Gravedigger:
Kent Foreman's Final Turn at the Shovel.
August 24th, 2010. Chicago, IL.
A REVIEW BY JW BASILO, Performance Editor
It's a rare evening when I walk into a venue knowing that I'll see a great show. It's truly magnificent, however, to enter knowing that what I'm about to see will be remembered as an important, significant part of spoken word history. It is easy to be me. Far too often I am the critic, the cynic. I am not so much a spoken word performance appreciator as I am a guy who has seen way more performances than anybody deserves and thus, always has an opinion—an opinion that is frequently unpleasant. However, I am nothing short of humbled to have even had the opportunity to be inside the doors of The Jazz Showcase on the evening of the tribute to spoken word pioneer, Kent Foreman.
I first came across Kent years ago at a poetry slam in the now defunct Big Horse Lounge, a seedy bar/taco joint on Milwaukee Ave. Barely of drinking age, I sat on my rickety stool equal parts awe-struck and irate—this Foreman guy was both killing and fucking up the scores for every whippersnapper and self-important poet in the room. After every poem he'd walk offstage, give a little smile, shake the line of extended hands and saunter out to the street to smoke his pipe, completely oblivious to the scores sky-rocketing inside. After his second poem, in fact, he wandered down the block a bit, completely missing his call-up for the third and final round. I'll admit I was a hater. How could he be so nonchalant about the scores? His style is so antiquated! What the hell is this old guy doing here? What I didn't realize back then is that Kent Foreman was nonchalant because he had nothing left to prove, his style was antiquated but it was truly his, and Kent showed up that night to remind us in his most amiable way that he himself had a hand in building the stage upon which we were standing.
This, of course, was undeniable on the night of his tribute. The openers, Regie Gibson, Roger Bonair-Agard, and Marty McConnell, all did about 20 minutes. In each of their sets, the poets chose to perform, among others, pieces by or inspired by Kent himself. That would have been enough. Everyone in the room could have hoisted a shot and Foreman's legacy would have been in tact: three true greats of the artform, hand-selected by the guest of honor, each doing a feature length set in tribute. Truly, that would have been enough for all of us and definitely worth the price of admission. Kent Foreman, however, wasn't the type to disappoint. He climbed the stage, oxygen tank in hand, and burned the room down for the better part of an hour. As I mentioned before, Foreman is old-school. His style was all lilt and rhythm, almost sing-songish in the way he dipped and dragged vowels. To put it bluntly, his delivery style is the type of affect every joker embodies when making fun of spoken word—the swagger that has since been replicated and mutated into cliché. With Kent, however, it never felt forced. He speaks like he invented it, which he may have for all we know, lending fodder to countless detractors, impersonators and pretenders. There is a reason the style took hold: it's enchanting and engaging and works as a lasso, drawing the audience's ears directly to the stage. Perhaps more than anything, though, it just sounds cool. It always has. There is a reason throngs of would-be performance poets copy this affectation. What few realize, however, is that the “Foreman style” was originally built out of necessity. Foreman and the poets of his ilk began as early-edition MCs with Bop musicians like Max Roach (Kent's self-proclaimed mentor) providing the backing track. The voices had to work with the instruments, rhythmically navigating the wails and swoops, just to be heard. In all his years, the old guy never lost his verve.
Throughout the set, some six years past the first time, I sat on my barstool enamored. The man, terminally-ill and hampered by the short cord of his oxygen tank, was killing. His voice, a hybrid of gravel and tar-paper, somehow pushing itself through the speakers like a Sherman tank. My eyes, welling with salt, watching as Kent pumped and growled through poem after poem, the words propelling his backside off the stool he promised his family he would remain seated upon. And just when the crowd thought he might flame out, Foreman began “Tradesman,” his signature poem and one whose words seemed to carry a weight they hadn't before. We had all seen him do this particular piece a dozen times at least and still we hung with him, every syllable thick with the inevitable coda of his time here at the microphone and beyond.
I am a gravedigger.
I dig gravely
changes.
Dig the grotesque tragic comedy
of funerals .
Dig Papal Heads or Thelonious Monk rappin'
life ends?!
Naw,
Changes, you dig,
Changes.
I remembered Michael Jordan soaring over Utah in his last NBA Finals despite having the flu. I thought of my grandmother struggling to remember her recipes on the last Thanksgiving before they were gone. It's easy to forget about these moments, big and small. It's become trite to say that a poet is performing like his life depends on it or giving the performance of his life. That night, it may very well have been true; I had never seen him better. Even cynics like me can spot the important moments when they fall in such pulverizing fashion. I just pray I catch the subtle ones in between.
