Some might say a rainy afternoon in Stockton-on-Tees isn’t the best place to spend a Friday, but here sits Dr John Cooper Clarke preparing for one of his evenings of poetry. Lounged in the grey-themed hotel room, the location is a far cry from where he’ll be in the following months as he gears up for his US, Australia and New Zealand tour. As he pours himself a hotel mug of port (very rock n’ roll) Dr Clarke chuckles and sarcastically discusses the American leg of his tour describing how he immediately swaps to American vernacular as soon as he lands, which he describes as, “no effort whatsoever”. 

 

The energy he brings to the table is enough to forget the dreary, colourless hotel room. He is continuously positive from the minute of introduction. Knocking back the substance of the mug, he gargles it his mouth for about 10 seconds before swishing it around his mouth and spitting it back out. He opens up to me about his pre-gig-preparation where this unique method earns its place, Mario Lanza once told him that gargling port can improve the range in the laryngeal region. Which, as Elvis being his favourite singer, Dr Clarke took on the chin and made sure to put into action. As he prepares takes the second swig, he mumbles in his thick Manchester accent, “Elvis was never wrong about anything”.

 

This is only the fourth performance of the tour, so it’s so-far-so-good. One of the nights, at Dorking Halls, a fan was so avid for Dr Clarke to sign a book for him that he just walked on stage and asked him. Probably fuelled by liquid confidence, Dr Clarke laughs and simply suggests it could have been a lot worse and compares it to a potential acid attack and claimed, “not everybody likes me, y’know”. Referring to his fans, he seems genuinely pleased about the generational range of his fans which is from 20-70. Whether discovered through the critically acclaimed album A.M or through the Sex Pistols back in the 70s, everyone who attends is only there for him which must be a great feeling for the 69-year-old punk poet, “it’s absolutely sensational” grins Dr Clarke. He continues to praise his pan-generational-fan-base audience as something un-engineer-able as he nurses his way through a cup of tea. Sticking to the topic of performance, “I’m really not an ensemble player” claims Dr Clarke. He continues to explain that he’s always worked to better effects on his own as a one-man, one-audience situation due to the given trait of being a bit of a control freak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flicking on the television, it’s 3:15pm and Crufts is on which he watches contently as he reminisces on the mongrels he took in over the years, “I love dogs, but I’m 70 next year, that dog might fuckin’ end up buryin’ me!” He laughs as he points out why that’s probably a good reason not to invest another one - despite how much he clearly has a fondness for them. Dr Clarke talks about sharing his birthday with poet Robert Burns, the “Philandering, Caledonian text-collector” that he claims is the bane of his life as this overshadows his birthday every year. He would change his birth date, but he’s not keen on the process of filling out forms and

going into offices for legal things. But he still sticks to his guns, “I will not be overshadowed by death, it’s just not on!”. Death leads him on to how grateful he is to be alive and that there’s never been a better time for it, he thanks God three times while he gulps his tea before showing why it’s not all that good, “I’m going to six fuckin’ funerals a week!” He jibes.

 

Our conversation continues to reflect back on his colourful life, he is eternally grateful about being awarded an honorary doctorate, “I’m sure it opens doors that I didn’t even know were possible” he beams. Another massive part of the life of Dr Clarke is his punk introduction to the world, championed by the Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Fall and The Velvet Underground, Clarke won over the 70s as a support act for these bands and gained a strong following of punk fandom. As he reminisces, he claims the only thing he understood about the whole era that it would hyper-competitive. “Everyone was the star of their own movie” he divulged. He opens up about the truth of the punk era and how it was all painted to be some sort of socialist paradise by people who weren’t even there, he claims the most, “bad boy shit” things that ever happened was the pinching of each other’s amplifiers on tour.

 

Frequently described as more of a mod than a punk, Clarke enjoyed explaining what the real meaning of being a mod was, “we absolutely hated being called mods, if you called yourself a mod, you weren’t a mod! Only plebs call themselves mods. As soon as the rest of society found out about them, all the mods, first of all, called themselves stylists. And then casuals, and then skin-heads and suede-heads… The list goes on. But it was always very exclusive, you know, you didn’t wanna be part of a big crowd. We didn’t listen to The Who – y’wouldn’t be caught dead! All we listened to was American soul music and a bit of modern jazz. That was the thing about being a mod, it became very snobby and exclusive and completely superficial – as long as you looked fucking good to the world, that was enough!”

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Looking good was all part of it, “It didn’t matter how you felt inside. If you had a job, you had to look sharper than your boss, so it was a real matter of personal development. It wasn’t just about having a target on the back of a fuckin’ parka on a vespa, scooters had absolutely nothing to do with it, you wanted a car! If you had a fuckin’ hairdryer and a suit, you’d wanna get undercover, quick! That was the life I craved. And in those days, we had the time of our lives. But with the punk thing, you’ve gotta admire it, it was fantastic. You know, the visuals… Just the whole thing. But, with hindsight, punk exercised a disproportionate influence on the subsiding generation. There were very few punk rockers and it lasted just two years, but the mythology is unavailable – can’t argue with that!”

 

Shortly after these years, he met his wife, Evie over a mutual enthusiasm for the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, also his biggest style influence. She helped him to acquire an English translation of the poem ‘Les Fleur du Mal’. “I love her!” he enforces, he opens up about his marriage in one of his great poems, “I’ve fallen in love with my wife/ I’m her man and she’s my mate/ She steals the chips right off my plate/ No wonder I’m losing weight/ I’ve fallen in love with my wife/ She steals a kiss/ I take the piss/ We’ve lived a life of ignorant bliss/ All that and now this/ I’ve fallen in love with my wife”.  Who’d have thought a punk poet could be such a hopeless romantic?

 

As we round to a close, he continues to talk me through his pre-show rituals and how his particular paper-to-pen procedure will never wear thin. “The great thing is, you can’t improve on that particular M.O. It doesn’t shake up much room in your coat pocket, a little notebook and a pen, it’s not gonna spoil the lining of your Timothy Everest suit”. Other pre-show rituals consist of a flick through an archaic medical dictionary. Dr Clarke’s fixated interest with a 1927 medical dictionary has, “proved to be a rich vein of inspiration” he shares, he enjoys reading up on obsolete diseases such as Diphtheria and the way they used to treat it in 1927. He explains that is own ill-health has provoked an interest in other ill-health and medical progress due to the perspective it gives him, he refers back to his previous statement that there has never been a better time to be alive, even on a drab Friday afternoon in Stockon-on-Tees.