by Anita Foxall.
Henry Baroche is a well-known name to the cultural community of Southampton, though you may know him better as Mad King Ludwig from Mad King Ludwig and the Mojo. That’s right, Henry is an incredibly multi-talented human, and is a beloved musician, but what a lot of people don’t know is that is also a greatly gifted poet.
Poetry started at his birth, he says. “My mother said that I came out of the womb with a quill in my hand, and that I wrote a poem on my birth certificate”; how could such a person not become an immense source of talent? And how could he not be attracted to poetry when “the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” that are linked to it are of inevitable attraction”? Even though his inspiration to write comes, he says, entirely from “loan repayments”.
Though poetry was innate, he states his musical path was formed by the loss of a bet, one that lead to a hyper skilled multi-instrumental broader path. And yet, Henry states that his favourite instrument is the audience, because “they are the hardest instrument to play, but make a great sound if you know what you are doing. However, there is the risk that a lot of audiences end up playing the musician, and nobody wants that”.
Henry Baroche & the Black Widows is his latest music venture, and he describes it as an explosive, eclectic affair. He has promised us something before the end of this hellish year with a whole lot more to follow in 2021.
From Southampton to Bristol
Sadly, Southampton has lost prodigious Henry to Bristol, which he describes as an “old antique sofa, cultured, full of memories, a bit of lost slave trade money down the back, stitched with materials from all over the world, now a bit frayed and ragged ‘round the edges, and being slowly moved from Hipsterville up to Gentrification Row”; on the other hand “Southampton is a chair that keeps being moved around the same room, with differing opinions on where it should be. Is it even a chair?”.
Before Henry moved to Bristol, he was a regular presence in the local poetry open mic scene: Write a Note and Moving Voices in Southampton and Poetry Platform in Winchester. As for Bristol, Henry has attended some, but states he was “asked never to come back”. Which simply means that we can proudly claim him as ours, as here he actively engaged in cultural life as a poet, as well as a musician in poetry open mics (and far more).
Inspiration
John Cooper Clarke is Henry’s favourite poet. He finds him more of an enigma than a poet though, “somewhere between a vaudeville comedian and a 19th century French revolutionary who dresses like Blonde On Blonde-era Dylan”. Because John Cooper Clarke started his career in strip clubs in the 70s, Henry says that he is most comfortable at his shows when he is completely naked. Charles Bukowski is another of his favourite poets, and ‘The Laughing Heart’, which he knows by heart, is his favourite poem.
When it comes to musicians, Henry loves those who push the boundaries, such as : Bowie, Waits, Cave, Dylan, Annie Clarke of St. Vincent, Brittany Howard, Nina Simone, IDLES, Ian Dury, and on and on. As well as Billie Eilish, “I have a song called ‘Bad Guy’ too”.
Henry loves music and surely has many memorable experiences at gigs, but his most memorable one was of almost dying at Blissfields festival in 2017, “All I’ll say is that you should never underestimate the gap between the stage and the barrier”.
Lockdown creativity
Lockdown has been cruel on all creative souls, however Henry says he has managed to cultivate a level of moderate insanity that has been allowing him to be very creative and productive, whilst always ensuring that the 2m distance is maintained. Another of his lockdown adventures was that he broke his ankle when protecting a small child from a charging bull in the countryside, on a socially-distanced walk, “you know, keeping busy”. It would certainly take more than a broken ankle to stop his amazingly creative mind; and despite this aura of mystery, those who know him well, also know he has a magnanimous soul, full of charisma and kindness.
* You can find Henry on Facebook.
Poems:
“’Monkey Mouth’ is a poem written almost entirely in prison lingo. I have spent a bit of time in prison, and when I was inside, I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. So I thought I’d take a few lessons,” says Henry.
