Athens Boys Choir isn't a choir. It's just one guy from Athens, Ga., his microphone and some beats. It's part hip-hop, part spoken word, and part goofball aerobics dance music.

Harvey Katz, the guy behind the mic, calls it "the poetry your mama warned you about." He raps about politics, living in the South, being Jewish and a being a transsexual. He writes more serious pieces as well as silly and fun raps like "Tranny Got Pack," a Sir Mix-A-Lot spin-off.

Katz will be at the Cardinal Bar, 418 E. Wilson St., at 9 p.m. this Sunday, Aug. 3, coinciding the first day of the National Poetry Slam in Madison. Opening is Actor Slash Model, a bluegrass/folk duo from Chicago.

The Cap Times recently spoke with Katz about the evolution of spoken word, his experiences teaching a high school aerobics class and being an out trans person in the South.

How did you get your start?

I always enjoyed writing growing up -- classic poetry, stupid stories. Then all the sudden I wrote this piece that was spoken word style. I'd never heard spoken word before. I listened to a bit of hip-hop and rap. And I just started writing in a choppier style. Then I found out, "Oh my God, there are millions of people who do this. This is awesome!" It was just dumb luck. It just sort of happened organically. I started going to open mics in Athens. I didn't write much in college, so it was just me getting back into writing as an adult.

What did you go to college for?

I got a degree in P.E., keepin' it real. (Laughs.)

And how do you use that now?

I don't. (Laughs.)

But a lot of your music videos have people on roller skates, people working out, that sort of thing, right?

Yeah, you know, I used to teach step aerobics to girls at a rural high school. I taught weight training and step aerobics. I always think it's pretty funny -- here I am, as queer as queer can be, teaching in rural, rural Georgia, home of, like, "The Gonorrhea Outbreak of 2003." And I'm teaching Health Ed and step aerobics to these girls, half of them preggo.

How did that go?

You know, I feel like because I handled it with a grain of salt, they were able to run with it. I would dress silly every day and I've always loved costumes. It was definitely a 'sweat band, tall socks' experience.

How do you define your work?

I've always found that what's partially frustrating and partially exciting about what I do and how I do it is that it really can't be defined as a certain genre. I use 'spoken word/hip-hop' to put it into an area that people can understand. You have a mic, you have your voice and you just go for it. When I started doing spoken word in Athens, Georgia, I was out sayin' stuff like "I'm transsexual, I'm queer" at a time when myself and the person I was performing with were the only ones who were out as trans in Athens. And no one gave a crap. It was great!

What did you expect their reaction to be?

Well, you always wonder. You always worry if you're putting yourself in danger with your words. Sometimes when I'm in different spaces, it depends how cheeky I'm feeling about how far out I'll go. Or I'll change my verses to closet myself and protect myself. But I really find that most people just don't give a crap. They just say, "Wow, we really liked your piece, maybe not what you said, but you put it well so we can respect that."

Lately, what has been inspiring your work?

Well, I used to be very fist-in-the-air. But with the political environment the way it is, I just felt really powerless. I felt like it didn't matter what I said, it wasn't going to change the big picture and that was really destructive to me. Then I found this space of inner change -- you know, maybe I can't change a million people but I can change myself to be a better person. I think my work has really internalized quite a bit. Instead of being like, "Hey, let's fight the system," it's become, "Hey, let's just love each other."

When did you realize that?

Well, I wrote this piece, "Mourner's Prayer." In it, I realized that there was a moment where I started to love myself. And I know that seems so loo-loo and New Age. But at the same time, it's a revolutionary thought to have when you've spent your whole life not loving yourself. That changed me and how I write.

What's it like being an out trans person in the South?

Living in the South has been a blessing, honestly. I think people in the South are extremely friendly. We have a few trans folks around town, but because there's no community, there's no stereotypes against the community. People are just like, "Alright, we'll just accept you the way you are because we actually have nothing to say about it because it's so brand new."

What's a show of yours like? What can people expect in Madison?

It's pretty journey-based. I definitely have really stupid pieces that create a lighthearted environment. There's only so much seriousness we can take, especially now. People are just sick of fighting, sick of being sad. We have enough of that in the world already and when it's time get up on stage, people need a break from that. But I always do go through some serious stuff. I try to be really heart-on-my-sleeve. I'm not going to lie to you; I'm not going to give you a line just because it rhymes well. So there is that side of it, but there are sides of it that are just so goofy and stupid, people don't know where to put it. Catchy hooks, catchy beats and video. It'll be a rollercoaster.

So it's just you up on stage?

It used to be me and another guy, but the road wasn't for him. Now I'm just the whole Jewish choir. I would love to change the name but I've spent so much time making that name known. You can't help but get a little gay when you think of a boys' choir, you know what I'm saying? I like that aspect of it.

What's a piece that's very hard for you to perform?

I used to do this one called "Homeland Insecurity." Being a trans guy and coming out -- when you first come out as trans, it's a place of high anxiety and an unfairness in the situation that I couldn't change certain parts of my body. That was so frustrating. I stopped performing those pieces because it brought me back to a place of anxiety. Now I think it's silly I put so much value on things I couldn't change.

But would you be where you are now if you haven't gone through that?

Absolutely not. You have to say it, come to terms with it and move on.

Do you get pigeonholed ever as an artist?

Absolutely. In the beginning of the 2000s, spoken word was very "in" and people were very jazzed about it. I think people got a little bit tired of it.

Why?

It had its "in" time with HBO's "Def Poetry." It's like '90s boy bands. Now you hear a boy band and you put it back to that time period and you're over it. Spoken word got that way. About 2005 or 2006 I started noticing that I had to say, "It's spoken word, but you'll still enjoy it." That's really hard for me to do -- I hate having to put in that "but you'll really enjoy it."

And five or seven years ago?

People were like, "Spoken word, all right! I've seen that HBO show." There's a million types of spoken word, everything from audio books to rap. It's like saying "music." There's a million different types of it, and some people see one type and they put all spoken word into that style. It's a very pigeon-holey genre.

How do you move beyond that?

You just gotta show 'em, you just gotta prove. I do love that point when you're on stage, and you see that person who didn't want to be there and all the sudden you find they're enjoying it. I love that moment. That's the narcissist in me. But you know poets, we're inherently narcissists -- we're like, "Listen to me about me for an hour!" It comes with the game.