Rachel McKibbens at Columbia College Chicago
March 3, 2010
REVIEW BY JW BASILO, Performance Editor
Chances are, if you’re reading this column you are already quite aware of Rachel McKibbens. (If you’re not, Google her or head over to http://RachelMcKibbens.com – I’ll wait. Welcome back. I know, right?) The stark, brave nature of her writing and performance has created a tidal shift of sorts throughout the country. Walk into any “hip” poetry reading across the country and you will undoubtedly hear an echo of her voice and style dribble from the lips of at least one reader – whether the reader is aware of it or not. McKibbens has been a reluctant leader in a new revolution of female poets: women who dress their writing in brass knuckles, women whose poems spit on the sidewalk and aren’t afraid of going to the ugly places most men get uneasy about. Her influence was undeniable on the night of March 3rd, when I had the opportunity to catch her headlining set at Columbia College Chicago. The lineup included a murderer’s row of excellent women poets, all of whom, to varying degrees, had touches of the kind of punk-rock-itude I’m talking about. Were this a different column I might make note of the fact that the venue was mostly empty. I might mention that this venue was quite full for an equally-notable male poet a week before despite that bill not having anywhere near the overall quality of the lineup the audience was treated to on the night in question. McKibbens, however, was of course headlining a show comprised entirely of women, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that women really aren’t getting the same deal in terms of drawing power as their male counterparts. But this isn’t that column and really, who the hell wants to hear what I, a man, have to say about sexism?
McKibbens is not your standard performance poet. She doesn’t yell or jump or gesticulate wildly. She doesn’t write vague, second-person poems dripping in didactic aplomb or persona pieces from the perspective of Hitler’s letter opener. She does, however, craft careful, brilliant poems rife with imagery that I hesitate to call gritty, though no other word seems to fit. Her body of work is the soundtrack to a knife fight, the type of stuff you’d expect to be read over an Alan Ball montage of someone being extracted from a car wreck. So, you may ask, what is so compelling about that? Why is it so interesting to hear sad poems read without any real physicality to speak of? The answer lies in the author’s choices. And choices, if you’ve been paying attention, are what separate great performers from the garden variety. While most performers might choose to build dramatic architecture, tinker with dynamics and even add the occasionally-appropriate histrionics to “enhance” the poems, the author does not. She chooses to present the work in arguably the most stark fashion imaginable: she pauses in the right places, rises and falls a bit as necessary but never ceases to make the poetry the star of the show. She appears to trust the imagery so much that she presents it bare and allows it to do the heavy lifting. McKibbens is almost intrinsically aware of the voice of her poems and her actual voice creates the perfect score for the gravity of the images. Rachel’s voice, the one that comes from her actual throat, is the kind of gravel-squeal character actresses strive for but rarely can achieve. It doesn’t even matter if hers is an affectation or not, it reads as nothing short of authentic and true.
Prior to that evening I had never seen Rachel do an entire set. Sure, I’d seen her walk into an open mic or slam, drop a great poem on the unsuspecting crowd like a cluster bomb and exit through the dust, but never a full set. Quite frankly, I was equal parts curious and worried. A half hour of poetry as dense and, well, melancholy as hers is quite a lot to expect from an audience. Rachel, though, carries it masterfully. If you’ve only seen her poems (specifically from the collection, Pink Elephant, Cypher Books), one might not imagine that McKibbens would have much of a sense of humor. Rachel, though, carries the gravity of the show masterfully, peppering her set with just enough comedy to keep her audience tuned in. Some folks refer to this as the “spoonful of sugar” method. The trick, however, is being funny/crass/wacky without the shenanigans affecting your believability or perceived vulnerability. This is where her real mastery comes into play. She interjects fisting jokes and bits of filth between poems as if to say to her audience, “It’s cool, guys. It’s just a poem. I’m alright and you will be too.” Whether this is her intention is open to debate but it works brilliantly. Before diving into a piece about depression she hollers, “Where my Bi-Polars at?” A small aside of wanting to “squirt [her] name in breast milk” all over the crowd serves as the perfect sorbet between poems about child abuse and lines like, It’s okay to hate God today/ to change his name to yours (from “A Letter From My Heart to My Brain”). So you may be asking, “if she’s so hilarious, where are all the funny poems, then?” Rachel claims she has “an arsenal” of funny poems but they’re all in a cabinet somewhere. Watching her work, it’s easy to surmise that it’s best to stay out of her cabinets, but I for one will be waiting with rapt attention to see what she chooses to pull out next.
