At the forefront of the spoken word scene stands Luke Wright. For nearly 25 years he has captivated audiences with his deep lyricism and his sharp yet witty commentary on the world as it collapses around us. I sat down with Luke as he makes the final preparations for his new show, Luke Wright’s Silver Jubilee, which makes its debut at Edinburgh Fringe Festival this week.
How are you today?
Not too bad. Last night I did the final ever show of the Ballad Seller, which is an older show of mine. And I’m doing the last ever [The Remains of] Logan Dankworth tonight. I’m saying goodbye to a lot of things at the moment, clearing the decks, getting ready for new things.
It’s exciting – does it also feel weird?
No, it’s the right time to do it. I haven’t really done the Ballad Seller very much at all lately. I didn’t do it very many times last year and only did it twice this year. I got this offer to play the Thorington Theatre, which is a theatre in the woods. It’s built up from wood and is surrounded by tall evergreen trees. One guy built it during lockdown, it’s beautiful. I thought the Ballad Seller would be perfect for that. It was nice to say goodbye to it, but I’m very ready. When you’ve written something so long ago, it feels like someone else wrote it.
Your new show, Silver Jubilee, marks your 25th year in the business – congratulations! What are the best and worst things you’ve done during this time?
The idea of the show is it’s my 25th year, so it’s leading up to being a full 25 years, depending on when you take it. Next January will be 25 years since my first gig, but that was at my college. The first time I performed to a paying audience would be 25 years next June.
What’s the best thing that’s happened to me in 25 years? It’s funny, there’s moments where you think this is great, this is happening. I played the Albert Hall recently with Pete Doherty – if you had told me 25 years ago that I would be performing with the guy from the Libertines, I would have said it’s a dream come true. In reality, as much as I love working with Pete, it’s not a great gig for me because Albert Hall is not brilliant for spoken word, and being someone’s support act is never as good as doing your own gigs. It was a cool experience, don’t get me wrong, and it was really exciting. But, with a lot of these things, the anticipation of it was far better than the actual experience.
Is it easier to ask you about the worst thing you’ve done?
I had a really bad gig once. I was really into the band Art Brut and I wanted to meet them. I managed to get booked for a festival they were headlining; it was called Lounge on the Farm and it was in an actual cowshed. I managed to get myself onto the main stage so that I’d be introduced to them. I thought I’m definitely going to meet the band now.
It starts off and it was going all right, and there’s a bit of aggro from the crowd, but I’m dealing with it quite well and I win the crowd over. But every time I went back on stage again, the crowd changes, it’s different people, but some of the people who gave me aggro were the same. So I had this situation where I had to re-establish myself every time I went on. I continued to get more and more drunk as the night went on and the crowd got more and more aggro. In the end, they cut my mic and the promoters wouldn’t let me go out again because they thought I was going to cause a riot.
This is the moment that Art Brut arrived, this band that I really wanted to impress. The bouncers wouldn’t let me go out the front because they said I’d get beaten up, but in the end I made for a run for it and they tackled me to the ground. When I looked up the band were looking down at me, my jeans were ripped, and my knees were bleeding because these guys had tackled me. It was a deeply humiliating, awful moment.
I consider myself an artist and my work is artistic endeavour
Then about six months later I posted that story online and someone alerted it to Eddie Argos from Art Brut, who thought it was hilarious. He’s a man who’s had plenty of alcohol related horrors and he thought it was brilliant. We ended up hanging out together and since then I’ve supported them on tour a few times, and I wrote the foreword to his book of lyrics.
That’s one of the nice things that has happened to me; it was an awful moment that turned into a nice thing. But, I think primarily, the best thing I’ve done is the satisfaction of writing a good bit of work. When I started writing poems, as much as I enjoyed it, it then became a scary thing, and I wouldn’t do it very often. It was a way of getting on stage and I wanted all the trappings of it. I loved the idea of being a famous rock and roll poet, like John Cooper Clarke, but then the writing became a means to an end. There’s nothing wrong with that, a lot of people operate like that.
