Some artists and groups add another dimension to their songs playing them live, others just repeat their recorded versions.
   Some of the all-time greats such as Bob Dylan are guilty of destroying the very essence of their back catalogue : altering songs beyond recognition and, above all, mangling their meaning.
   Last Friday I went to see Villagers at The Gate in Roath, Cardiff ; first time I'd ever seen them/him.
   Villagers are really Conor O'Brien of Dun Laoghaire with different musicians along the way and a latest album 'Darling Arithmetic', on which he plays most instruments.
   The Gate's a great venue : a converted chapel, like Soar in Merthyr, but with a bit more comfort for posteriors.
   Its acoustics are perfect for the largely muted songs from the new album and a band which included harp and double bass (though the latter fought with sound gremlins all night).
   What impressed me most were two things : the older songs were subtly re-interpreted and those from 'Darling Arithmetic' given renewed depth and vision.
   I have to admit I much prefer the two previous albums, both Mercury Prize nominated : 'Becoming a Jackal' and ' (Awayland)'  (love the brackets!).
   It's unfortunate that Villagers have released it at the same time as Sufjan Stevens' 'Carrie & Lowell', because there are many similarities.
   Both O'Brien and Stevens are poetic and literate lyricists and talented multi-instrumentalists. Both albums are starkly confessional, yet 'Carrie & Lowell' ties together as an entity and explores much darker areas, sometimes with characteristic humour.
   However, a number of tracks were given new life when performed and heightened the homophobia which O'Brien addresses with candour in certain songs.
   I particularly liked 'So Naive' with its Zen philosophy never pushy ; it was even more mysterious but at the same time grounded, embracing contradictions as that 'religion' should.
   'Little Bigot' was more fiery , carried by the pounding rhythms and O'Brien's high , sustained notes.   
   Playing live, I forgave the occasional cliche because of the powerful vocals and a band playing with such unity of purpose.
   As to the older songs, I was especially moved by two favourites : 'The Waves' from '(Awayland)' and 'Pieces' from the first album.
   The former began with such passion and energy and didn't follow the rather familiar pattern of crescendo as the songs progress. It's also something of an exception : looking outwards and taking quite awkward viewpoints along the way. 
   The whole band seemed to sense this  and brought out its apocalyptic feeling.
   'Pieces' is a contrast : an emotive song of mental torment which, on the album, totally fragments and ends in a howl.
   Yet , on the night, it was given a gentle melancholic treatment, which complemented the recent inward-looking  songs.
   It will be fascinating to see where Villagers go from here.
   Too many bands and solo artists are lyrically bland and O'Brien needs to return to his strengths, with imagery which entices like footpaths to the hills, not the too familiar landmarks viewed from motorways.


                             STRANGE  VILLAGE


Strange village where
bodies clap the bells
and wolves in the forests
call but are not heard ;
the few flowers wither,
bees struggle to find them
among the coloured umbrellas.




The donkey at the fence
sports a dog collar,
brays at a congregation
of scattering hens.




In dunes, a young man stands
and howls towards the trees
and seeks a path of light
to lead the way ;
a boat's moored, ready.




His lover is hiding
among the marram grass,
but the sea storms
too loudly for any response
to be followed, to be found. 
     

   Summin's appnin in poetree!
  I'm not sure if this is the case nationally, but there really is a revival of interest.
   The Imp, Fireside Lounge, Hen 'n' Chicks, Murenger and Mozart's : these are just some of the grassroots venues where you can go along, listen to top poets perform and join in with the Open Mic.
   In the past couple of months I've witnessed it first hand.
   A lively and entertaining celebration of the late lamented John Tripp  at the Fireside Lounge in Bargoed was as eclectic as it comes.
   Organised by the enthusiastic and determined Julie Pritchard ( who also founded Rhyme & Real Ale sessions in Cardiff) the night comprised reminiscences of Tripp, songs from Cor Cochion and Jamie Bevan, Tripp's own work read by friends and poems about and inspired by the man from Bargoed.
   Atop a small restaurant in the Valleys town where Julie lives, the Fireside is a monthly event, like most of these. It's cosyand friendly and you can even chomp on chips to the rhythm of the stanzas.
   Like Julie, Alan Roderick at the Murenger in Newport is a poet and prose writer and consummate performer. 
   The Murenger often invites guests along and the venue is an old pub with excellent organic ales.
   The difference with this event is that any money raised goes towards the running of the former Stow Hill library and this gives it a real sense of purpose and edge.
   I like the eccentricity of so many of these places : astounded couples out for a meal suddenly asked if they want to read and the reading-spot at the Murenger right in front of the toilet door : both convenient and inconvenient at the same time!
   Poetry evenings at the Hen n Chicks in Abergavenny has been going for longer than any of the others and is a tribute to the wide-ranging taste and sheer love of poetry of the organiser Ric Hool.
  Although it's more seasonal, it's also one of the best places to read, with a receptive audience guaranteed and 'craic' to go with the choice of real ales.
   At Merthyr's Imp (Imperial Hotel...not so grand, but very homely) we've had guest writers for many years and we're now giving longer spots for regulars to read their work.
  I have to admit that, at times, I almost gave up. When even our National Poet failed to draw in the crowds I despaired.
   However, in the last months we have been 'eavin'.
   Extraordinarily, our Open Mic. slots have featured poems from an 11 year-old from Abernant ,Rusiru and a sixth-former from Builth Wells, Nia : both read their moving poems with such confidence.
   For Owen Sheers visit in February we were invaded by a bus-load of writers from Aberdare and also members of the local history society. Sheers's poepies (work that one out) were also in attendance.
   Despite all this, there are still reminders of when I was editor of 'Poetry Wales' back in the 80s : envelope after envelope falling on my door-mat from poets who clearly had never read a word of contemporary verse.
   What is it with some poets that they think they can write without ever buying books or magazines . How do they think poetry will survive?....on a practical note.
   Howl at Swansea's Mozart's defies the odds.
   It actually looks as though it has been shut down and is waiting to be made into student Lets, like the rest of Uplands.
  Yet, venture into the dark bar at the back and you'll find a veritable poetry sanctuary.
   A real microphone and a youthful audience, it is surrounded by posters of the giants : Ginsberg, Plath, Whitman and, of course, Dylan Thomas.
   Here the real ale is in bottles, but the Gower Gold is a winner.
   Swansea has always had an exciting poetry scene and plethora of talent : I recall the nights Nigel Jenkins used to organise at the No-Sign Bar as an inspiration to everything that's followed.
  There's still ample time to feel the depths of disillusionment.
   As an organiser, I've a mental list of excuses at hand - 'There a clash with a play down the road at the arts centre.' ( long closed) and ' Nobody ever comes out in the sun/ hail/snow/....or when it's too cold!'
   As a visiting writer I'm always prepared to shrug off a situation where even the organiser can't be bothered to turn up , or (as happened at a pub in Brecon once) a case of mistaken identity,when posters advertised a reading by Neil Jenkins (then full-back for Wales rugby team).
   Yes, it's happening and the age of social media has created an impetus.
   Conversely, it's really gratifying to get out for a night away from those 'dot dot machines' ( as a builder friend calls them).
  If only some young poets wouldn't read from their mobile phones!


