Slammin' Poetry at the Cantab Lounge

Cantab Lounge, 738 Mass Ave., Cambridge, ph. 354-2685. Poetry every Wednesday night: 7:30 p.m. open mike, 9:30pm featured poet, 10 p.m. slam. Cover $2.

Iarrive at Central Square wearing black, unlit cigarette in hand. With romanticized notions of Kerouac and Ginsberg, I am ready to light up and spout out deep thoughts. But the Cantab Lounge reminds me more of a scummy bar in the middle of nowhere than of the urban youth underground I am expecting. It's the smell of cheap beer, and not the energy of angst, that hits me as I walk in.

"Enter, enter," the tall, skinny man right inside the door beckons. All I can see are red wooden signs that circle the room: Danger Third Rail, they read. The crowd inside--one baseball cap, three berets--is mostly hip people in their mid-40s. I put the cigarette back in my pocket.

Each Wednesday, 25 to 30 people present their poetry at the open mike in the basement of the Cantab Lounge. As I walk in, Douglas Bishop is standing in front of the mike teaching the audience the refrain of a poem. He has no trouble enticing everyone to speak along.

"It is mostly our own poetry," says Richard Cambridge. He continues quickly, almost afraid that I will cut him off, "people standing up giving utterance to what's moving them and it has been my observation that it's not just confessional; it's meaningful. So full, so widespread."

As Cambridge finishes his existential monologue, "Fat Chance" Brian, as he is known around these parts, gets up on stage. His hips start a-shakin' as he grasps his head and begins to pull on his hair. "I don't know," he suddenly screams out, "I don't know..." He gets louder and louder and louder, until finally I don't know either.

Ending the open mike, organizer Michael Brown welcomes us to the "Cambridge version of the internationally-renowned poetry slam." Every Wednesday night, up to eight people face each other, presenting an original poem in each of four rounds. The winner gets $10. "Enough to keep you in mac and cheese for a week," mouths a spectator to the man across from her.

Brown and co-organizer Patricia Smith brought the slam to Central Square, from its birthplace in Chicago, in May 1991. "The crowds are sedate here, as befits new England, but the quality of the poetry is better," says Brown. In the first two or three months, the slam only drew 25 or 30 people a night. Now, the audience of about 60 each Wednesday night is really supportive; after reciting, the poets get quiet feedback from all corners as they make their way around the room.

The judges for the slam, hand-picked from the audience by Brown, aren't quite as inconspicuous. They mark their scores for each poet on a scrap of paper with a fat Crayola marker. The audience also acts as judge, prodded by Brown to "respond appropriately--which means not always well." The crowd laughs and, as if anyone needs encouragment, the bartender shouts out: "drink a little more and the poetry will sound even better."

Amidst the audible mental synapses turned to poetic utterance, you hear the hefty beat of music from upstairs, blocked out only occassionally by the rumble and shaking of a passing subway. It's a trip, but leave romaniticized visions of underground culture at home.