Last night (November 9th) saw the return of the once famous 'Poetry and Jazz' to Hampstead, hosted at the Jewish Cultural Centre by the poet and publisher, Jeremy Robson. Robson organised the first concert in Hampstead Town Hall in 1961, and due to overwhelming popularity, the musicians and poets involved (these included the likes of Stevie Smith and Ted Hughes) then toured a variety of venues in the ensuing years, including the Royal Festival Hall. Amongst last night's line up were Robson himself, Dannie Abse (a veteran from the very first performance) and Alan Brownjohn (a regular contributor over the years) reading their own work; Thomas Blackburn read by his daughter Julia, and his granddaughter Natasha; Laurie Lee read by his daughter Jessy; Celia Mitchell reading her husband's work, and their daughter Sasha singing his songs; accompanied by, and some of Robson's work set to, the music of the Michael Garrick Trio.
Sadly Garrick himself was unable to play having been rushed to hospital for a heart by-pass, so the evening got off to a slightly shaky start as the band, Dave Green on the bass and Trevor Tomkins on the drums, were joined by Barry Green on piano at the last minute. As the evening progressed though, they managed to get into their rhythm, and the final number was met by a surge of applause.
As sad as the news of Garrick's illness was, it somehow brought home the more melancholic aspect of the evening. Coincidentally, this was the last night of my 20s, but never can I remember looking around a room and feeling quite so young. It was abundantly clear, not just from the audience's age but also from the knowing looks passed as incidents from earlier concerts were recalled, that the vast majority of those there had sat in the same seats some half a century ago. Pretty amazing stuff on one level, but also a tad disconcerting for a youngster like myself for, as I listened to Robson explaining how incredibly innovative and original their initial sessions had been, I couldn't help but list all the literary salons, death-matches, and general cross-cultural events that pepper today's social calendars. It's not that I didn't believe how incredibly exciting what they were doing was at the time, I just found it hard to associate such radicalism with the group sat in front of me.
Not that there weren't some incredibly enjoyable highlights to the evening. Despite looking frail, Abse had considerable stage presence; Brownjohn's 'Ludbrooke' selection had the audience chuckling and nodding sagely in equal measure; Laurie Lee's daughter Jessy read her father's poem 'Apples' in sumptuously lilting tones; and Sasha Mitchell belted out her father's darkly humorous song '15 Million Plastic Bags' in a voice that had to be heard to be believed.
In fact, I'm tempted to say that it was the absent poets' daughters who stole the show, ensuring a fine balance between the memorial-like proceedings and the sense of a tradition being carried on. At the end of the evening I asked Robson if he had an intention of reviving the concerts on a regular basis. "Perhaps," he replied. "You never know." Though as I left, I wondered how successful they could continue to be without an injection of young blood.