Lee AdcockCreation is a means of expression. For those who can’t mesh with the mundane cycle of socializing, art provides a means of projecting identity, of connecting with like-minded others. But when fledgling or unconventional creative types seek an audience, traditional venues aren’t always the right fit – wrong crowd, too many stud guitarists and pretty voices on the bill, not enough draw to keep people at the bar. That’s why Camila Maldonado has gathered us here, at fellow outside artist and outcast Jake Crimmins’ house, where we sit on mismatched pillows and gaze up at the ledge lit by old Christmas lights and cheap spotlights. A notebook with names lies open next to a mixing board and a carton of wine. Tonight (i.e. Sunday, August the 28th) is open mic night, the last one that Maldonado will host in Atlanta, and whoever signs their name in the notebook will, theoretically, get a chance to shine.
Maldonado first tapped into outlets for amateur art when she and her friend, both eight at the time, sent poems to a statewide Maya Angelou poetry competition. “I won, and got published in some weird book,” Maldonado recalls. “It felt nice to win, but it felt nicer to discover this weird outlet where I could speak in coded language about whatever I felt compelled to [write about].” Ever since then, she’s “obsessed” over writing, and, perhaps more importantly, platforms that encourage others to write. So when Maldonado moved to Atlanta earlier this year and couldn’t find a grassroots platform for poetry or prose, she decided to create her own.
This night will mark Maldonado’s third foray into the open mic format, and the first show that our host Crimmins has held at his house. Like Maldonado, he’s sensed a gap in the local venue circuit. “Atlanta doesn’t have enough quiet shows,” he tells me as he sets up the two cherry red spotlights on the edge of the makeshift stage.
Zach Ritter sets up for a performance at Maldonado’s open mic night
Around 8:40, the first guests begin to trickle in. According to Maldonado, the two previous open mic shows attracted roughly 20-30 people; on this night, close to 50 folks will gather in the small yard. The notebook begins to travel around the crowd; once it’s back on the table, about 18 people have put down their name. Up on the stage, Maldonado explains the four ground rules: each artist has 10 minutes, no amps or drums, loud acts first, and the opening act can’t be a straight white dude.
And now, dear reader, we approach the gonzo twist of this whole story. You see, I’ve been wanting to take a stab at this whole songwriting business for a while now. This tends to happen when you poke around the Athens music scene for long enough. So earlier that week, I bought a little pocket synthesizer at Guitar Center, started programming beats, and writing lyrics. By Sunday, I had two songs ready to go — and thus, since a big speaker would blare my little synth’s beats, I’d be the first to perform. The aux cord was short, so I had to deliver the whole set from a crouching position. I stumble on the intro to the first song, but no one boos or sneers. From the sidelines, Crimmins says I’m fine. Then I’m on a roll — first the odd one that I wrote with cheesy metaphors and gender stereotypes, then my slightly gothic one about Bauhaus art.
And let me tell ya: after that, I met more people over those pillows than I ever have in any local club. Performing lifted the veil of invisibility I’d so carefully weaved for myself.
Shortly after my performance, the show stalls on Zach Ritter, a nervy young gent in black who recites, among other choice selections, a whole SUNN O))) song to us through a distorted mic. No one complains, but seconds hang heavy, and the magnetic field that lulled everyone toward the stage dissolves. It takes Kether Griffin and an acoustic guitar to draw bodies back into the moment. He sits on the ground, plucks some strings, and sings in a velvety voice that entices us all. Turns out, Griffin is no stranger to this company — during the last open mic, he electrified the crowd with some freestyle raps.
Ben Carson delivering his existential poetry
Yoon Jo
The pace accelerates as three other experienced artists perform in rapid succession. Ben Carson (no, not the presidential candidate) rises and delivers his existential poetry from another corner of the yard, lit faintly by the light above the back door. Myles Starr mounts the chair on stage and astonishes us with his nimble guitar picking. Joshua Loner, of experimental pop-rock act Loner, sits on the floor before us and rips into two gripping acoustic rants (one which, according to him, didn’t last long in a conventional open mic setting). The audience applauds each man heartily, and each in turn lauds me for my week-old songs. I’m certainly elated for all the praise, but this feels off: am I really the only first-timer on the list? And surely other women like me will step up to the mic, right?
