my most recent commission, Talk to Me, for the Dublin City Culture Company, I was sent 534 documents from their Tea & Chats community groups over the past 10 years, from knitting clubs to boxing clubs to Traveller groups. Those chats informed the piece: there's isolation and people feel disconnected with the way the city is changing. The poem begins: 'Dublin, where sarcasm comes cheap and shelter costs peace/Where the chasm between the haves and the nots keeps getting deep.' In some ways, Talk to Me is informed by a poem I wrote 10 years ago called Dublin You Are. That poem changed my life. Bizarre to say that, but it did. The opportunities that came my way because of that poem: people asked me to recite it in all sorts of different environments. It was amazing, the way it took me around the world. So many people don't come across poetry in their ordinary lives, but that poem penetrated, and the same is true of the new work. It's poetry for a different generation or demographic, and that's important. On Instagram, I've got a lot of feedback and direct messages about what the poem means to people, and voice notes where people are in tears. It's nice to know you've moved somebody. Maybe the reason why some of the work does resonate is that I'm just holding a mirror up to the city, trying to tell the truth. I'm not interested in ivory towers. Sometimes I get invited to fancy events, but the most important work is in the schools. I'm a bit older now, so some of the kids that I've been teaching over the years, you start to see them at festivals and events that you're part of, or that they're performing at, and that's a huge inspiration to me. Ultimately all that celebrity stuff doesn't matter. The job of the poet is to hand the fire on. [ Stephen James Smith: 'Sometimes you also need a fallow period' Opens in new window ] In conversation with Nadine O'Regan. This interview is a part of a series talking to well-known people about their lives and relationship with Ireland. Stephen James Smith's new work, Talk to Me, was commissioned by Dublin City Council Culture Company
