Poetry and Hip-Hop have seen increasing interaction as of late. Very recent examples on the UK scene include Ed Scissortongue’s newest release The Theremin EP, an example of his trademark ‘beat-driven poetry’, as well as Chester P of Task Force fame foraying into performing at spoken word events and writing children’s rhymes. In the words of the latter, ‘words are words, if you put them in a rhyming format…then its poetry’. Dizraeli, or at times MC Dizraeli, seems to have pioneered this meshing of cultures from his very first album – with some folk-feel thrown in the mix for good measure.
Although he is no stranger to performing to small student crowds, and despite his humility, MC Dizraeli was given the welcome deserving of a celebrity, and therefore the biggest noise I have ever heard for an act at the Bristol Pear (not to discredit any others that I have seen there).
His set began in a somewhat detached way, initially not relying on any crowd participation. This air of mystery had us all intrigued to say the least, and our anticipation for what the night had in store was heightened by the first sounds he made: a scat-come-tribal-chant that would’ve earned a nod from Bobby McFerrin. This acted as a refrain for a quintessentially Dizraelian tale of a tense relationship that was darkly comedic in its candidness.
Following this, his warm stage presence began to shine through, moreso due to an unfortunate technical hiccup that led to his acoustic guitar being distorted beyond recognition. He strummed one chord, recoiled and said, ‘oh my days’ before eventually reverting to both and singing and playing with no amplification. However, this forced acoustic format proved to be the silver lining of the situation , and one in-keeping with the typical format of Writer’s Bloc’s open mic nights. His strong hold on us soon become evident when he asked if we could come closer to make up for the lower volume – we came a lot closer.
With the gig resembling a musical guest performing to a crowd of eager school children, he then played ‘To The Garden’, a track from his début album Engurland (City Shanties). It proved to be a crowd-pleaser, and his playful expressions that followed every quickly-rapped punchline undeniably closed the gap created by his mysterious opening piece. He described the song as a ‘sort of a love letter to Chris Moyles’ before calling the man a word I won’t repeat in print. Needless to say, given the nature of the evening as a whole, he was preaching to the right choir. Hearing this song acoustically for the first time proved a real treat, as instead of the standard boom-bap rhythm of the album version, Dizraeli’s quirky flow was carried by the folksy upstrokes of his guitar, and the viola solo was replaced with vocals that spanned from eery to comical.
Aside from ‘Bomb Tesco’, and newer material such as ‘Any Day Now’ the setlist was mostly comprised of hits from ‘Moving in the Dark’; a stylistically innovative effort from Dizraeli and the unique troupe of musicians that is The Small Gods. This was a wise choice from the Bristolian singer-songwriter, as it was these songs and/or poems that proved the most powerful – fittingly performed as spoken word pieces. Stripping his lyrics down to their rawest form evoked an intense feeling of intimacy from them. Pacing back and forth on the stage, his recitation of ‘Little Things’ in between swigs of Newcastle Brown Ale was tinged with a sense of anguish, the authenticity of which was incredibly moving. ‘White Rum’ and ‘There Was a Rapper’ were read with similar feeling, and the latter song also demonstrated his talents as a singer, which I would argue are often overlooked.
However, Dizraeli balanced his overall performance well, by inserting funnier pieces to lighten the mood. One of which was as short as it was effective. The overall premise was seemingly nothing more than a string of hipster confessions (including ‘I don’t know what he did but Che Guevara’s kind of wicked’) separated by a tribal stomping and vocal rhythm: the result was nothing short of hilarious.
When it came to his last song, I was genuinely gutted that his set couldn’t be longer, and I doubt I was alone. But the gig still ended on a high, another new song from the emcee that arguably became arguably the best-received the song of the night, with the whole audience singing and stamping along to the vocal hook as if in a trance.
The night was a tremendous experience, one which I’m sure many left pondering how it didn’t cost more than a fiver. The performance as a whole was a series of broken boundaries, one that blurred the lines separating music from poetry and the remorseful from the risible. All in all, it was, to quote the man himself, ‘double-D wicked’.
By Oliver Clifford