Justin Accident

Tonight was a reception for three artists awarded grants by the Springfield Cultural Council. Montenia's, where the reception was held, is only four blocks from my house, and I knew two of the three artists, so I went over.

Montenia's is a newish restaurant on State Street in Springfield, run by Montenia Shider, a talented jazz singer who was herself the recipient of an artist grant from the SCC a few years ago. She served catfish and chicken, strawberries and grapes, and a rainbow assortment of fresh pimientos, all with appropriate dipping sauces. The place is extremely clean, the food extremely fresh. Montenia is no stranger to the restauant business, having owned a place further up State Street a few years ago. She cooks just as well as she sings.

Shariff Butler, one of the artists, is a fellow alum of the Dunamis Café, where I used to hang out and sometimes recite a few years back. On Wednesday nights, Crossroads Poetry took over and the place was really cooking. I've never seen anything like it even in much bigger cities. Crossroads went on hiatus, the Dunamis moved and eventually closed, and the poetry scene went underground. So I was glad to see Shariff still at it and even getting a payoff for his persistence.

Justin Cohen, the other artist of my acquaintance, is a friend of the family. His older brother, Eli, and my older son, Ali, have been best friends since middle school. For years it was Ali and Eli, Eli and Ali, seven days a week. It was inevitable that their two little brothers would become friends as well, even though they never attended the same schools.

Eli took up guitar and Ali, drums. They formed a band together. They ran a punk venue called Gasoline Alley together. Ali took up guitar. Eli worked for a record label. Ali went to recording school. He formed another band, then another. Justin took up drums and formed a band. Amir took up drums. Punk rock has been the soundtrack of my life, and the Cohens's, for a dozen years.

Punk bands often have in-your-face names, and band members frequently take their stage names from the name of the band itself. So you have Joe Queer of the Queers, Joey Vindictive of the Vindictives, JJ Nobody of the Nobodys. Also Justin Disease, Erik Elsewhere, Danny Vapid, Danny Panic, Ben Weasel....you get the idea.

Justin Cohen's punk name is Justin Accident. There was a band called the Accidents (Justin's current band is American Business Machines), but at the same time the choice is eerily accurate. As a child Justin was not--to put it kindly--the most coordinated kid. If he could drop something, spill something, or bump into something, he did. And now here he is, not only a competent drummer, but a multi-faceted musician who's playing, touring, managing, recording, deejaying, and at the same time juggling several non-musical pursuits. With persistence, anything is possible.

Poetry in the Park

The downtown library has an open mic poetry series this summer, hosted by Crystal Senter Brown. The sessions are held once a month, in the Quadrangle if the weather's nice, or in the Community Room if it's not. I wasn't able to attend in May, so I made a special effort to go over there today at noon.

Crystal Senter Brown is a poet who used to show up sometimes at the Dunamis Café on Wednesday nights for Crossroads Poetry, the liveliest poetry event I've ever had the pleasure of attending. I wondered if she'd be able to tell me what happened to the poetry after the Dunamis ceased to host it. Or if some of the spark was still following her around.

At least one Dunamis alum was following her, as it turned out: my old friend and workmate Maurice "Soulfighter" Taylor, making an appearance to show his support for CSB. He wrapped up the program with a powerful recitation, followed by a freestyle poem. The audience gave him "fire," "purple," "love," and "exacerbate," which he gamely composed a verse around...I say gamely because he wasn't even sure of the meaning of "exacerbate"...but he did manage to include it!

Before Soulfighter, we had elderly Beth with a poem about eye contact, classically enunciated; Harold on the human condition, Charlie and Steve with some rather humorous offerings; an apologetic poetess who composed in Spanish; a serious gentleman with moving poems about 9/11 and his faithful dog; two ladies with deftly observational verse; Jerry, solemn and passionate; three young women who read and recited, together and separately; a kid who did long dramatic recitations of Lewis Carroll and Tolkien; and, of course, Crystal herself.

The only people who didn't participate were Anna the librarian and I. Anna was supervising. What was my excuse?

At the end, I asked for the floor, and issued an invitation to everyone present to channel their artistic energy--if so moved--to the subject of one of my hobbyhorses: the possibly-soon-to-be-demolished carriage house behind the Quadrangle. I suggested they read or perform the poems next time, or send them to Crystal or Anna, and I would read them.

The local preservation and neighborhood associations, the city's building and law departments, the Historical Commission, the mayor, and the owner have all fallen down on the job, IMHO. Let's see now what the poets can do.