By the time Maldonado introduces “her little sister” Bella Reese, the crowd has begun to shift. “Talking to your friends and checking Facebook is cool, but we’re having a dang show here,” she tells the drifting crowd. Reese’s voice blossoms over the chords from her borrowed guitar, but pillows lay vacant around us. By the time Elliot Brabant (of Michael Cera Palin) mounts the stage with his impassioned pop punk act, hardly anyone sits around to watch at all — which is a dead shame, as he battles his own crackling voice to deliver an inspired cover of Sheryl Crow’s “If It Makes You Happy.”
Yet, Griffin Moller’s bachelor space pad set practically encourages chatter, and even I am losing focus by this point. Musicians, when everyone only wants to talk about your gear (like Moller’s digital guitar, which turned more than a few heads), be concerned, for that means they have nothing to say about your actual work.
We’re at 11:15 or so by this point. The crowd — with close to 50 guests, several claim — has dwindled to roughly 20. Crimmins wanted the show to wrap up by midnight, as common courtesy to his neighbors (the garage of the next house over peers just above the backyard). Alas, Maldonado tells us that we’ve got another thirteen names to go! When did that happen? I’m debating about ducking out myself, but ah, now our good host himself will perform, and of course I’ll stay to watch. Besides, this whole shebang was designed for acoustic acts like his — confessional but not cloying, honest and unassuming, with no flashy tricks or gear to obscure him.
Open mic host Jake Crimmins performs
Kat Beaman
Alas! for now the writers and poets that Maldonado really wanted to meet finally get to step in the hot seat, and the audience dwindles still. I sit for Shae Edman (also of Loner) and her bold monologue, but now I’ve got to pop into the house. When I enter, Crimmins lies prone on the couch, saturnine and disheartened; a few of his close friends surround him. I feel like an intruder. All I need is the nearest bathroom. Someone points me down the hall and I rush off.
“I thought this was how it would be,” I hear Crimmins say as I wash my hands. He’d continue to host intimate shows at his pad, and thus provide himself and other like-minded artists — the quiet ones, the amateurs, the ones that don’t care about technique — a platform to be heard. But the haphazard schedule and inattentive crowds have discouraged our host. “I didn’t even get to play at my own house,” he adds, referring to the largely absent crowd.
Eep. I have heard what I should not have heard. But I couldn’t deny — I had been dismayed, too. At the start, the show brimmed with promise. Where else, after all, would intimate soul jams follow an industrial spoken word scree? Where else, indeed, would have booked a weird chick with a toy synth and no performance history whatsoever? Yet, the rejection that Crimmins felt would no doubt trickle down to the nine others who would ultimately be axed from the show, a split decision which happens moments after I emerge from the bathroom.
There’s time for one more act, though, and this guy in the house (who wears a Flipper badge on his shirt) is begging for a go. Crimmins gives him the nod, and thus, synth enthusiast Zach Schrier bolts out the door, just as Maldonado is apologizing to the folks who’d been cut. I follow after, into the most whimsical act of the night. Schrier, after booting up a wonky beat on his custom made square sequencer, instructs the crowd to taunt “that’s the way boys are” after each of his verses. And thus we do, as the lyrics pile on terrible situations with abusive or masochistic men.
Ultimately, Maldonado’s last open mic show was a hit – introverts in the crowd mingled with ease, no one heckled or booed, and amateurs such as myself could air their unconventional or unpolished work without fear. However, anyone who wants to pick up the torch should take note: it could have been better. Crimmins could be down for hosting more in his yard, but only with an earlier start time, a tighter schedule, and a more courteous audience.