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Macklin Finley: Street Rat |
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Sunday, 22 January 2006 06:36 |
Macklin Finley
Street Rat
Grosse Pointe: Greenroom Press, 2000
Introduction by John Sinclair
I first met Mack Finley at the Clover Grill in New Orleans. The Clover, conveniently situated at 900 Bourbon Street, corner of Dumaine, just three blocks toward the Mississippi River from the former J&M recording studio on Rampart & Dumaine where Dave Batholomew and Cosimo Matassa made some of the greatest recordings of the 20th century, is what you might call a classic American diner with a twist: it's owned and operated by some of the most flamboyant characters in North America, who cook up and serve the most satisfying plates of eggs with hash browns or grits to be found anywhere, and big juicy hamburgers grilled to perfection under the protective cover of an automobile hubcap.
Sort of a Crescent City/Motown junction in that regard (and several others), the Clover is managed by our mutual friend and poetic colleague, Brad Sumrall, who introduced me to Mack Finley as a fellow expatriate from the Motor City. One night Brad took Mack and me to his hometown, Hattiesburg, Mississippi, where we performed an evening of music and verse in the decrepit, broken down lobby of a former downtown hotel, now taken over as living and working space by artists and wierdos of every description. We were backed up by a motley collection of skilled and amateur musicians playing everything from tenor saxophone to the guts of an old piano propped up vertically against the wall where it could be pounded upon by an exuberant would-be player.
During his brief sojourn in the Crescent City, during which he was gainfully employed as an interviewer of gutter punks for some sort of post-modern demographic study, Mack also appeared as the ultimate French Quarter street rat who read his poetry for tourists and passers-by on Bourbon Street. One year, during the Mardi Gras festivities, Mack performed his works on the street for three days straight, stopping only to puff a quick joint, have a drink and a bite, or relieve himself in the colorful commode at the Clover, and netted from his artistic labors the unbelievable sum of $7,500 every penny of which was quickly confiscated by government authorities seeking satisfaction of a long-ignored tax debt.
I really enjoy Mack Finley's poetry, both on the page and delivered on stage in his distinctive performance style. He casts the experiences and materials of life into verse, quite graceful verse, and he finds out things while he's composing, which is a little-heralded but most happy by-product of the writing process. You wave the first word, as the great Charles Olson put it, and the whole thing follows. I started out to write a poem one night about how much I missed my former companion because she d been gone so long, in the words of the Professor Longhair song, and by the time I was in the middle of the verse I was asking her to marry me! I had no idea! And the great thing is, we ve been happily married ever since. Or, as Mack says:
Declaration of self is the foundation of personal free.
Declaration of self realizes self in all.
Self in all, demands all in self.
It is simple.
The thought of it is no more harrowing than a smile.
That's right: It is simple. Mack's work will bring a smile to your face, a flash of perception to your brain, and maybe put a little lilt in your step. It might even make you want to dance. Go ahead, it's all right and can t nobody stop you.
New Orleans
January 21, 2000
(c) 2000, 2006 John Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
3.1.6101 |
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