But as time’s gone on, I’ve grown in confidence as an artist and whilst I make money through being an entertainer, I don’t really consider myself that. I consider myself an artist and my work is artistic endeavour. Playing the Albert Hall or working with this person, getting a nice review, all that slap on the back stuff is all a little hollow. It feels amazing but doesn’t satisfy you or fill you up in the way that writing does.
Making the Silver Jubilee show is not just about writing, it’s then about putting a show together, a trailer, working out the tech and the lighting panel, having a hand in designing the flyers. All of that is creative and satisfying and I think that’s the highlight. I get to be in charge of that and renew it every single year, I’m not placing my joy in the hands of tastemakers or whatever happens to be fashionable, or what the kids want to listen to this year. I’m not chasing hits or retweets or anything like that because you can make yourself really unhappy. All of that stuff has a shelf life, it goes after a while. I think it’s best that you just focus on the work and try and get better and better. And I find that what I do is constantly a series of great moments.
I told my dad, who initially introduced me to your work, that I was interviewing you and he talked about first stumbling across you in the poetry tent in the early days of Latitude Festival. I don’t mean to say that you’re an act for dads, but I find it interesting how we’ve both been introduced to you, not just at very different points in our lives, but also at a different point in your own life. What do you think about your own intergenerationality?
I’ve always been proud of the fact that I have a diverse age range at my shows, and that’s always been the case. I think poetry itself attracts an older crowd, or it did when I started out. I definitely think I am younger than most of my audience. I don’t know when that first started, but a lot of people my age have told me it’s harder to get to gigs because you have kids, or you need to get a babysitter or whatever. A lot of gigs in the sticks are made up of older people whose kids have grown up, but if you go into the cities my audiences are much younger.
How old is your dad, by the way? [I tell him, but this is a fact The Student readers simply do not need to know – you’re welcome, dad!]
We’re not that different in age. That’s my generation. I’m a geriatric millennial but my worldview is more akin with Generation X, and I think it’s because I had kids quite young. When I was coming up, I was reading the work of people in Generation X and I was listening to the music of people in Generation X, all that Britpop stuff. I do think there is a bit of a shift; my wife is six years younger than me and the millennial culture she grew up with is different. But I’m not surprised to see older people coming to my shows, because that’s where I am culturally, in my thinking.
But I think it’s mad, isn’t it, really? Because when I first got into culture in the 90s, everyone was harking back to the 60s like it was an impossibly long time ago, like it was the olden days. And I think my career pretty much almost spans that time now. But Silver Jubilee, it’s not harking back at all. There’s no way I’d do my poems from 25 years ago. I wouldn’t even consider it. It might be interesting to take the titles of all the poems from the first show I did and rewrite them as I would write them now.
I feel sorry for musicians, in a way. Obviously, when you watch Blur play in Wembley and everyone is singing a song they wrote 30 years ago, that must be great. But I think there’s a reason Damon [Albarn] is cautious with Blur reunions and doesn’t want to get back together too often. You don’t want to just become a curator of a museum to your own past. You want to feel like you’re alive and relevant and constant.
[Silver Jubilee is] essentially about the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, the power of those and the control we have over them
Everyone got really cross with the Arctic Monkeys for not playing too much stuff from their first album. They’re young guys, they’re like, what, 33? 34? They don’t want to be trapped in a past where they’re playing the songs they wrote when they were 17. Alex Turner probably hates them; in 15 years’ time he might feel affectionate towards From the Ritz to the Rubble and other songs from his past, because he’ll have this slightly nostalgic gloss to them. In the same way, Damon Albarn feels a bit nostalgic now, but 15 years ago he felt ashamed of it, because you want to feel like you’re a relevant, current, living, breathing artist.
