There was a time when comedy was once the new rock’n’roll, and the likes of Badeill and Skinner filled sports arenas and enormodomes across the country.
The same couldn’t be said of poetry, but the Bard of Salford, striding the line between the two with his spindly legs, has seen his star ascend to the point where he can take on a venue of this size.
15 years ago he was playing rather smaller venues – though then again, 30 years ago he was playing similar-sized halls to this, on the college circuit.
25 years ago his output was as close to music as he’s ever got, with either the Invisible Girls or performing his string of albums to backing tapes, but despite the venue, this is a purely solo show – a table is the only stage furniture.
Even that Fringe show in 1996 was far from his 80s gigs, as Cooper Clarke had started to bring more standup into his live sets.
Tonight he’s in good form and in good clear voice despite some mic problems to start with. The poems are invariably read from the ledgers he has piled on his prop table, linked by the comedy which is of the slightly surreal one-line variety – “people ask me: Johnny…” – then there’s a 10-minute diversion about marine biology being the new media studies before we get to the cruxt of the matter: “How deep would the sea be if the sponges weren’t there?”
Another thing people ask him is “How did you get here” but rather than being an existential question, it’s a cue for ’Hire Car’.
As it happens, much of the material is new with only a few old poems thrown in. But it doesn’t disappoint a devoted crowd, prepared to forgive the occasional meander from what is already a fast-flowing stream of consciousness. And, an audience that’s perfectly prepared to believe that he’s writing for Readers Digest, as well as ‘jingles’ – one for the health education reads “Lydia Lydia / Get rid of your chlamydia / Only an idiot / Would ever consider yer” (the poem renamed from its original title as the “notoriously litigious” Dean Friednam was in the audience).
There’s also one for Campari, as he strives for either a lifetime’s or year’s supply of the product, whichever is the greater.
More unlikely life stories follow – we learn that his big break came from Bernard Manning, who introduced him as “not my cup of tea but you might like him”, and which might explain how he can tell (and get away with) routines about Dale Park and his fantasy of owning a Blue Badge.
A softer target is self-styled saviour of the planet, Bongo, who in JCC’s world has his stetson and sunglasses stolen while he’s addressing the G18 in Canada – with The Hedge unable to recognise his former mate.
Although the new material is welcome, the 90 minutes passes quickly with very little back catalogue explored. Soon, we’re at ‘Beasley Street’, perhaps the highpoint, and then, bizarrely, reworked by Laurence Llewellyn Bowen as it becomes ‘Beasley Boulevard’.
Time for one more before clubnight and of course it’s ‘Evidently Chickentown’, which some of us know as the closing soundtrack to an episode of The Sporanos. Others may dismiss this as yet another tall tale, or perhaps just grant the veteran some poetic licence. Either way, given how Cooper Clarke has rebuilt his career to deliver what is a highly entertaining set, we can afford to cut him some slack.