If you had looked through a window–Mykonos, March Forth–into the Mediterranean candlelit veranda there, peopled and heated, before you were beckoned in, you’d see someone standing at a microphone and music stand addressing the audience as the waiters and waitresses sleek in black made their moves.
And if that someone wasn’t Stan Burfield, inducing the evening to scamper forth, or John Tyndall, companionably welcoming the stage’s featured reader, Patricia Black would be reading the evening’s springboard with gravity and levity and a candid sense of heritage. And then it was a matter of gliding.
The gamut was aloft: from the reliable pitch and moment of two former featured readers, to midwestern dynamos of rhyming doggerel, to a seamstress of Parisian vulnerabilities, to a ruddy take on grey’s fifty shades, to the quivering crystals at the heart of a long lone boulder, to an empty ocean’s vast considered cliffside, to a brazenness towards the mortality question and try, to a character actor of nude raw intonation and elegant dress, to a fresh batch of precocious twenty-somethings the best hair among whom belonged all night to John Nyman, the experimental chemist, April’s feature.
And afterwards, a palpable sense of linger, a “when’s this place close? Not till eleven?”
And as they say in Amsterdam amongst comparable intoxicants–“A good time was had by all, and we’ll see you all again in a few weeks.”
--Kevin Heslop, interviewer