A lonely microphone. A sound system that would have been impressive in the late 1990s. The smell of athlete’s foot and the contents of a Nobby’s Nuts packet. A deranged dog. Three privately educated members of a punk band call ‘SKiN FuK!’ arguing with the bartender. The stale atmosphere of regret and faded dreams mixed in with hope for a brighter tomorrow. It can only be one thing: Tuesday open mic night.
‘This is a scene I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s from the perspective of a baby being born
I’ve been to more open mic nights than I’ve had pleasant dreams. They just seem to happen to me. And they can happen anywhere. I’ll be sitting in a knackered pub, minding my business, when the clipboard comes out. The clipboard is usually accompanied by a peppy host in a blue waistcoat or a banana onesie. They smile. They draw me in. But they too are jaded. They’ve also given up; they just don’t know it yet.
I didn’t always hate open mic nights. Actually, I don’t hate them now. But – as is the case with most things – if I stare at it for long enough, it becomes upsetting. I want to take you through the worst night I’ve experienced.
It’s early evening. I’ve finished work. I agreed three weeks ago to watch my friend at an open mic night in Balham. It’s a big deal for him. He’s finally plucked up the courage to publicly perform his 80s-synth-pop acoustic covers. I don’t want to let him down because he’s my friend and he hasn’t had sex in six years. He could do with a win.
This is the only night that I’m not working overtime this week. It’s raining. I live nowhere near Balham. A Fiat Panda does 60mph through a puddle just to drench me in rat piss water. The tube is full of sunken faces and bent bodies. Someone coughs into my ear and for a second I think I can feel their breath on my brain. I arrive on time. Regrettably. My friend is buddying up with the host, Big Dave. I later find out that Big Dave is an electrician in the real-world, but on Tuesday nights he’s one-third of a Muse tribute band.
Big Dave is an imposing figure. He grips the mic as if he were squeezing the life out of a pigeon’s neck and shouts sporadically for no apparent reason. ‘How are we tonight? Are we HAVING a good TIME?’ he begins. The pub is half empty. Someone, the relative of a performer, squeals back. ‘That’s WHAT I LIKE to hear.’ The first act begins. It’s a middle-aged couple. The guy is dressed like an Ozzy Osbourne impersonator who could only find the children’s section in the party shop. The woman has the Gary Busey stare. ‘You already know us,’ says the woman. Either her accent is fake or she was born in the belltower of St Mary-le-Bow. She then dives into the first verse of their hit original piece, ‘Stick it up there’.
My friend is by my side. ‘I got you a Budweiser,’ he says, handing me a plastic cup of flat urine, and I thank him.
‘These guys are really good. They’re here every week,’ he says.
‘That’s cool. Have they got much of a following?’
‘I don’t think so. They’re sort of underground. No social media or any of that bullshit.’ He’s grinning at me. He wants me to approve.
‘That’s pretty cool,’ I say.
‘Sure is.’
When Sonny & Cher of the netherworld finish, Big Dave comes back on. ‘Give it UP FOR Brian and Lily… also known as Doggers by Day!’
‘Is that their name?’ I ask my friend.
‘Yeah. They’re super anti-establishment.’ But before I can pursue a further line of questioning, a new act has been ushered on stage. Two guys who look like they just met at the bus stop talk about grief and loss in semi-rhyming couplets. They describe their genre as diary-jazz-spoken-word. The whole thing sounds like a collection of fridge magnet quotes breathily jumbled together. The audience burst into applause. I can hear someone behind me crying.
After a few more pints, I begin to feel relaxed. The last three acts weren’t half bad. A young woman takes the stage. ‘My name is Lily. I’m a performer, writer, and singer. But most of all, I’m a creative.’ A few murmurs of intrigue ripple around the room. ‘This is a scene I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s from the perspective of a baby being born. It’s about the inner turmoil that comes with living in a world as corrupt as ours.’ She smiles, takes a breath, and then begins to shriek. ‘Waaaaah, waaaaah, waaaaah!’
I wince as she falls to the floor and wriggles around in a tunnelling motion. This goes on for a few minutes before she abruptly stands up, dusts herself off, and then promotes her Instagram. She bows as I confusedly clap. A few more acts go by. Someone sings an acapella version of ‘The Flood’ by Take That. Another person raps about gang culture but I’m sure the closest he’s ever come to the streets is watching Top Boy.
An old man without shoes plays a three-stringed guitar and whistles his way through a cover of ‘All I Want Is You’ by Barry Louis Polisar. A headache changes the forecast of my evening, so I excuse myself and go for a cigarette. The outside table is surrounded: half performers, half sycophantic groupies. One of the groupies tells the slam poet duo that he’s never been so moved. The two guys nod proudly as one of them says, ‘It’s all about honesty and integrity.’ My headache is getting worse.
‘I don’t have to be here,’ says the comedian. ‘This is a hobby for me. I have a choice. I have children’
When I go back inside, I notice that the crowd has thinned. My friend tells me he’s up next, right after the part-time comedian has finished wrestling with a heckler in the front row. ‘I don’t have to be here,’ says the comedian. ‘This is a hobby for me. I have a choice. I have children. I don’t need to do this. Do you want me to carry on or not? I can just go home.’ The audience is silent. ‘Do you want me to carry on?’ he repeats. Instantly, I feel sorry for his children. ‘Yes,’ says someone meekly. ‘Good. Where was I? That’s it… going to the barber,’ he says, checking the Sharpie notes on his wrist.
My friend does his set. He’s good, but I don’t know if that’s because I’m drunk or because he’s my friend or because the calibre of the evening has made the entertainment at a Chesil Beach caravan resort look top-tier. I drink a few more beers to celebrate. My friend tells me he’s going to do it again next week and that Big Dave thinks he can get him a regular slot. I hope this isn’t a permanent invite. People file out of the pub congratulating one another. It dawns on me that I’m one of the few people in attendance who didn’t actually perform.
I check the time. I’ve missed the last tube. Citymapper says it’ll take me over an hour to get home via three buses. I give my friend a hug and tell him I’m proud of him. Big Dave is watching my friend like Colonel Tom Parker watched Elvis. I see a guy from the open mic at the bus stop. He’s holding his guitar. He looks over at me, but I avert my eyes. I don’t want to speak to him. Back at home, having succumbed to the sofa, I wonder if this is what all open mics are like, if this is where talent is found in London. Surely not, I think. Then again, everyone has to start somewhere.
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