Monkey Mouth
Mama, she taught me how to rhyme
Reggie, he taught me how to reason
Bella, she fought me every time
I got caught at the 4 seasons
Paying with a nursery rhyme
Got the wrong end of the geezer
Now I’m serving 5 stretch petty treason
Listening, biding my time
Listening, biding my time
This little Monkey was a target
And this little Monkey did the Dutch
And this little Monkey dance on blacktop
And this little Monkey said too much
And this little Monkey went
Free, free, free, free,
Spilling someone else’s guts
All the way home
There’s a heat wave on the block
Jackrabbit did the Parole
I keep my juice cards in a sock
Keep myself outta loopholes
Lying in my Cadillac
Grace’s dipping in the Kool Aid
Who got jigs on Officer Slack
Tomorrow I’m gonna get made
Tomorrow I’m gonna get made
This little Monkey was a target
And this little Monkey did the Dutch
And this little Monkey dance on blacktop
And this little Monkey said too much
And this little Monkey went
Free, free, free, free
The sisters just couldn’t touch
All the way home
Sipping bug juice in the canteen
Walking Spanish to the Ding Wing
The Cowboy gave me Diesel Therapy
And no-one even clocked a thing
My jacket’s real hard to beat
Just a Prison Wolf Monkey Mouth
But I made it down to the street
‘Fore anyone knew I got out
’Fore anyone knew I got out
This little Monkey was a target
And this little Monkey did the Dutch
And this little Monkey dance on blacktop
And this little Monkey said too much
And this little Monkey went
Free, free, free, free
Running on through the dusk
All the way home
All the way home
I remember when being middle-class was…
“’I remember when being middle-class was…’ is a hopeful series of comments on how the system by which the UK is run may still change, but those clothes are hard to take off if they are confused with the very skin you’re born with,” says Henry.
I remember when being middle-class was a slur
Now it’s just a blur
I remember when being middle-class was a place on the map to find
Now it’s just a state of mind
I remember when being middle-class was the way you spoke
Now it’s the butt of your post-modern prehistoric joke
I remember when being middle-class mattered
Now it’s scattered
I remember when being middle-class was the staff in the social observatory
Now it’s being observed in perpetual social purgatory
I remember when being middle-class was artisanal strawberry jam
And the village green preservation gang
Now it’s fair-trade ethically-sourced vegan spam
I remember when being middle-class was your mother-in-law’s favourite word
Now it’s a matter for the birds
I remember when being middle-class was a reason to boast
Now it’s mutilated avocado on caressed sour-dough toast
I remember when being middle-class was the songs of Leonard Cohen
Under a dusty nightshade
Now it’s the Wu Tang Clan reading ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’
I remember when being middle-class meant being slap-bang in the middle
Now it means playing second fiddle
During a fiddle solo
I remember when being middle-class was a valid position
Now it’s a sign of positively blatant indecision
I remember when being middle-class was tonic water
And The Archers at the end of the week
Now it’s the tattoo your daughter had ironically tattooed on her arse-cheek
I remember when being middle-class was going to France on your holidays
Now it means learning how to say “Brexit means Brexit”
In French
I remember when being middle-class was raising the counter-culture
In silent frustration
Now it’s a long since forgotten undercover operation
I remember when being middle-class was
Paddington Bear, Ginger Ale and Radio 4
Now it’s something that no-one really knows what it’s for
Anymore
WHAT IS HAPPENING
“’WHAT IS HAPPENING’ is a lyrical reflection on the past few years. Or it could just be the past week. So much is happening,” says Henry.
What is happening, does anybody know?
All of that money, where does it all go?
Far from maddening the people in the road
They say it’s funny to watch it all go
What is happening in the ivory towers
The price of kindness is rising by the hour
Never once adding a species of flower
They say it’s mindless to take away their power
What is happening in the good-hearted folk
All of their morals are wood-chip and then smoke
Always gladdening at the mention of hope
They say it’s useless and take another toke
What is happening, does anybody know?
All of that promise, where does it all go?
Far from maddening the people in the road
They say that we must just watch it all go