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SUNDAYS FOREVER LIVE
A Meditation on “Sundays” as Told By One of its Forefathers
Abandon all dread ye who enter here. For this is an underground space for liberated language, unabashed performance, and artistic communion.
All are welcome. All are welcome.
Not since 1970’s Venice Bohemianism has there been a synchronistic meeting of poetic minds.
Musician/poet/host Joseph Matick cultivates something unique. While there are several poetry nights throughout Los Angeles, “Sundays” has an old school late-night feel — in the spirit of Johnny Carson, or more aptly, Glenn O’Brien’s irreverent T.V. Party — complete with a house band and psychedelic opening monologue.
What Joseph Matick has done is dug up a creative jewel — the proverbial diamond in the rough — out of a city that has long sold its soul and its artists for luxurious living and high box office numbers.
“Sundays”reminds us wayward Angelenos that the magick isn’t gone, and recognizes the age of the gatekeeper as extinguished.
Participation and spectatorship occupy the same space. A living, breathing space for those who dare enter beyond the threshold and into the transformative dimensions of language.
Words have no fate, are not meant to remain static as dead symbols. It is we who breathe life into them, transmute them, and communicate back and forth to each other our very souls — intangible and elusive even to ourselves.
Poetry reminds us that we are alive, that we are not alone, and that we never have been.
