John Cooper Clarke and Luke Wright

If you haven’t heard of John Cooper Clarke or the Bard of Salford, then you were probably living under a rock in the 80s watching ‘Crossroads’ (shout out to my mum there) or you’ve never listened to the Arctic Monkey’s fifth album. The original punk poet, known equally for his rapid-fire surrealistic diatribes as his coat-hanger figure, dark frames and wildfire singed hair has been around the block, circumnavigated the globe countless times as he pointed out in his performance on Thursday night. Since being awarded an honorary doctorate in 2013, Cooper Clarke seems to have embraced a more zen way of life, channelling a more minimalistic and deadpan delivery in his poetry. Having Luke Wright as his support act might have been the perfect companion. Wright is like the yin to Cooper Clarke’s yang – a compadre with a brazen and outrageous flair. The emo rock to the punk-jazz bop.

Luke Wright is also a distinguished poet. Originally from Bungay, he’s been performing poetry for over 20 years and has been lauded by music and poetry legends Patti Smith and Pete Doherty (although he is still the support act as he joked in his performance). Like Cooper Clarke, he is a true performance poet and funny-man. Wright seamlessly shifts between a gruffly cockney voice for his 7-year-old son who sneers at him “like Stewart Lee”, to a squawky local lass in a pub and even embodies the essence of Cooper Clarke himself. Wright’s poetry is dynamic. At some points audacious and at other points charmingly melancholy; all the while documenting 21st century British life with both wit and humanity.

There are poems about touring with John Cooper Clarke, his cat Sir John Betjeman, bawdy poems that use one vowel, social workers, his honeymoon in Weybourne. Watching Wright at his home gig gave his poetry even more flair. The references to murmurations in North Norfolk and laughter from the audience for choosing Weybourne as his honeymoon spot, with one man being applauded for best heckle with his “I’m from Weybourne!”, made it more heartfelt and humorous. Wright truly set the bar for the night and it would be unfair to label him as a mere support act – Wright is one of the few voices in poetry today that gets the right balance of anger and humour about modern British life. He is able to point out all that is wrong and stupid with our country but make us both love and hate it for it or love it because we hate it, in a true English spirit.

Next the one and only John Cooper Clarke took the stage. Beginning in an existentialist spiel, the Bard of Salford said he is constantly faced with questions he cannot answer. With his punkness subdued by his rasta cap, Cooper Clarke told the audience that he always replies in the existential. Having relocated down south to Essex, Cooper Clarke thinks he has put on the pounds since he's no longer using opiate drugs for non-therapeutic purposes.

A lot of his new poems take inspiration from old jazz ballads. And not only did Cooper Clarke showcase his prowess as a wordsmith but also surprised the audience with his serious vocal chops, delivering renditions of Vernon Duke’s ‘I Can’t Get it Started’ and Gerry & the Pacemakers’ ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. His poetry as well as his stand-up worthy commentary was delivered like a pigeon following a chip in a grand circle. His words scurried and cooed, mirroring the energetic flurry of wings – undeniably quick, relentless, and with an unpredictable elegance.

It was a brilliant night and one that I’ll remember for a long time coming. The collaboration of these two literary forces felt like a celebration of language’s power to evoke laughter, introspection, and a shared sense of cultural identity. And also a proof that poetry is definitely not dead.