Punks are not, as a rule, cracked up to be literary fellows, but John Cooper Clarke is trying to put that right. His name may be double-barrelled, and he is indeed a poet, but he's a punk one.
At the more stylish events these days, the chances are that'll he be booked to give the audience some of his verses. Standing at the microphone, with an authentically tattered book in hand, he holds forth in a manner which hybrids Emlyn Williams, Max Wall, Pam Ayres, and Struwelpeter. With a fine declamatory style and a rich Manchester voice he hurls himself at his pacey, alilterative poems.
Mr. Clarke has had a rather hazardous time: In the early days - before some TV appearances - bouncers would chuck him off the stage, thinking it unlikely a poet would be on the bill. In fact, his offerings seem to go down rather well.
Thanks to rabid JCC fan Matt in NY for keeping it all these years and sending it to me.
Richard North
Copyright acknowledgment is hereby graciously given to the Observer Newspaper Group for this totally unauthorized violation of their proprietary copyright, by our blatant reproduction of their 1978 article - which I'm sure they've forgotten all about anyway. (The paragraph breaks are MY copyright though).