Cut grass. Disinfectant. Floor concrete-hard, the carpet painted on. Eating Fruit n’ Fibre out of a tea-cup that’s had two teas in it just prior. Bear with me. I’m trying for 3C, Rivelin. The rented student digs in Endcliffe village, a high hill up and an easy hill down from St. George’s lecture theatre; where I’m staying for Sheffield Lyric. Theatre. Disco gospel, gospel disco, is high acoustic chamber, neon-lit gothic, the present place Tempest rifts off into her first number, not evangelical, not aspirational but guttural beat after guttural. This is language. The love of it. Live. Tripping off a tongue taught by its own generation, by its self-generational times. Tripping off a tongue, talking in rhymes. Talking from more immediacy than we can muster. Until we limber up. And it’s all on. All ears and applause, we are. Standing ovation. Foot stamp on oak, pews gone. Eye contact made. The audience after are all approachable like. Tenderised. Caught up, wised up in truth outpacing lies. And none of it - well - not much of it, dealt with through our judgemental eyes. But eye-free - care-free - ready to celebrate our right minds. This is Kate Tempest, this is pro-VERB and this is happening now. In Sheffield.
Listen to the set as you might of heard it, if you'd been there (and if you were): here to the whole thing and here for pro-VERB. Don't forget there's more to come from the Sheffield Lyric. Don't resent. Be present.
Listen to the set as you might of heard it, if you'd been there (and if you were): here to the whole thing and here for pro-VERB. Don't forget there's more to come from the Sheffield Lyric. Don't resent. Be present.
No comments:
Post a Comment