The sound was loud, something fell from he ceiling, and the lights were lacking in glow.
The capacity crowd had much warmth for John, his poems and grumpy demeanour.
He seemed an old punk, artist and comic too, but also like a teacher.
Leading us through call-and-response songs and praising us when need be,
though he wasn’t effusive with his praise, this made us love him dearly.
“It’s not all jokes,” he warned at the start and it was, sometimes, deeply moving,
as he spoke about his family and childhood in rhyme and played a sort of ukeleling.
Komedia, 29 November 2012
The published version of this review with weird formatting can be seen at: