Immediately after a performance, there is always a sense of relief. However, once the proverbial dust has settled, as an artist you must begin to once again look through the lens of critical analysis.  My show had been a long time in the making, starting from nothing but an idea and a keen intention to ensure the show was a lyrical one. In order to analyse the show correctly, I have decided to categorise the positive aspects of the show, and the areas of the show of which could have been improved.

POSITIVES:

1.) The major positive in my show, was, without doubt the text itself. I felt that the intensity in the room was right given eh content of the material, and the wordplay had achieved it’s desired effect of creating a mysterious aura to an already enigmatic narrative, much like the works of my inspiration, Edgar Allan Poe. I felt as though the genre of my show was inexplicably clear to the audience, and the intensity of the text, was clearly making any audience member who caught direct eye contact with me, at least slightly on-edge. Success.

2.) Another aspect of the show that I believed to be well received, was the soundscape. I thought it played it’s part well in assisting the backstory narrative of my alter-ego. and also helped to build the anticipation for the next section of poetry, during the section changeovers. It was my intention from the start, for the soundscape to offer two things at once: a series of flash backs to the different points of the killers murders, and a definitive backstory of his childhood and the horrors he himself endured. I believe, although it could have been more complex, and added more detail in that sense, the soundscape still achieved its goal of creating a mysterious atmosphere, and helped to solidify the genre as well as the character himself before he had even spoken a word to the audience. So, overall I believe this to be a strong positive.

NEGATIVES:

1.) The first and most pressing need for improvement was the length of my performance, initially, I had thought that the script and need for dramatic pauses during it, would have given me plenty of time. However, this did not prove the case, and perhaps because of nerves I was rushing through the lines, leading me to be a little short.

2.) Another key matter was my physicality, I say this because my piece was almost completely static. This would be something that, given the chance, I would almost definitely change, as it would have enabled me to bring more levels to the performance and in turn, allowed the show to provide more intensity.

WHAT HAVE I LEARNED?

Throughout this process, the main thing that I have learned is to trust myself, and not to be bound by negativity, as it is the main inhibitor of creative aptitude. To continue, I simply wouldn’t be being honest with myself  if I didn’t say that the biggest lesson I have learnt is to prepare. While I know I tried my best whenever producing my work, a more rigorous schedule in my preparation would have allowed my life to be a lot easier, which would have reflected in my overall performance. Nonetheless, I am immensely proud of myself for creating a show that I have always wanted to create, and hope that I can continue to create work in the future.

With my script now written, my new chief priority was to decide the staging, lighting choices, and sound requirements for the show.

SOUND & LIGHTING

While I was researching spoken word poetry, I came across some videos of poetry with a soundscape of synths and vocal samples, which helped to create a ambient and gothic atmosphere:

This gave me the idea to create a soundscape to couple my text, not only to add ambience to accompany the narrative of which I was trying to tell. Using Garage Band, I was able to take vocal samples, and place them at intervals in between each section of my poem, this would act as additional backstory to the murder as a young man, depicting his fathers brutality during his formative years.

SECTION ONE:

Prison Ambient Sound Plays.

A man sits in a chair in a dimly lit room, in front of him is a table with documents spread across it.

One gets the impression of an interrogation chamber, however the set is vague enough, that it could be anywhere in the world.

CUE  A crescendo of voices is heard in the background until it abruptly stops. 

SECTION TWO:

CUE Prison Bars can be heard again.

Another voice, a man’s, can be heard shouting abusive language, as though he were doing it to a child.

SECTION THREE:

CUE Prison Bars can be heard again.

A police siren begins to sound, screams of animals are heard, as well as children screaming.

SECTION FOUR:

CUE Prison Bars can be heard once again.

A sound bite of a brutal murder can be heard, the lights go out. All that can be heard is a vicious murder. when the sound stops, a slow and sinister sub-bass is heard and continues.

PRISON DOORS LOCK FOR THE FINAL TIME. SCENE.

My lighting cues, were simple in the fact that I only had a fade up, and fade down, for each different section, I did this to recreate to abrupt lighting change in a prison at ‘lights out’. I thought in this regard there would be some power in simplicity, and thought the soundscape would be better accompanied by darkness, than a technical lights display. In addition, the sadistic nature of my show, would have perhaps looked out of place, brightly lit and full of colours.

COSTUME:

My costume choice was simple- all black. This was to create a solid focus on the text and the soundscape. As my performance was poetry based, the visual aspect, for me at least, needed to be purposely dark.

SET: My set was, again minimal, although still needed to serve the purpose of the narrative: a man on death row, having his final interview in the interrogation room. To achieve this, I placed a large table in front of the spotlight lit chair, and had my eight seats for the audience scattered around it in a semi circle. This made the setting intimate, which was necessary in order for each member of the audience to feel as though the killer was talking to each one of them personally.

