Luke Wright might describe himself as ‘Someone you’ve barely heard of’, but as 21st century British poets go, he has achieved a profile few can rival. Host and programmer of the poetry tent at the Latitude Festival, familiar to book festival, arts centre, and club crowds, the ‘Essex Lion’ writer has standing.
Which brings us to Silver Jubille, a blend of poetry and autobiographical storytelling, marking 25 years in the literary business. Safe to say his last couple of years have also not been lacking in notable events, not least getting married, nor stumbling across his biological mother’s facebook page. Adopted as a baby, he’d never considered himself traumatised till then, but…
A confident, and genial host, Wright occupies the stage with practiced flare. He’s a forthright, somewhat self-depricating tour guide to his life to date. The set begins with self-introduction, and the richly comic ‘Silver Jubilee’ riffing on royal imagery, and full of pins stuck into himself with a touch of glee. This he follows with the show’s technical highlight, ‘Spad’, a univocal satire of modern political culture wrought in only one vowel sound, plus some romantic musings on life with his new bride, and tragicomic odes to his unique cat, Sir John Betjeman.
It’s really only once the current Luke is well-established in the audience’s mind, that he slips back in time to consider his infant self, and the mother and two brothers he only knows from the digital afar of social media. Slipping into verse once more, he muses on the ‘Later Life Letter’ penned by a social worker on his adoption, to be opened when he turned 18. From here he steps further back still, considering his mum’s life (his adopted mother), which began in an abusive household in Zimbabwe, ruled by an unstable father. There’s a nod to live’s he might have lived, and blood-relatives he may never know, but such deep and meaningful moments aren’t allowed to become deep and meaningful gulags.
Wright is an eclectic modern poet, comfortable with rhyme, blank verse, and delighted with poetic rule-sets such as those of the French Oulipo. There is, perhaps, a heavier touch of the raconteur in Silver Jubilee than in some of his showings. If his verse starts strong with outings such as the Michael Jackson riffing ‘Won’t Stop Till I’ve Had Too Much’, an outwardly bold, but self-spearing number, some of the later verses can feel a little lost, or at least in danger of going unnoticed. This slight sense of rush may well recede with the tide of adrenaline accompanying the opening performance.
Nonetheless, his transitions from verse to tale are smooth, and never over-worked. Though this is a self-reflective show by definition, he avoids becoming maudlin, or excessively navel-gazing. Instead it’s a solidly constructed story of a life thus far, in the hands of an assured performer. Wright is, ultimately, a creator entrenched in the sound and feel of words, a love he leans into with a mix of boisterous energy, and gentle pathos. He may well consider a maudlin poet reflecting on the awkward life of his cat the ‘Death of Art’, but it’s such outre moments which bring welcome moments of absurdity into proceedings. Other cultural nods, such as to Twitter confessional, ‘Fesshole’ feel just a touch contrived, but come the finale, much the raison d’etre underlying the show’s structure comes clear.
It’s a terrifically clever closer, and his nod to Jonathan Pie deserves to be seen.
