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Below the ratchet-like racket of pool breaks,
between brick walls and dart-boards, in a mist of cigarette smoke,
gathered more then thirty musicians, poets, and their proponents.
This was not a film still from the San Francisco 50s.
It was the usual open-mike scene happening at 9:30 p.m. Monday
night at Rico's in Pullman. Besides the price-tag of one's chosen
beverage, the event was free.
Every Monday night for nearly three-years the inherent brilliance
of human inventiveness has been celebrated at Rico's.
This Monday offered a tasty morsel to those who are hungry for
alternative leisure activities. The performing roster included:
chicken clucking folksters, bluesy ROTC guitar aficionados, and
a poet who declared he had to wear a tin foil hat to keep the
government from reading his brain.
Poems about gay-prostitution followed Modest Mouse covers; dread-locked
soulful pianists proceeded sappy romantics with weeping guitars.
The crowd? Diverse, lively, and supportive of the 15 performers.
Occasional random grunts of encouragement emanated from the delirious
audience. The interplay betwixt the audience and the performers
added to the overwhelming fluorescence.
The show was highlighted by the poetic duo of Amy Davies and
Tina Krauss. Their most outrageous poetic outburst occurred when
the couple assaulted the audience in tag-team fashion with their
reading of, "Dyke Life in Pullman," a poem inspired
by an Audrey Hepburn look-alike bartender.
"Once a week you get to sit in this swirling mass of creativity,"
said Davies, a WSU student who has been reading at Rico's for
two years.
Kelly Crook was the witty MC at this week's event. An MA English
student at WSU, Crook has been an important figure in the genesis
and evolution of Rico's open-mike.
The professor who taught the beatnik literature class at WSU
offered the students two options: one could either write a mid-term
essay or read beatnik poetry supported by ambient jazz music.
Alex Gonzalez, then a transfer student from the University of
Oregon, asked if he could read his own poetry to the sax and
trap-kit. After considerable deliberation the professor consented.
This was 1997, and according to Crook, Moscow proprietors and
poets followed suit.
"Proliferation happened at Mikey's, the Vox, and at John's
Alley, but now we are the only thing happening."
Crook encourages more participants from Moscow, "what we
value is a creative force and a new infusion of energy."
If you too want to express your talents in prose and concepts,
please venture to Pullman on Monday nights.
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