Jim Carroll and Richard Hell with Groovy Religion
The Opera House
Toronto, ON, 20 June 1997
Review by Mary-Anne St-Onge
I read over again Cassie Carter’s article regarding the first time she saw Carroll live (can’t believe she was that close to him! aaaaahhh!!) and found her writing somewhat astounding in its description. Her final statement was really excellent ” . . . I’m still breathing the hot smoky stench of his velvet underground. I’m licking the dirt off the streets of New York . . . ” Absolutely excellent, I couldn’t have said it better myself.
The Opera House was certainly not what I expected. It was really dark and dreary (a dive to say the least–by the way I’m still wondering what’s up with “Mushroom Entertainment”. I think we were all supposed to eat a few shrooms before we entered the place so that we could pretend to have seats to sit in). Richard Hell gave an interesting performance and I was really happy that the local band played “Sad” by the Velvets since I come from that “Blank Generation” myself, but (don’t tell Richard) I was really there to see Carroll.
I was surprised at how nervous Carroll appeared up there, shaky hands and voice. But I guess that’s the way it is when all eyes are on you and watching your every move (you could hear a pin drop when Carroll came on stage–no not literally, just verbally). I was overwhelmed by the masterful way he performed his work, slipping in humour when least expected and at just the right time. He really blew me away, and yet, I felt that the tour was not dedicated enough to him, he could have had that audience on their knees begging for more. The unfortunate part for me was that the whole night seemed more dedicated to Hell than Carroll (promoting his new book I guess). Even the write up in the newspaper showed Hell, his comments, his picture, his book, etc, etc and just one small mention of Carroll.
An announcement was made after Hell’s performance for autograph signing (yeah, I got one) and they had his book GO NOW as well as books of poetry and stuff for sale. I was excited about this because I was sure that Carroll would be doing the same, at least signing what some of us had brought (The Basketball Diaries and Fear of Dreaming). But he didn’t!! He didn’t even stick around to sign one autograph! I don’t get it???? Does he do this often? I mean did he just hate the place or something? I was dissapointed to say the least, but certainly not in his performance. I could have sat there all night listening to him, watching the energy he poured into his work. He wasn’t just up there reading lines on paper. He really expressed those words, with passion and vigor that grabbed hold of his audience and kept them glued to his every word. Words that fell like droplets; cool, clear droplets that fell silent on bare shoulders, shivers down the spine; mixing, melting, mingling with an eager, anxious embrace. We flowed, slowly flowed in those words and embraced the energy of the newly created verse;
There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then Into its body, its soft skin
It really was fantastic to hear that wonderful poem being read by the poet himself. I’m anxious to see him again . . . just as soon as I can and can’t wait for his new work to come out. He read from his new book, The Petting Zoo I think it’s called. Really, really good stuff. And again, gently sprinkled with that perfectly timed humour.
So it is with the inspiration of Jim’s unique writing style, energy, and vigor that I end this review with a “taste” of my own poem dedicated to Jim, to that night, sitting in a dark room, in a big unfamiliar city, listening to Jim Carroll for the first time;
DARK ROOM
Dark room . . .
stale with the burning odour
of nicotine
sticking to the walls
of metamorphosis, scoff the antique
feeling out of place here
in this room
strange complicated race
to get here
to this place, to this room
and me there
sitting on a cement floor
scuffed with dusty footprints
that pace, and pace, and pace
and wait . . .
and listen . . .
and listen . . .
to hear
ripples . . .
ensuing the tide
still drenched in a sea of devotion
to velvet,
soft against my cheek
rub it soft, against my cheek
I watch, and listen, and flow
slowly flow in the words
pouring out of fervent lips
igniting the spoken word
still wet from the ink
flowing through trembling fingertips
falling
in droplets . . .
soothing, clear, cool droplets
falling silent . . .
on bare shoulders, shivers down the spine
mixing, melting, mingling
with an eager, anxious embrace.