Kent Foreman passed away in the presence of his friends and family on November 28, 2010.
A REVIEW BY JW BASILO, Performance Editor
It's a rare evening when I walk into a venue knowing that I'll see a great show. It's truly magnificent, however, to enter knowing that what I'm about to see will be remembered as an important, significant part of spoken word history. It is easy to be me. Far too often I am the critic, the cynic. I am not so much a spoken word performance appreciator as I am a guy who has seen way more performances than anybody deserves and thus, always has an opinion—an opinion that is frequently unpleasant. However, I am nothing short of humbled to have even had the opportunity to be inside the doors of The Jazz Showcase on the evening of the tribute to spoken word pioneer, Kent Foreman.
I first came across Kent years ago at a poetry slam in the now defunct Big Horse Lounge, a seedy bar/taco joint on Milwaukee Ave. Barely of drinking age, I sat on my rickety stool equal parts awe-struck and irate—this Foreman guy was both killing and fucking up the scores for every whippersnapper and self-important poet in the room. After every poem he'd walk offstage, give a little smile, shake the line of extended hands and saunter out to the street to smoke his pipe, completely oblivious to the scores sky-rocketing inside. After his second poem, in fact, he wandered down the block a bit, completely missing his call-up for the third and final round. I'll admit I was a hater. How could he be so nonchalant about the scores? His style is so antiquated! What the hell is this old guy doing here? What I didn't realize back then is that Kent Foreman was nonchalant because he had nothing left to prove, his style was antiquated but it was truly his, and Kent showed up that night to remind us in his most amiable way that he himself had a hand in building the stage upon which we were standing.
This, of course, was undeniable on the night of his tribute. The openers, Regie Gibson, Roger Bonair-Agard, and Marty McConnell, all did about 20 minutes. In each of their sets, the poets chose to perform, among others, pieces by or inspired by Kent himself. That would have been enough. Everyone in the room could have hoisted a shot and Foreman's legacy would have been in tact: three true greats of the artform, hand-selected by the guest of honor, each doing a feature length set in tribute. Truly, that would have been enough for all of us and definitely worth the price of admission. Kent Foreman, however, wasn't the type to disappoint. He climbed the stage, oxygen tank in hand, and burned the room down for the better part of an hour. As I mentioned before, Foreman is old-school. His style was all lilt and rhythm, almost sing-songish in the way he dipped and dragged vowels. To put it bluntly, his delivery style is the type of affect every joker embodies when making fun of spoken word—the swagger that has since been replicated and mutated into cliché. With Kent, however, it never felt forced. He speaks like he invented it, which he may have for all we know, lending fodder to countless detractors, impersonators and pretenders. There is a reason the style took hold: it's enchanting and engaging and works as a lasso, drawing the audience's ears directly to the stage. Perhaps more than anything, though, it just sounds cool. It always has. There is a reason throngs of would-be performance poets copy this affectation. What few realize, however, is that the “Foreman style” was originally built out of necessity. Foreman and the poets of his ilk began as early-edition MCs with Bop musicians like Max Roach (Kent's self-proclaimed mentor) providing the backing track. The voices had to work with the instruments, rhythmically navigating the wails and swoops, just to be heard. In all his years, the old guy never lost his verve.
Throughout the set, some six years past the first time, I sat on my barstool enamored. The man, terminally-ill and hampered by the short cord of his oxygen tank, was killing. His voice, a hybrid of gravel and tar-paper, somehow pushing itself through the speakers like a Sherman tank. My eyes, welling with salt, watching as Kent pumped and growled through poem after poem, the words propelling his backside off the stool he promised his family he would remain seated upon. And just when the crowd thought he might flame out, Foreman began “Tradesman,” his signature poem and one whose words seemed to carry a weight they hadn't before. We had all seen him do this particular piece a dozen times at least and still we hung with him, every syllable thick with the inevitable coda of his time here at the microphone and beyond.
I am a gravedigger.
I dig gravely
changes.
Dig the grotesque tragic comedy
of funerals .
Dig Papal Heads or Thelonious Monk rappin'
life ends?!
Naw,
Changes, you dig,
Changes.
I remembered Michael Jordan soaring over Utah in his last NBA Finals despite having the flu. I thought of my grandmother struggling to remember her recipes on the last Thanksgiving before they were gone. It's easy to forget about these moments, big and small. It's become trite to say that a poet is performing like his life depends on it or giving the performance of his life. That night, it may very well have been true; I had never seen him better. Even cynics like me can spot the important moments when they fall in such pulverizing fashion. I just pray I catch the subtle ones in between.
Kent Foreman passed away in the presence of his friends and family on November 28, 2010.