Reverb-TV Matt Lidis Column

Open mic nights, on paper, are an amazing idea. An empty stage and a microphone - the possibilities are endless. Just to think, you could turn up at your local pub on a Wednesday night and witness the birth of a new chapter in social history as the 21st century's Martin Luther-King sheepishly broadcasts his revolutionary manifesto. Or maybe a one man heart-wrenching ten-minute play? A beat-boxing painter who paints a portrait of the audience then auctions it off for charity? All would be amazing to me. But I'll bet you a pint of your favourite ale that the next act you'll see at your nearest open mic night will be a skinny 19-year old dressed like Pete Doherty. Singing about his heart.

In an age where true personalities in pop are a rare, rare breed the open mic night should play a major role in giving the eccentric weirdo a stage to shake their madness out of their mouth and maybe give them the confidence to do it again. Just because Simon Cowell and Pierce Morgan turn away someone who's "talent" doesn't remind them of B*witched or Alex Parks doesn't mean the wider British public doesn't have a place in their hearts (or wallets) for them.

Entertainment needs its nutters, and, in an economy tighter than Russell Brand's kecks, we need them. Sadly, the pound signs involved here mean that the chances of a record company taking any kind of a risk on the new Billy Bragg is negligible. If your face, never mind your voice, doesn't fit - you're out.

The days when ugly, racist comedian Jim Davidson could be seen lighting up our prime time Saturday nights fronting Big Break are long gone. These days, if you don't look the part you don't get in. But, f*ck that, we've got pubs and bars we can call our own. We don't need television - we have the internet! We can star our own revolution. Hear them on the internet for free - see them in a pub for free. Get the record companies to come to us. So, why do all these lithe young lads you see chirping their way through a dull fifteen minutes in the back room of a pub want to be someone else? The same can be said for every Bat for Lashes, Bloc Party or Klaxons clone you can witness any night of the week in London.

These people have been taught that a formula works and that formula should be flogged until it bleeds beads of boring blood. Record company bosses justify spending millions on acts because they sound like anybody else, not because they don't. But, lest we forget all the beat groups who first shook their "ooooooooos" and fringes in 1968, the thousands of punk bands who bought their first safety pin in 1979 and the swathes Britpop bands putting union jacks on their parkas in 1997. History remembers pioneers, not clones. The open mic night should be a place where experimentation is encouraged - where Ziggys can cut their first sequins. Sadly, we live in a world where the cash creates the talent, not the other way round. And in such a world the insanity-to-bar-takings ratio does not suggest that a pre-op transvestite strip-funk act will be put on the bill at the next Bullet bar showcase anytime soon. And that, my friends, for the future of pop, is a worry.