Yellow Cords, Sky Blue Shirt, Red Suede Shoes and Open Mic.

May 9, 2017

At Artichoke Music on Hawthorne Avenue in Portland, my adopted city, there is every other Thursday a songwriters roundup. A simple open mic. where local and visiting musicians can get up and try out a new song. It is a lovely, warm and welcoming place. The sound system is good, the lights flattering and the beer and wine are reasonable. It is a listening room, not a bar with music. People actually sit still and listen to the players. And on some evenings there is extraordinary music when the muse strikes one of the regulars or an out of town wiz takes the stage and lets it go. For the $5 entrance it is a bargain.

Sadly, the lease is up for the ‘Choke. The whole of Hawthorne Ave is being slowly redeveloped, boutiqued, in that hideous boxy, sterile style that local architects are foisting on us. In the same building as the ‘Choke is Crossroads Music, a funky vinyl emporium. And the ‘Choke shares the parking lot with Cubo, a sweet little Cuban food joint. So, the ‘Choke is moving to another part of town and will never be the same.

I started to go because my wife and musical partner became part of the scene there, and one songwriter’s roundup I got up and read one of my poems. I loved it. And after all, what is a songwriter but a poet with music. At least twice I have read poems that I actually wrote while sitting there listening. The deal at the ‘Choke is this. You pay your $5 and if you want to play you write your name on a slip of paper and leave it in a basket on the bar. The MC shuffles the slips, plays an opening song, and reads off the first three players. It can be a long wait and folk often leave at the break and the last player thanks everyone for opening the gig for him and sings to the holdouts.

I write my poems from prompts or ideas I have written in my notebook or fingered into my cell phone. And so it was last week that I had placed my slip in the basket and realized I had nothing to read. Nada. Zip. Zero. I had not even brought my notebook with me! On the table in front of me there was an announcement for one of the ‘Choke’s workshops. Its reverse side was blank. Perfect. On my cell phone some weeks ago I had entered the words ‘yellow cords’, remembering how much I had lusted after a pair long ago in unaffordable, trendy, hip, mod, Carnaby Street, London. The epicenter of cool clothes for the swinging sixties. Like all clothes in London, way out of reach for students like me. While the first three players were doing their thing on stage I wrote this poem and after the break read it to a bemused audience who had no idea where Carnaby Street is or what it was in those far distant days.

I always wanted yellow cords 

Since I saw them in a movie in 1965

Yellow cords

With a purple shirt

And a white man’s afro.

I had the ‘fro…then

Really…

Not now.

And I am truly over purple.

But yellow cords, man!

Deep creamy dreamy yellow cords.

Blue shirt

Sky blue linen shirt.

And red shoes, red shoes, yeah!

Fifty years ago in Carnaby Street

Trendy spendy hip clothing London street

Fifty years ago in Carnaby Street.

But…

Forty years in the corporate suit

Can do a number on you,

And yellow cords had to wait

For no GOOD reason

And for no GOOD reason I remain

Cordless, yellow-wise.

But I did get the red shoes

Oh yeah, dammit, I got the red shoes

Red-Suede-Chukka-Boots.

On line, ninety bucks,

Carnaby Street, eat your f*****g heart out!

 

It could use a little editing, which I will get to. I have to admit on reading it to the crowd I felt a sort of relief. As if I had been bottling up resentment against that street and its pretentiousness for all those years. Well, I wonder who or what is next?

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One Response to “Yellow Cords, Sky Blue Shirt, Red Suede Shoes and Open Mic.”

  1. Dick Norris said

    To this day, I have no regrets for my purchase of a brown, double-breasted, Edwardian jacket on Carnaby Street in the Spring of 1969. My father who accompanied me on the trip, was equal parts disgusted/mystified.

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