I recently saw the poet Harry Baker. My girlfriend was the fan and wanted to go, though I had also enjoyed what little I had seen of him.
It was at Saint Saviours Church Hall, St Albans, which is the hippest church I’ve been to. There was kegs of beer, fairy lights and some sofas to the side of the nave. And the vicar had a shaved head, tattoos and wore cargo shorts.
I was a huge poetry nerd in my tormented teen years (14-17). But these days I don’t have much interest – and certainly not in modern poetry. So I wasn’t massively looking forward to a night of non-stop poems.
But the show was great. His poetry is perfect for the modern era. Funny, witty and with a great musicality. The way his voice delivers lines is wonderful. There’s an earnestness to the way he speaks that is enrapturing.
And he didn’t overstay his welcome. I was worried it would be 2 hours+ of non-stop poetry. But it was just the right length, with a break in between where you could buy a book and meet him.
When my girlfriend met him she decided to go down the more casual route. Rather than a “huge fan of your work, you’re my hero”, she went with a simple “hello, how are you?”. He didn’t appear to be expecting such an unassuming greeting and it led to 45 seconds of incredibly uncomfortable awkwardness. The stilted back-and-forth continued painfully as she hurriedly chose a book and he hurriedly got out the card reader. I couldn’t help but laugh.