Having figured out the thematic concerns of my show; the use of an alter ego, psychopathy, and of course the medium of gothic poetry. I now had to take what I had learned from Ted Bundy’s interview and Anthony Hopkins’ performance of Hannibal, to create the shows text, the poem. Very quickly I began to discover the magnitude of the task before me. I would need to brainstorm ideas, in order to create my narrative structure – in other words, the story my poem was going to tell. Like any story, I would structure my work into a beginning, middle and an end. I planned to fashion those three steps into four separate sections.

The outline of my narrative, tells the story of an unnamed man, who, now trapped inside an interrogation room, gives us what appear to be his final words before his execution. He tells the story of how he was bullied heavily at school, and tormented to the point he would run away, with no help from teachers, parents or anyone who could have controlled the situation. The man jumps back and forth between his past, and his present situation, and speaks like a man who is regretful at some of the things he has done. Initially, he will not take responsibility for these actions, blaming his situation on the fact he was “born in hell”.  He talks fondly of his street (which is what I decided to use in order to make this psycho killer relatable, everyone remembers their childhood street… don’t they??) In SECTION TWO, he goes on to talk about his father’s influence and the negative things he was told at such a young age.

In BOLD are the examples of wordplay taken from my Eminem entry.

SECTION ONE:

WHO AM I?
Unhappy slaps and split hands, shaking fits and skipping plans 

That was the fabric of my life at a young age. 

Now I find myself in strife and when sun says goodnight I never sleep, 

I get crazy-achy as my mind starts to take me down my street, 

My first glimpse of escapin’ home, as I look inside the gaping hole, but my mind wont retreat, 

even at my own surprise, the facts of life will soon surmise, that I will never see my street again.  

Open arms welcome defeat again, my once bright life looks bleak in shame,  

that I only have myself to blame, for how this came to be. 

But even If I got my wish, and lady luck give me the slip, would my mind not still lose it’s grip on reality? 

A part of getting older is accepting that my mind is here to challenge me,  

So I can then accept that my thoughts and dreams are fallacies,  

Lost inside the cold of a monumentally broken home, left to roam as a clone of my former self. 

What is this? The hornets shelf, with stings sharp enough to engorge themselves and sold enough to be bought as well?

Yeah, that’s I thought as well. The kind of stories that the teachers who taught would tell, oblivious to the fact I was born in hell.

Who am I? 

SECTION TWO:

WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME? 

SO… did I deserve this? Words cutting so fierce, as though you rehearsed this. If violence is so unforgivable, then why do you disperse it?  

If the sunlight was a blessing why did you raise me to curse it, and thrive from the darkness of which I now emerge in. 

This is my home now, I will never see my street again, my now-black heart will never, with another share the beat again. 

All of your teachings have lead me to the beast again, but I fear not. 

I only fear the thickening of the plot, to go back to a place where time forgot, and be someone I’m not. Who would string together questions with the answers tied in knots? Who am I? What have they done to me? 

If I was such a monster, then why why why did they not run from me?  

I didn’t hold a gun you see. Oh nothing quite as fun you’ll see. It seemed I’d never rise before the sun brightened my eyes, much to your surprise.  

Hmmm. Isn’t it nice, to think you are good inside, and not a parasite destined for demise. I guess we’ll try, lets hope your curiosity helps you find out why…. I’ll never see my street again. 

SECTION THREE:

 YOU DID THIS, OR WAS IT US?

Without the lights attempts of saving grace, I find in my own eyes a reflection of your face. 

My creator, the one who sets the pace and leads the evil into place behind the driving seat.  

Back then it was fine to see your only boy lost and died, now me, few and far between the person I’d like to be. Oh what a sight to see.  

The hopeless futility of nature under nurtures grasp, so faithless from the hurt thats passed, but hatred is the word that lasts, a concept so absurd that it hurts to even work the task. But the task is done, and now at last… I will never see my street again.  

Not one bite will I eat again, as I’m ravaged by the beast, his name? Me and you, complete again 

holding on to beseech the brain, and entertain the complex thought that we are all the same.   

Forever in the motion of cutting through the grass until the grass becomes the people who have stood right in your path.  

A path soon to be opened, once the light has all but left, and the beast is now awoken stood with baited breath. 

I did not create myself, for I was born of you, until the essence of my mind was sadly ripped in two.  

Now some of me is here, and the other half is you, your the half that holds the knife… there’s nothing I can do.  

Thank you, Father. For the gifts that you have given, otherwise who could have known where my distant mind would have driven.  

SECTION FOUR:

PART FOUR: WE ARE ALL ANIMALS.

Here we are at the edge of the world, set to kingdom come, for all of this is over now the deed is done, although you would be foolish, to think me the only one. 

There is a beast in everyone, it only needs unlocking, mine was keenly opened, the door fathers knocking 

For nurture beats nature, as nature is not taught, nurture can be forced upon, even if guilt is naught. 

The darkness will creep in, grip you with it’s mandibles, and then you all will see, that all of us are animals. 

For there is no great answer, no deity, no god. Only those who bring us into the world, and give the fatal nod. As pain and suffering take me further and further, it seems quite understandable, why I thirst for murder. My rage will never rest, the page was always left, as my fate was decided before I had drawn breath. 

But if anything is certain before I take my feet again, I know now for sure… I will never see my street again.