                                 STILL  HOWLING
                               for Alan  Perry




In Mozart's,still howling,
still holding out among
'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs.


Below the stripy, dingy canopy,
by scrawled messages and barely
any light to follow lines.


'One time Ginsberg fell completely
from the wall, the blu-tack
gave way!' you told me.


Ginsberg with red lipstick painted on,
as Dylan stayed firmly 
and Plath began to peel slowly.


Soon she bent her lovely head
and dived to the bar's dusty floor.
'Who'll be next?' everyone said.


Walt with long, white Viking hair
like the namers of this city,
simply collapsed in a heap.


It was too much for the greats,
bards with rhymes and raves ;
though they were never trodden on.      

   I was sitting to discuss election strategy with my Campaign Manager Al-Wings Jones at our latest favourite perch the Redhouse (which he calls the Old Town Hall and I, in my best pijin Welsh call Ty Co-co-co-coch).
   My election campaign had been put on hold due to the breakdown of our tour bus, a large nest on wheels, and a certain matter of a bumptious cuckoo.
   Al-Wings was nibbling on his usual Green Tea Burger, while I had the pickings of a dish called Wales Meets Asia, a tasty lentil cawl a la Bevan.
   Al-Wings was on top form.....
   - I ad another vision mun!
   - Go on Al, tell all!
   - Well, I woz wingin down-a Food Tubes an I seen this coin flung in the air. It woz pewer gold an as it spun I seen one side of it an....know wha?....yewer face wuz on it!
   -  Yew shewer it wern tha Mrs Windsor?
   -  Nah....then I seen a bit o tha day's 'Daily No-Wings'. The eadline sayz 'SEARCH FOR NATIONAL BIRD BEGINS'. Coincidence or summin much deeper? What yew think?
   -  So, whadda I do?
   -  Not a lot. I'll sort the letters....pigeon post.....with yewer photo in em. Yew jest need t write summin sayin why yew should be the national bird instead of say, the robin or the blackbird.
   - Bloody ell Al-Wings, thought yew wuz gunna say seagull then!
   - There's talk of it.
   -  Right, I'll do it straight away.....national bird , eh? That'll be a sure-fire election winner!

   So I set about writing my claim -

   My name is Wayne-O Pijin and I live in Merthyr Tudful or, as we call it, Greggsville.
   I am just an ordinary pigeon who happens to be standing at the General Election for the Co-co-co-operative Party.
   I feel very strongly that the pigeon should be the national bird and that my image should therefore adorn coins, notes, signs and, quite possibly, feature on the flag.
   I am modest and hard-working, similar to the majority of No-Wings in this land.
   Above all, I have been verbally abused by the media for far too long, often called things like 'a rat with wings'.
  While scavenger seagulls may have fancy moves, robins look cute but never move from the garden and blackbirds only seek lucrative recording contracts; we are common, useful and share many traits with the No-Wings.
   We live in both towns and countryside just like you and our eating habits are remarkably similar : corned beef pasties being a particular choice.
   Just like you we believe it's vital to crap on our enemies and can do so selectively if need be.
   Like many of you our real contributions to society often go unnoticed and, on Friday and Saturday nights for instance, we can clear a town of unwanted vomit very rapidly.
   As National Bird I Wayne-O Pijin would represent the country at all relevant ceremonies such as Bill Oddie's birthday and Trafalgar Square Festival of Droppings.
   Moreover, without wishing to threaten anyone, we would call a halt to our on-going war with bus passengers immediately ( and that's more than seagulls will ever promise!).
   What's common is also extraordinary!
   Remember......Homer was a pigeon.


                          PIJIN  POWER


Of all the birds of these islands
the pigeon is easily the best :
common and living off scraps,
we shit on all the rest.


Labour might choose the robin,
dash of red and safe in a garden ;
the Tories would be the buzzard
preying upon everyone.


LibDems are definitely cuckoos
using the nests of others ;
the Greens are surely kingfishers,
glorious in a flash by rivers.


Plaid Cymru would be the warbler,
fine singing and then gone ;
while UKIP are circling vultures
not native to this clime.


But we pigeons soar to rooftops
and know what it's like on the ground :
won't desert you for warmer seasons
and we make a coo-coo-operative sound.