Sunday, April 22, 2007
By Kerry Freek
Last Sunday, I sat on some cold cement in a dark, dirty stairwell and chomped on alphabet pretzels while listening to screamers and drinkers. Am I a bookish vagrant? A literary hobo? Mais non. I am me, and the event was this month’s NO FACE NO PROBLEM. The location? 107 Spadina South — in a cavity in Chinatown, by a tax sign.
NO FACE NO PROBLEM is a “monthly series that asks its participants [to] strut and stammer with words and body to an audience at various locations in and around Toronto,” writes ThankYouJeanPierce on the Stillepost message board. While I don’t have confirmation (I’m a terrible journalist), it appears that Jonathan McCurley (of the Life of a Craphead project thingy) and Laura McCoy curated and/or developed this month’s edition.
We met on the busy, coconutty south-west corner of Spadina and Dundas outside of the Dragon City Mall at 3 p.m., only to be led to an underground stairwell “secret location,” which was actually quite novel. A cement floor provided the stage, and the stairs made for amphitheatre-style seating.
McCurley opened the event by welcoming us and reading some wordplay poetry (written, he said, that morning). It and all following performances (mostly spoken word) were a treat to behold, and included medieval fantasy-inspired rhymes, a charming jibberish piece, and Grandmother Willow, an alter-ego of Ben Ong (of the Waterloo band Bocce). Ong presented simple yet pensive songs about elephants and the environment, accompanied by the dulcet tones of a secondhand omnichord.
Seemingly impromptu public poetry readings are not without risk. During Louis Calabro’s drinking-and-reading set, a wary security guard peered out from the glass doors of the mall (backstage) and made a mental note that a bunch of hooligan beatniks were taking up the stairwell. I, on the other hand, made mental note of some kids climbing on a stalled escalator in the mall beyond us.
Later, as Eugene Slonimerov (I’ve also seen it spelled “Slominerov,” but I can’t be sure which one is correct) lead us through a divine visioning and chant session (“Where is Millie?”), yet another security dude approached and we were asked to leave the premises. Eugene put on a superb sad face and said, “But it’s for a school project.” The crowd, united in the fight for secrets, nodded in agreement. Somebody negotiated five more minutes and, when our time was up, we moved above ground for Laura McCoy, the last performer.
As stunned passersby gaped at the rag-tag gathering and absently licked their ice cream cones, McCoy shouted bits of conversation over her drumming, passing traffic, and an air horn that was circulating the audience. We were encouraged to sound the horn as much as we pleased, and we did. All told, I had a cold bum, but a marvelous afternoon.
For future locations and info, keep your eye on stillepost.
