Money Talks

The atmosphere had turned a bit too pious for 337's taste. The irreverent 27-year-old, whose real name is Desmond Jones, had taken the stage at the Blue Room, a hallowed place normally dedicated to the cult of jazz and its aging congregation of fans.

But this was the one night of the month the hall in the historic 18th and Vine District was taken over by folks mostly in their teens and twenties. And on this night, the entertainment had turned churchy.

337 had a solution for that.

"The same lady that you were freakin' on the dance floor," he intoned, "is the same lady on Sunday morning screaming, 'Thank you, Lord!'"

Gasps came from the audience. But the imposing African-American man, who stands about 6 feet 4, didn't stop with that provocation. He launched into a string of accusations about churchgoer hypocrisy in a voice that boomed into every corner of the room.

He resembled, in fact, a talented preacher -- one who had become a fiery apostate.

"Some of God's children are out here pimping religion, using the building fund to buy tricked-out Lincolns," he rhymed, appearing to scandalize the mostly black audience. "So excuse me if I don't make it on Sunday because I can't shake what I drank on Saturday!"

The crowd reacted to the spoken-word performance with thundering applause.

Its message, however, didn't win over a secret panel of judges, which gave first place and a $100 check to another performer with an alias, Ed Rollins, a bookish man with a huge, toothy smile who, as Spoken Vision, had stepped up to the stage before 337 and delivered a spoken affirmation of his faith.

It was a victory for the Lord-lovin' poet over the heretic 337, who took home a check for $50 and second place. On other nights, though, the iconoclasts win out over the faithful.

And the romantics usually get shut out entirely.

That's how it is on Jazz Poetry Jam nights at the Blue Room, a surprisingly successful new competition that draws young poets who joust for modest prize money with the determination of street fighters. Since its inception last October, the contest has grown in popularity, attracting about 25 wordsmiths each month and capacity crowds of 125 people who occasionally rise to their feet in ovations.

First-timers give monotone, head-down readings. Those who talk of rainbows and kittens are barely tolerated. The real fireworks tend to come from the same set of performers, month after month.

There's 337, the agitator. Spoken Vision, the divine. Simeon Taylor, the charmer. "Davar," the mystic. And as we watched them clash month after month, it became obvious that for some, Kansas City's most intense poetry slam is a tournament for more than just pocket change.

"There's always been something magical about the Blue Room," says Bryan Long, a University of Missouri-Kansas City employee who competes under the name Davar. "Every time I'm down on Vine, I feel a little more nervous than I do at other spots. I'm truly honored to be in the same space that greats such as Coltrane, Bird, Ellington, Monk and even the local stars like the late Claude 'Fiddler' Williams and Ida McBeth have performed. You can feel the vibes of those trailblazers. It's deep, man."

For many poets, though, the allure of the Blue Room readings has more to do with money than with mystique. Strange Früt, a catering service that plans to open an organic restaurant in the 18th and Vine neighborhood, contributes $250 in cash prizes every month. For poets looking to score a little dough for their performances, there's almost nothing else in town.

Simeon Taylor, whose soothing delivery recalls A Tribe Called Quest's Q-Tip, often takes home money. His works range from love serenades to nostalgia to strings of similes linked together in a hip-hop style. In February, he debuted a piece criticizing competitive open-mike nights; much to his surprise, it scored second place and earned him $50.

But the talented reciter says he doesn't like what happens to performers when money's on the line. "When it comes to poetry, I'm old-fashioned," he says. "A lot of venues are using poetry as a means of getting people to come to their spots. Then you get judged on who has the tightest poem. Well, people are just writing about their personal experiences, so people are getting rated on who's been through the hardest struggle."

But Davar, who usually laces his poetry with conspiratorial references to a spooky New World Order, says cash-prize slams are a necessary draw.

"It's not me. I'll say that. I believe poetry is about expression, not competition," he says. "But it seems like nowadays, heads are gettin' props for delivery and wordplay instead of content."

At January's contest, the room is nearly full just a few minutes after 7 on a frigid evening. The sign-up sheet for reciters sits on a table by the front door. The first 6 of its 25 slots are empty -- no one wants to go first.

Experienced readers have learned to look out for 337's name on the list -- going immediately after the firebrand is usually poetic suicide. Only first-timers, unaware of his impact on the audience, tend to sign up below his name.