The Acoustic Poet

Ahh, acoustic poets. The laureate of the Berber stage. Moving from coffee shop to coffee shop, seeking souls to nourish with gentle strumming and the truth. These thespians of the shop of coffee, with well worn acoustics and weather beaten flannel are instinctively driven to sing their songs to groups by what is known in the industry as “Amateur Night.”

As you may have figured, I’m not a big “Amateur Night” kind of guy. I don’t hit all the coffee houses across my fair city seeking a warm cup of java and some honesty sung by people I don’t know. And poets wearing cargo shorts and army/navy surplus military jackets are not typically my favorite sort of people. I’ve got nothing against the folks who do it, mind you, I acknowledge that people need their answers. And if you can’t get them from your religious leader or even this webpage, well then perhaps a scruffy looking kid with an acoustic guitar is your only hope. More power to you, but I ain’t coming to your house to play.

For me, I like my artists at their finest. Old school stylings delivered clean and played with enough groove to get the chin bobbing. I’m an Elvis guy, through and through, so I have a certain grouping when it comes to my musical tastes. Plus, being the offspring of hippies has kind of ruined the acoustic folk hero for me, so I really have no interest in immersing myself into their world.

But I did immerse myself, this weekend as a matter of fact. Not on purpose of course, it just kind of happened. I was in need of an Italian soda, and a bit of Wifi, and bad folk music was part of the cover charge. “What the hell?” I said to myself, “Perhaps I’m running a little too lean. Maybe some foreign elements are just the thing to clear up the bad mojo.” So I sipped my beverage, surfed my internet, and listened.

And now, with a bit of perspective on the evening, I can honestly say, it’s about as bad as I thought it would be. As a matter of fact, I think it’s a little bit worse.

The artists of the eve seem to have taken the Red Hot Chili Peppers/Nickelback route, and decided to utilize the same chord progressions over and over again. The key differences among them were how poorly the songs were sung, and how many words they could cram into those well worn progressions.

And boy, these lads could pack some words in. Nothing poignant of course, that would be asking too much for a coffee shop on a Saturday. But they were long. Ridiculously long. The days of songwriting have apparently skipped this generation, as the basic verse/chorus/verse song structure is ignored. In it’s place is a long pity session sung over the same four chords. Long garbled melodies, who only climax occasionally when a random word is sung high and loud. The word of course, being a high point in whatever message they’re trying to convey. Things like:

I’m not a happy person, and I hate what’s in the mirror and my feet are always itchy, but every time I see her I know she’s in my HEEEEAAAAARRRRRRRTTTT!

or:

There’s a puppy walking down the street and his tail is always wagging, he looks like he’s homeless his little heart must be sagging, and I feel like that puppy, all lost and alone, no one’s there to hold me and I’m SAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDD!


Naturally, the modern day acoustic poet tends to lean more towards self loathing than anything else. Life’s been hard to these sad sacks, and they are driven to express their woe through song. It’s the Grunge music of our times. Anyone who thinks that Nirvana and Soundgarden were as tortured as it got obviously don’t drink coffee. None of the evening's artists had anything positive to say. The world is a bad place, and they can see it. But they’re bad people too, maybe because they acknowledge it, or maybe because they can’t do anything about it. And they’re miserable because they are so bad in a world that accepts the bad as normal, or something like that. Translated, it says, “I need to get fucked big time. Give me freaky sex, something that makes me weep. And then, I’ll need cuddling, lots and lots of cuddling.”

And maybe, just maybe, my standards are a bit high. It’s called “Amateur Night” for a reason after all. Perhaps, I went there expecting a headliner, and was surprised when I got the homeless drunk singing about his winky outside the club. But still, I feel boggled. I remember hearing about the early roots of these coffee shop laureates the men in black who sung about political injustice and the wrongs in the world, all the intense shit. And in a time when the world is hanging on a thread, and this whole landmass has their fingers crossed that the guy we hire in November might actually fix a few problems, it seems strange to hear songs about “My shitty sexless life.”

But hey, what does an old jazz and blues guys know about the acoustic folk scene? Perhaps this is striking a chord in the hearts of folks. Maybe people are truly walking away with Mocha lattes feeling a bit stronger and more inspired. Maybe they have the truth that the ignorant like me just can't see. And these singers are putting away their guitars, and shaking the hands of a woman who just popped in for some tea, and ended up finding the answers she seeked. Maybe they're driving home together right now, ready to hold each other in the dark and share their lives, their pain, and their hearts.

Okay, maybe that last bit is stretching it.