Saturday night’s gig was a lovely literary leviathan of legendary grandeur. This delightful hybrid event merged the majestic promotional powers of both the musically orientated ‘It’s All Happening’ and literary lovers ‘Booked.’ Such a concept is a favourite of mine; weaving together the various lovely art forms of poetry, music, spoken word, burlesque and story-telling into a veritable smorgasbord of aural excellence. In my experience, variety like this is always a winner. The differing shades and contrasting disciplines keep the evening fresh and endlessly entertaining. (Much like ‘Now 48′. Atomic Kitten and S Club 7 in one volume? Be still my beating heart). Well, that’s the idea anyway. What was particularly special here was that the execution was entirely successful, from promoters, performers and audience alike.

In the early frosty evening I trundled/skated along to the venue which was a favourite of mine; the delicious Gallery Café in Bethnal Green. The fact that it was a Saturday night gig would ordinarily bode well for healthy attendance, but some fool had apparently stirred the wrath of the capricious weather gods, meaning that the shabby streets of East London were transformed into devastating swathes of arctic tundra. A couple of artists had already been defeated by the nefarious wintry schemes of Jack Frost. As such, there was every possibility that the remaining cluster of performers would end up playing to an audience of perhaps three twitchily homicidal humans and one gently rabid canine. As sexy as this sounds, I was a little concerned about the possibility because I was counting on a greater mass of bodies to block the icy drafts of air and to warm up the room/my cockles. As it was, I needn’t have worried.

I have never known the Gallery Café so busy. I wonder if the Gallery Café has ever known the Gallery Café so busy. By 7.30pm the room resembled a scaled up claustrophobic can of giant attractive human sardines. Without the fish smell. Or the scales for that matter. Thankfully. Once the brave crowd of apiscine hardy arctic adventurers had piled their way into the cozy fairy-light warmth of the charming café, the gig began in earnest. Our guest host and author Katy Darby of the international live fiction collective ‘Liars’ League’ ran the night with aplomb, introducing the first act Courttia Newland. Courttia read an entrancing excerpt from his forthcoming novel The Gospel According To Cane; a dream sequence of coruscating imagery and brutal power. Hot on his heels came a couple of Radhika Rathinasabapathy poems and then a wonderful set from singer-songwriter Tom Price-Stephens whose cluster of splendid songs danced between wistful profundity and the comic shallows (his words). To close the first half, the spell-bound audience was treated to the breath-taking poetic force that is Anthony Anaxagorou. The intense brilliance of Anaxagorou’s poetry is impossible to capture in a snapshot here. Save to say that this young poet’s ability to slam a blistering kaleidoscopic hurricane of words, motifs and romances across continents and epochs made him my highlight of the night. Check him out live if you ever get the chance. You won’t be disappointed.

A brief interval gave a lucky few punters the chance to recharge their glasses with an organic ale or perhaps something a little warmer and/or stronger. Drinks in hand, the beautifully attentive multitude settled in for a double bill of short stories courtesy of Liars’ League, whose company of professional actors read out new fiction of authors from across the globe, channelling a double-helix burst of creative DNA. Both pieces were fantastically executed; firstly by actor-opera-man Martin Lamb and secondly by actor-director-writer-man Cliff Chapman. Their performances were superb, treading the careful line between subtle humour and aching pathos with aplomb, captivating the crowd with the human hearts of stories that wrestled to transcend their potentially problematic gender politics. Also, I’m just a sucker for being read a night-time story. All that remained was for me to conclude matters with a batch of my most literarily-inflected material. Never being short of a word or two (thousand), I was happy to indulge my most wordy self, busting out a lament railing against neo-liberal economics as well as an old song exploring of Dostoyevsky’s Notes From Underground. I also enjoyed christening a brand new tune written from the viewpoint of The Crucible’s John Proctor. I am deeply attracted to such fallen noble protagonists- and Miller’s play remains one of my favourites- hence the choice of songwriting subject. The song is as yet un-named, but I’m toying with ‘John Proctor’s Song (Hang those witches, bitches)’. Contemporary and provocative.

All in all, it was a genuinely cracking night. I’ve decided to be more choosy with how many gigs I play in 2013, prioritising quality over quantity, eschewing some of the crappier gigs and shadier promoters (of which and whom there are plenty. I just don’t think I’m happy to be paid in crack any more. It’s too moreish). That said, I couldn’t have hoped for a better gig to christen both the new year and new gig policy with. To play to a space full of such wonderfully attentive and gracious listeners is a rare old privilege. In such moments I am reminded what an honour and a delight it is to be a music-man in Londontown. Here’s hoping that the next gig is such a treat too…

Until then, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.