And the great thing about not having huge success like that, is that I’ve had enough success to survive and carry on and make living out of it, but there’s no pressure on me to be someone I was 25 years ago. It’s a constantly evolving thing, and I think that’s so nice and free. Not that I wouldn’t love to play Wembley, of course.
I loved your exploration of the relationship between father and son in The Remains Of Logan Dankworth. You’ve previously said that Silver Jubilee is about ‘what it means to be someone’s child’. Could you talk about that a bit more?
I thought it’d be fun to call the show Silver Jubilee, it presents with some fun marketing opportunities. I was keen to have something that felt fun and bright and colourful, because Logan Dankworth was a sad, cold show, and I didn’t want to make anything like that again.
I wanted to do something celebratory, but it couldn’t just be about me having a jubilee. So I started looking at myself, about who I am. I got married last year and I feel really content and loved and happy and secure. I think it’s enabled me to start looking a bit harder at myself, and it’s something that happens in midlife anyway – you start to go, I can breathe again. Who am I exactly?
I’m adopted and it’s never been something that I’ve really thought too hard about. It’s not really a thing – that’s what I used to say, it’s not a big thing. I was adopted when I was five weeks old, which is quite rare. I went to therapy and my therapist said Well, this is a thing. She told me about primal wound theory [when a baby and birth mother are separated by adoption shortly after childbirth] and how a lot of the stuff I was talking about would have been impacted by that. So, I started investigating that.
My wife is a social worker, and she deals with kids who have been children in care and were going to be adopted. I wrote this poem about her writing Later Life Letters, which are a few pages for an adopted child to read when they’re old enough to understand. I got one of these when I was 18, it told me a whole load of stuff about my birth family.
And that unlocked something. Since the Fringe last year, I’ve been writing these poems about myself and my family. Silver Jubilee is about me, and then it’s about my family, and then it’s about my birth family – what I know about them, those experiences, coming to terms with that. It’s essentially about the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, the power of those and the control we have over them. It’s a taking stock moment, really. It’s very different to Logan Dankworth; it’s me being me. But I also wanted to make sure there were lots of jokes, I wanted it to be a funny show. I’m delighted in telling those jokes and it’s really fun, so I’m looking forward to it.
Class and politics feature heavily in your work in the way you balance the vulnerable and the personal with the political. Why do you find the intersection between poetry and politics so important?
I thought this show might have more about class in it. I generally tend to write about ideas, and those ideas often underpin something, and I think it’s important that those ideas try and engage with the wider world and with political issues. I do think there’s more to be said about class in Silver Jubilee, and maybe I’ll come back to it.
I was born into a working-class family. My birth mother had two children already under the age of five, she wasn’t with my father, and she was living in a council flat. It’s a very different upbringing to the one that I had out in leafy Essex. My dad was a surveyor and he commuted to London every single day, he went to boarding school – I didn’t go to boarding school, but he did. His dad was a doctor, and his dad before that was a doctor. It’s been quite firmly middle class for a number of generations, so it’s very different from the upbringing I would have had.
I honestly do think this is the best thing I’ve ever made
It’s about privilege, really. I’ve got a poem in the show called Checking My Privilege, which is something we should all try and be aware of. It’s what the right-wing press love to call woke.
It’s not a bad thing to be woke.
Of course not. Being woke is just being politically awake. Of course there’s woke and then there’s ‘woke’, where the worst examples of things get flagged up all the time.
But it’s about being aware of the change in my circumstances, why that came about and how I’m supposed to feel about that. I think people struggle with feeling privileged, people love to say Oh, I’m dyslexic – which I am – or I’m ADHD, or this is my upbringing. Of course we love to flag that stuff up now, because of the story it tells about us. I had this difficult thing and I’ve come through it. And that’s what my show is exploring; that if I choose to embrace the fact that I’m adopted, I think part of me feels guilty about that. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t make a fuss because I’m actually really privileged. It’s about giving ourselves permission to do that, but also not becoming too bewitched by this idea of the primal wound narrative.