Chances are, if you’re reading this column you are already quite aware of Rachel McKibbens. (If you’re not, Google her or head over to http://RachelMcKibbens.com – I’ll wait. Welcome back. I know, right?) The stark, brave nature of her writing and performance has created a tidal shift of sorts throughout the country. Walk into any “hip” poetry reading across the country and you will undoubtedly hear an echo of her voice and style dribble from the lips of at least one reader – whether the reader is aware of it or not. McKibbens has been a reluctant leader in a new revolution of female poets: women who dress their writing in brass knuckles, women whose poems spit on the sidewalk and aren’t afraid of going to the ugly places most men get uneasy about. Her influence was undeniable on the night of March 3rd, when I had the opportunity to catch her headlining set at Columbia College Chicago. The lineup included a murderer’s row of excellent women poets, all of whom, to varying degrees, had touches of the kind of punk-rock-itude I’m talking about. Were this a different column I might make note of the fact that the venue was mostly empty. I might mention that this venue was quite full for an equally-notable male poet a week before despite that bill not having anywhere near the overall quality of the lineup the audience was treated to on the night in question. McKibbens, however, was of course headlining a show comprised entirely of women, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that women really aren’t getting the same deal in terms of drawing power as their male counterparts. But this isn’t that column and really, who the hell wants to hear what I, a man, have to say about sexism?
McKibbens is not your standard performance poet. She doesn’t yell or jump or gesticulate wildly. She doesn’t write vague, second-person poems dripping in didactic aplomb or persona pieces from the perspective of Hitler’s letter opener. She does, however, craft careful, brilliant poems rife with imagery that I hesitate to call gritty, though no other word seems to fit. Her body of work is the soundtrack to a knife fight, the type of stuff you’d expect to be read over an Alan Ball montage of someone being extracted from a car wreck. So, you may ask, what is so compelling about that? Why is it so interesting to hear sad poems read without any real physicality to speak of? The answer lies in the author’s choices. And choices, if you’ve been paying attention, are what separate great performers from the garden variety. While most performers might choose to build dramatic architecture, tinker with dynamics and even add the occasionally-appropriate histrionics to “enhance” the poems, the author does not. She chooses to present the work in arguably the most stark fashion imaginable: she pauses in the right places, rises and falls a bit as necessary but never ceases to make the poetry the star of the show. She appears to trust the imagery so much that she presents it bare and allows it to do the heavy lifting. McKibbens is almost intrinsically aware of the voice of her poems and her actual voice creates the perfect score for the gravity of the images. Rachel’s voice, the one that comes from her actual throat, is the kind of gravel-squeal character actresses strive for but rarely can achieve. It doesn’t even matter if hers is an affectation or not, it reads as nothing short of authentic and true.
Prior to that evening I had never seen Rachel do an entire set. Sure, I’d seen her walk into an open mic or slam, drop a great poem on the unsuspecting crowd like a cluster bomb and exit through the dust, but never a full set. Quite frankly, I was equal parts curious and worried. A half hour of poetry as dense and, well, melancholy as hers is quite a lot to expect from an audience. Rachel, though, carries it masterfully. If you’ve only seen her poems (specifically from the collection, Pink Elephant, Cypher Books), one might not imagine that McKibbens would have much of a sense of humor. Rachel, though, carries the gravity of the show masterfully, peppering her set with just enough comedy to keep her audience tuned in. Some folks refer to this as the “spoonful of sugar” method. The trick, however, is being funny/crass/wacky without the shenanigans affecting your believability or perceived vulnerability. This is where her real mastery comes into play. She interjects fisting jokes and bits of filth between poems as if to say to her audience, “It’s cool, guys. It’s just a poem. I’m alright and you will be too.” Whether this is her intention is open to debate but it works brilliantly. Before diving into a piece about depression she hollers, “Where my Bi-Polars at?” A small aside of wanting to “squirt [her] name in breast milk” all over the crowd serves as the perfect sorbet between poems about child abuse and lines like, It’s okay to hate God today/ to change his name to yours (from “A Letter From My Heart to My Brain”). So you may be asking, “if she’s so hilarious, where are all the funny poems, then?” Rachel claims she has “an arsenal” of funny poems but they’re all in a cabinet somewhere. Watching her work, it’s easy to surmise that it’s best to stay out of her cabinets, but I for one will be waiting with rapt attention to see what she chooses to pull out next.