Cyrus Larcombe Moore
Cyrus is a poet and journalist with Essential Tremor from Devon. He’s now based in Belfast studying MA Poetry at Queens University Belfast.
We headed to Belfast’s Ulster Sports Club to witness the politics, chaos and catharsis of Meryl Streek
Some shows are cathartic, others are chaotic; Meryl Streek’s is both. Upstairs at the Ulster Sports Club, the low stage and red haze set the scene for a political rally-cum-gig. The room is packed tight with bodies, patched jackets, keffiyehs and ripped t-shirts.
As the lights dimmed, a sample of news clips played stories of homelessness, child poverty and state violence. “This is the reality,” one clip blared. Then Streek took to the stage—roses strapped around the mic stand and glowing blue contacts fixed in his eyes—charged with genuine energy.
What followed was a sonic manifesto. Stamping, raging, pleading—Streek blurred the line between performance and protest. News clips punctuated his fury, one starkly detailing Britain and Ireland’s suicide crisis. Between songs, he demanded the sound be pushed louder, “If you can push it out front a little bit more, do it”. He handed the mic to the crowd over and over again, encouraging a collective experience. Halfway through the set he asked for lights to be cut out and lit his face with a strobe. The strobe, the dark red glow and an exit sign at the back of the room were all that lit the space. “Fucking hell Belfast, we’re rowdy today.”
Toward the end of the gig, Streek came into the crowd, leaving the mic stand amongst us, strobe and roses attached. He disappeared and tracks stuttered and shuffled. “Of course I fucked this up,” he says. “Belfast loves you”, someone shouts in reply “it better” he says, laughing. He finds his place—a song about Terence Wheelock. He comes back to the mic stand and looks everyone in the eye as he sings. Then, he returns to the stage to read the names of the Stardust 48, victims of Ireland’s darkest nightclub fire, whose families still fight for the truth.
The voiceovers return, a motif that’s punctuated the whole set, and speak of eviction, landlordism, and the deepening inequality across Britain and Ireland. He roars and Belfast roars back, it’s a call to action.
Listen to ‘Songs For The Deceased Here’:
Discover more from Clunk Magazine
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
You must be logged in to post a comment.