If there’s one way to woo a reviewer, it’s to make them feel all important by giving them a special mention on stage. Not that John Cooper Clarke does that. Oh no. The sharp-suited mecca of punk poetry goes one step further, turning the guest list into a one breath marathon poem that rattles from his mouth like a high-speed train on crack.
At 62 years old, Cooper Clarke is showing no signs of taking life more seriously, or any slower. He still delivers his poems at breakneck speed, with the inimitable ‘Hire Car’ hot on the heels of the opener. The crowd is full of adoring fans – middle-aged rockers and tattooed art students alike.
In contrast to his legendary readings of the ‘70s, there’s a noticeable increase in the ratio of puns to poetry. Not that we mind – his witty one-liners have us all in stitches: “I was a dyslexic as a child. I had a misspelt youth.”
He makes a big effort with his Dublin audience, too: “I remember when condoms were so rare in Ireland, they used to smuggle them in in bags of heroin.” And when he reads ‘Bongo’s Trousers’ – a sublime spoof of Bono’s efforts to save humanity despite his lounge suit – everyone is won over.
Throughout his set, Cooper Clarke clutches a transparent drink (is it water? is it gin?) that precariously tips with each emphatic gesture but somehow never spills. Nursing the unidentifiable liquid, he shares newer poems from half-torn notebooks, including ‘Happiness Index Update’ and ‘Bipolar Inmate Diary’.
Rounding off with ‘Beasley Street’ and then the hilariously updated ‘Beasley Boulevard’, he dives head first into his famous ‘Evidently Chickentown’. A superb climax. Whatever it is, Cooper Clarke still has it.