Is Silver Jubilee an exploration of what could have been?
There’s a little bit of that. I find out some stuff about my brother which is really interesting. But I also try and veer away from that because there isn’t an answer, is there? Anything could happen. I can’t even begin thinking about what my life would have been like. I think it would have been really hard because my birth mother felt she couldn’t cope, which is why she gave me up for adoption.
Well, I think if she felt she couldn’t cope, then she probably couldn’t have coped. It would have impacted negatively on two boys that she did keep, which is interesting in itself. There’s so much more to say about this, I feel like I’m just scratching the surface. Next thing I’ve got to work out is what the hell I’m going to do next year.
Who are your poetic inspirations?
When I first started it was Damon Albarn, Jarvis Cocker, all the lyricists I was listening to. And then I saw John Cooper Clarke and Martin Newell as poets, and they were big influences on me. As I’ve gotten older, I love Larkin, there’s loads of contemporary poets like Clare Pollard or Catherine Smith who’ve influenced me as I’ve gone along.
Kate Clanchy has had a huge influence on my work as an editor. She’s edited most of my poems over the last four years – since we’ve known each other – and so she’s a real source of inspiration, not solely through her own work but through her influence on my writing.
Are you planning on seeing anything else at the Fringe whilst you’re up here?
I’m going to see Alexis Dubus: 3-Star Show, which is a great title for a show. I’ll try and see one thing a day, but I’ll probably see a lot less than that.
After the Fringe, you’re going to be taking this on tour. Are you looking forward to it?
Well, this is definitely the right way to do it, launching a show at Edinburgh and then starting the tour straight away. I was doing full-year tours starting in January, and I was trying to get by without Edinburgh. Now I’ve realised that I would love to do a little bit of Edinburgh every time.
When I go on tour it’s just me, so it means I can do a little bit here and there and have a fairly normal life in between. I’m really looking forward to it. I do think that’s really good for writing, being on your own; just being completely in your own company and going a little bit mad for a couple of days at a time.
I’m going to start trying to write some stuff for my new show up at Edinburgh, whatever that will be. I’ll write some poems and see what comes out of it. It’s always a good time to think about your new show whilst in Edinburgh, because you’ve seen everyone else’s posters and all those ideas. It’s inspiring to be around that level of creativity.
I notice that from an audience standpoint; I live here full time, and seeing the city completely transform in August is awe-inspiring.
Honestly, I’m really excited for it. Last year was a bit daunting because I was doing two shows, so it’s really nice to have just one thing to concentrate on. I know [the show’s] good, the response has been amazing. I’ve never had previews like this before. I honestly do think this is the best thing I’ve ever made.
Hopefully it’ll do well. Who knows, maybe it’ll flop? Logan Dankworth had some lovely reviews, but it didn’t sell very well, so hopefully this will do better. But who knows, man? We’ve just got to push on as we can.
It’s all very exciting. I’ve been introducing you to a lot of people at The Student and we’re all looking forward to the show!
That’s what I need. I need young blood. My audience is dying!
Where do you see yourself in 25 years’ time?
I’m definitely going to do a Golden Jubilee show, although maybe I’ll be such a grown-up by then I’ll think that’s a stupid idea. In 25 years’ time I’ll be 66. I hope I’ll still be working, I think most of us will still be working until about 70. I hope my wife and I can travel around together and be a bit more relaxed, and I hope my work will be more book focused by then.
I hope I’m still writing. I hope I’ve still got an audience and that people still want to listen to my work and I’m still able to do it. I think as an artist, you live in constant fear that your audience will one day just go. If I can still be doing what I’m doing and there’s maybe a little less financial pressure, then that’s all anyone could hope for. That’d be lovely.
Luke Wright’s Silver Jubilee is showing August 2-15 at Pleasance Dome (10Dome) at 14:55. Dates and tickets for the UK tour following the festival run can be found here.
Image by Emily Fae, provided to The Student as press material.