to a time when truth exists other than in pub trivia
and what is done cannot be undone with the flick of a finger
from the age of consent
from the age of umpires
from the age of treason
greetings

Those words are from “Greetings” the first poem in the book Two Minutes Hatefuck, a book which I believe will show a lot of people something I have known for a long time…

That James Jackson has been one of THE truly stunning surprise packages of the Melbourne poetry & spoken word scene over the last decade.

But I get ahead of myself.

I’m not going to say that James Jackson is an angry young man. I think he’s more like a rough looking teddy bear, and I just wanna hold him and squeeze him, and…er…that’s enough about me.

I know James looks like he plays washboard in a folk band…sorry… plays bass for a thrash metal band. But this is a man who is not afraid to wear tights and be beaten around the ring for our entertainment. I speak here of his wrestling career, of course; an experience which he does not hesitate to incorporate into his spoken word performances. I know a couple of us here may remember him being thrown through a trestle table right outside this building during overload a few years ago.

This is also a man who is not afraid to start a feud to shake up the sometime stagnation that you naturally expect from a community consisting primarily of navel gazers.

You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this, but hang in there.

The public face of James Jackson for those who take only a passing interest is loud, is brash, is a little scary for some of the pantywaist wannabe poets around this town, but this is not who he is or all that he is.

Many have listened to and watched his loud, rhythmic, exclamatory rants about life, politics, and culture. Many may have laughed along at the more amusing pop culture references, or even flinched when they get nastily honest about the seamier side of our greater Australian community. I know I’ll never look at Gary Ablett the same again. And occasionally some will have paused and thought about what they were hearing, and be glad they did.

For anyone who has taken the time to look beyond the sometime Mohawk, the earrings, the loud scary stage persona will hopefully have seen what I’ve known for years.

That James Jackson has been one of THE truly stunning surprise packages of the Melbourne poetry & spoken word scene over the last decade, because in a scene where brash young dilettantes screaming “look at me” are a dime a dozen, James Jackson is one of the few who has not turned out to be a flaccid two dimensional poetaster. James Jackson is a Poet. James Jackson is a writer. A writer of strength, of talent, and of conviction.

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© 2010 Smart Jackson Firkin