Other cultural imports that have created sensory distortion are Poetry Slam and Spoken Word. They are stage actors, poets, authors and stand-up comedians who in various ways perform on stage so that their texts will reach the public. There are no rules. The one who reaches them best, wins the public’s hearts. You can be funny, sincere, political, ironic, in fact anything at all that arouses emotions and makes the public feel they are an important part of a large, loud and weird world.
Summer meets autumn. Euphoria meets depression. The calendar has reached 6 September. This evening is the Spoken Word Festival, a party evening for brilliant texts. Not quite so geared to hysterical laughter as stand-up comedy, but just as memorable and entertaining. The best talents in the country are gathered here, and even the odd legend from abroad has been invited to join them.
When Titus Jensen gets to Södra Teatern, Stockholm’s alternative crowd has already started to meet up in the square outside the theatre. They hug one another and laugh. Hair in all colours of the rainbow, tattoos and piercings, funny clothes, new clothes, ragged clothes. Emotions and life. Nothing lagom as far as the eye can see.
Titus, however, is not especially colourful when he stumbles on the steps to the entrance. The black-clad figure with his shaved head is obliged to make use of the railing to ascend, a sight that is all too familiar. The pathetic Author with a capital A has come to provide entertainment for the people. And he looks just as sloshed as usual.
Not everybody thinks Titus Jensen is pathetic. Halfway up the steps he is stopped by an enthusiastic young couple. Both of them just as black-clad as Titus. They are bobbing up and down as they stand and both talking at the same time.
‘Oh, Titus, can we have your autograph? We love you. We got together when you read Manual for Housewives at the Peace & Love Festival last year. Like, without you we’d never have become a couple. You gave us love. Do you get it? You are the greatest!’
Titus stares at them. This has never happened before. Nobody has ever, in all of his career, expressed their love or admiration in such an unrestrained and direct manner. He takes the felt-tip pen and writes his name on their arms. The blood rushes to his cheeks and he feels the blush spread. A weird sensation. Somebody likes him. Indeed, two people like him. The couple bounce along further up the steps and Titus follows them with his gaze for a moment before moving on.
Inside the foyer, the marble floor makes the background buzz especially loudly. The intense theatre atmosphere is so strong you almost think you can hear a chamber orchestra tuning its instruments despite the fact that many a year has passed since there was an orchestra pit at Södra Teatern.
On the left, some young wardrobe attendants are leaning over the counter with nothing to do. It is still too warm for overcoats. Besides, wardrobe fees are not included in the budget for today’s young public. Instead, they slowly pour in through the doors to the right, up the staircase and towards the bar. No active cultural experience without stimulants. Titus follows along with the flow and wonders if he too will have time for something before his entrance. For the last few days, the very thought of performing has made him feel uncomfortable, even though his performance doesn’t necessitate a single minute’s preparation. He only has to be himself, to treat them to himself, he has tried to convince himself. As Eddie X sometimes shouts out when he introduces him on the stage: ‘Everybody has a bit of him in themselves. Yet there is only one Titus Jensen – and that is TITUS JENSEN!’
But nevertheless, today it doesn’t feel as simple as it usually does. Something important is absent.
When Titus gets to the top of the stairs and is about to enter the bar, somebody puts a hand on his shoulder. A strict voice:
‘Ticket please!’
Titus whirls round.
A big smile. Brilliant white teeth, velvet-brown eyes that can melt glaciers.
‘Nice to see you, Eddie,’ says Titus with a slight nod of his head.
‘You are late,’ says Eddie and puts his whole arm round Titus’ shoulders, giving him a half-hug. ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on in, we’ve time for a beer in the green room before we get started. Great to see you!’
Today Eddie X is wearing a knee-long batik tunic in various shades of purple. Down below, a pair of creased grey-black and rolled-up linen trousers stick out. On his feet, some shabby ox-blood coloured Dr Marten boots without laces. His dead straight Indian hair with orange and blue streaks is twisted into an erect ponytail. At the very top, his hair bushes out like a fountain above his head. There is something elevated about Eddie when he glides through the premises. He greets the public and shakes hands with a lot of them. Now and then he puts his left hand over the handshake as if to seal a lifelong contract of mutual love and fidelity.
It could be a magical evening.
Being drunk can be exhausting. But pretending to be drunk is even more of a drain on one’s resources.
Nervousness, abstinence and anxiety are riding Titus Jensen. At the moment he has the main role in the stage play of his life. Every single nerve is at maximum tension and at the same time that he is sweating profusely he must smother yawn after yawn. It is as if his body is screaming at him to fill up with oxygen. Everything to retain control of the situation.
He hasn’t got much more work left on his masterpiece and no way is he going to allow Eddie X to destroy anything. Eddie can go on thinking that Titus is a boozy has-been, but when the book is published, that love evangelist will be crushed once and for all. He will be crumbled into bits. The future belongs to Titus Jensen and The Best Book in the World.
In the green room Lenny is sitting and swigging a beer. He has thrown up one leg over the arm of his armchair and his foot bobs up and down in time with his shoulders which twitch now and then. He is all charged today; he is going to accompany Eddie’s text-reading with an amplified contrabass. Just him, Eddie X and a large stage. Today there won’t be any of the big band twitches from The Tourettes.
When Titus comes into the room he immediately falls onto the sofa inside the door. His panic increases. Now there are two people to act drunk in front of.
‘C-c-cock in your ear!’ Eddie yells when he catches sight of Titus.
‘Hi Lenny. Hell, great to see you,’ says Titus, slurring his words in an attempt to sound like his usual half-sloshed worse self.
Lenny gets a bottle out a little fridge and stretches across to Titus.
‘You seem to be fairly sozzled already. H-h-here. Drink this fucker too. Amaze the world!’
Titus takes the little bottle and holds it to his nose. Vodka. Of all the spirits in the world, vodka is the easiest to drink. He feels the craving grow inside him, and he knows that he could drink the whole bottle in less than thirty seconds. He knows exactly what it feels like when the first calm spreads through his body purely from the knowledge of having access to alcohol, long before it reaches his bloodstream.
But it is better to be obsessed than dependent. When the human driving forces do battle, it is not always the strongest one that wins. You can use your brain too, and let cleverness win on points. Despite the proximity of the vodka, Titus feels totally relaxed when he conjures forth his reward image. The young boy with his life before him, lying on a woman’s bosom, breathing in time with her. Out and in. Out and in. Moustache wet with fat milk. Lick it off. Become calm. Cognitive self-help. Vodka came, vodka went away. Hello and goodbye. He is going to get through this. Again. He can do it. He is good.