Downstairs, Garbage is pouring misery out from the jukebox. Upstairs, David Hart is battling his faulty memory and the audible sound of Shirley Manson’s voice to get his poem out.
His eyes are squeezed shut, he’s trying to remember the next line. He pauses.
“Take your time, Dave!” encourages a woman from the back of the room.
He begins again, “The putrid corpse of hip-hop lies in state in a Brooklyn nightclub, flanked by bouquets of dubs, 20-inch rims and covered in shrubs of Sean John.” With that, he’s off into the lyrical web of a story about his evolution from hip-hop artist to spoken word poet. The audience makes their appreciation known.