India Cafe open-mike night offers fusion of words, music

By Derek Paiva
Advertiser Staff Writer

Dark Sevier (right) of Kahalu'u starts off the India Cafe open-mike night by reading his poetry. Providing musical back-up are bass player Nakana and drummer Shree Sadagopan. Eugene Tanner • The Honolulu Advertiser India Cafe open-mike night 9 p.m.-midnight Sundays $5 (may be used toward the purchase of food or beverages) Kilohana Square, 2851-1 Kihei Place, off Kapahulu Avenue 737-4600

Five minutes later a bolt of caffeinated adrenaline tore through my brain just as Dark Sevier silenced the piped-in ambient electronica that had been numbing the cafe's growing crowd of mostly twentysomethings for the last half-hour. Whatever else took place that night — good or bad — I knew that I would at least praise the coffee. Thankfully, the entire evening was just as stimulating.

I first got wind of India Cafe's weekly Sunday night "open mic for all forms of expression" via an anonymous, cryptically worded e-mail breathlessly fawning over the evening's three-hour walk-in free flow of original verse, poetry, music, rap and whatever with no rules.

Tucked away in the corner of a collection of small businesses off Kapahulu Avenue called Kilohana Square, India Cafe on the Sunday evening I attended was lighted by a couple of antiquated floor and nightstand lamps, a neon OPEN sign and the jarring glow of its kitchen's fluorescent lighting. Cozy small with a funky collection of garage-sale ready furniture, potted palms and Indian- and tropical-themed paintings, the restaurant's centerpiece on open-mike night is a makeshift corner stage with a drum kit (bass, snare, hi-hat), stand-up bass, a couple of turntables and a microphone.

Sevier and India Cafe owner Shree Sadagopan have been organizing, playing host and performing in the still-unnamed open-mike night since the restaurant opened in August.

"The idea is a fusion between spoken work, poetry and music," Sevier said about India Sunday nights, several days before my visit. "Having original material ... that's about the extent of the rules." Just show up and sign up. "After that, it's first-come, first-served, basically."

Seated on a small stool, his face lighted severely by the glow of a corner lamp, Sevier placed a vinyl LP on one of two turntables, dropping the needle on a scratchy groove. A chunky, funky guitar backbeat reminiscent of a '70s-era porn soundtrack filled the room as Sadagopan — also a guitarist with acid jazzers Quadraphonix — slid behind the drums, and bassist Nakana plucked out a low murmur of strings.

Sevier's rhythmic reading of "Punitive" fell in comfortably with Sadagopan and Nakana's improvised beat and the turntable's rigidly set one. A young woman near my table began tapping out a soft accompanying beat on a drum she had brought in.

And that's pretty much how the evening flowed. More servings of Malaysian iced coffee jackhammering my cerebral cortex while a constant flow of mostly talented local poets, writers and musicians tempted it to hang around to see what would happen next. And always, Sadagopan and Nakana pouring a tasty soundtrack over it all.

"I'll be speaking from my subconscious tonight," announced India regular Soltron Allah before launching into some languid hip-hop tinged freestyle verse. Several minutes after finding Allah's rhythm, Sadagopan and Nakana suddenly sped up their bass and drum accompaniment. Never once missing a beat, Allah's intelligent word flow continued with razor precision.

After drawing a full house on its first outing last August, India Cafe's open-mike night the next Sunday attracted "basically Shree and I, with maybe five or six people," said Sevier. "And it stayed that way until Sept. 11."

Instead of further diminishing attendance, the terrorist attacks and the country's subsequent war on terrorism tapped into a need to unload rage through verse that swelled India Cafe's rule-free open-mike sessions. Attendance has barely ebbed since. At its peak — somewhere around 10:30 p.m. — on the evening I dropped by, the cafe interiors teemed with more than 50 people.

The night wasn't all about serious verse, though.

While "Christopher" ruminated on topics of war, "Chante" strummed an acoustic guitar and sang hopefully about love. Ethno promised a piece "more guttural and less metaphysical than my regular work," and delievered a largely unrepeatable treatise that, I think, had something to do with a man who couldn't have sex so instead watched a lot of television. Bizarre? You bet. Funny? Like that Jewel book, except intentionally so.

Dan Furst shuffled up to the mike just after 11 p.m. with some original music he'd written for Shakespeare's "The Tempest." His lyrical delivery one of operatic gusto, Furst also barked like a dog when the composition called for it, and occasionally rang a collection of small bells he had brought with him. The audience applauded enthusiastically.

"Wanna hear the drunken butler song?" Furst asked the crowd.

Uh, more of that coffee, please!