My first thought about last night's maiden voyage on the U.S.S. Comedy - it went about as well as I could have hoped.
I definitely didn't kill - let's not get ahead of ourselves - but at the same time, I didn't bomb either, which, if I'm honest with myself, is really the main thing I wanted to accomplish*. Overall I got enough laughs to make me feel like with a little effort and repetition I might not embarrass myself, totally.
*What does it say about my expectations of myself that I wanted to run outside after my set was over and shout to the world, "I didn't totally suck!"
There were about 14 performers on hand for the open mic, and in a random order I ended up going 2nd. I didn't know this beforehand. The emcee chose a random person to start, then asked each comic after their turn to pick a number, and whichever number that corresponded to would be the next comic.
Batting 2nd was about as perfect a scenario as I could have imagined going in - I wasn't first, which would have sucked, and I wasn't near the end either, which would have made my anxiety build exponentially over the course of the night.
The guy who went first tanked, and while I felt bad for him, selfishly it was comforting. "I may not do well," I thought to myself, "but I can definitely follow that."
And so I approached the mic for my first time on stage. It was weird. I was less nervous than I thought I'd be, and yet the second I got to the microphone it was like my throat went dry. I stammered a little bit out of the gate, but I hit my first joke, people laughed...and in that moment I felt a huge wave of relief splash over me. It's not like that was the end of it, but that first reaction somehow made it all seem ok.
After that it was kind of a blur. I felt like I concentrated so hard on delivering my material the way I'd practiced it, it was hard to really take in what was happening.
Going into the evening, I would say I was most concerned about two things: getting laughs (duh), and not going over the prescribed time limit. Everything I read about performing at open mic nights said the same thing - don't screw over your fellow comedians by going over your time limit, it's an easy way to make enemies and piss off the house.
I was told by the woman booking the show to be ready for 5-7 minutes, and to definitely have a solid 7 if it were necessary. After writing out my first draft of my set, I timed it out at around 8:35. I dropped one bit, edited a few jokes out of the others, and by the day of the show was hitting at right around 7:00 even. But what if I didn't get the full 7? I had only practiced my routine in full, I didn't really have any outs for if I needed to finish early.
As it happened, I had just started on the third part of my act when I saw the "wrap-it-up" signal. Shit! I got a couple jokes out, then cut straight to my close and prayed I'd done it in a sufficient amount of time.
After the show, I asked the emcee about it, and he said that the signal usually meant finish up in the next minute or so, which means I suppose I could have finished all my material, but in this case better safe than sorry.
Looking back over the tape of it all today, the thing that surprised me the most was my posture - I may not have sounded nervous, per se, but I definitely looked it. Yeah there were some jokes that need tweaking, some punchlines that need to breathe a little more, but in my mind the biggest thing I need to work on going forward is my stage presence.
And then there is that - a next time. I felt good enough about how it went that I went ahead and signed up for another crack at it in 2 weeks. I may even let Hilary or my sister come this time, we'll see. In some ways I feel more relaxed about the whole thing now that at least 25 people or so don't think I'm a complete buffoon, but at the same time if I try out all new material (I'm leaning in that direction), I'll basically be facing the same proposition as I did last night.
All in all, I can't ask for much more than I got out of breaking my stand-up comedy cherry. As I expected, it was never as bad as I'd built it up to be in my mind, and yeah, I do feel kinda stupid for taking this long to finally do it. But better late than never I suppose, and hopefully the confidence I gained from last night will convince me to put some effort into this going forward.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The Night Before
During my freshman year in college, I went to see my pledge brother's cousin, Cary Schwartz, do stand-up comedy at an open mic night in Austin at this place on 6th street called the Velveeta Lounge.
I remember the night in great detail. Cary was funny - he wasn't polished (he is probably much better now, if he's still doing stand-up), but he definitely had some good ideas. I was proud of him. But that's not what I remember most.
What I recall most vividly about that night is not Cary's performance, but how bad everyone else was. Bad probably isn't a strong enough word. To say they were bad would be to call World War II a minor skirmish. They were dreadful. One after the other, the performers (I can't bring myself to call them comedians) came to the mic and bombed in every way possible - they were crude, they made bad puns, they had set-ups with no punchlines, they had punchlines with no punchlines. It was awful.
And yet, for some reason, I was riveted. I remember going home that night to my dorm room and thinking, for the first time, that I might really like to try that someday. I have no idea why their failure made me think I could do it, but somehow it did.
That winter break my family and I went on a cruise, and I spent a lot of my free time writing my first attempts at comedy*.
*I have that document somewhere, but the only bit I can remember offhand was about the airplane's black box, if you can believe it. So original, right? What's the deal with those things anyway? It was basically a bit about how I think it's funny when after a plane crash they always hold off on any analysis until they see what was recorded on the black box - like the pilots are going to have some really calm, rational explanation of everything that went wrong. Isn't it probably just a pair of pilots screaming, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, WE'RE GOING TO DIE!!!" Hilarious**.
**I love how I pretend that I was naive to think that bit was funny back then. I still think that's funny.
After college I moved to Boston, and I fully intended to take that first step into the world of stand-up comedy. I had a do-nothing job running a Prometric testing center, serving as a glorified test proctor (glorified? Who am I kidding?) for 40 hours a week. With tons of time to kill, I continued to write out the bits that came to my mind - but I never got on stage. Not that year in Boston, not the year after in Syracuse, and not in the 6 years since in Atlanta.
This became a pattern. I would write something I thought was funny, come up with enough material to take a crack at an open mic, but when push came to shove I always found an excuse not to do it. Rinse, lather, and repeat, for the last 8 years.
I was talking to a friend today about what has kept me off the stage, and while I think there are a variety of reasons (can you say procrastination?), there is one in particular that I've always felt a little, well, funny about.
I find it incredibly embarassing to tell people I'm interested in doing stand-up. I think it's because by saying I do (or want to do) stand-up, what I am basically telling people is, "I am very funny."
This seems like a pretty arrogant statement. "Look at me! Not only am I hilarious, but people should spend money to see and hear my hilarity in person! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!" It makes me feel incredibly self conscious.
And yet, at the same time, I love to make people laugh. I have given many a rehearsal dinner toast over the years, and every time one goes over well it feels like...well, I don't think I write well enough to describe the feeling, but as Snoop Dogg would say, it's the shiz-nit.
All of which brings me to the advent of this blog and the reason I am sitting on my couch writing this out tonight.
Tomorrow night, after several years of false starts, I will finally make my stand-up comedy debut at an open mic night at the Laughing Skull Lounge in Atlanta.
What finally pushed me over the edge? I have no idea. A few weeks ago I started to think about the upcoming summer, and that maybe I should take up a hobby of some kind, and I guess it finally just clicked. It was time.
I went back through my notes, trying to discern what if anything that I'd ever written was even remotely funny, and put together a set. I've practiced some - I don't really know how to practice without feeling like a complete a-hole, but I've written out exactly what I think I'm going to say and said it into a dictaphone to play back how it sounds (it sounds stupid).
I have no idea how it will go over. I truly believe the stuff I have is funny material, but I know there is more to making an audience laugh than that. It's about timing. It's about inflection. It's about letting the spaces in between the words be as funny as the words themselves. I know all about comedy and what makes it good or bad, and yet armed with that knowledge I still have no idea whether I'm going to kill or bomb tomorrow night. For some reason it feels like there can be no middle ground.
No matter what, I do think it will be interesting, and a great experience, and who knows where it could lead. I know there is a part of me that will be proud just for giving it the ol' college try, but a larger part of me thinks moral victories are for sissies and wants a definitive answer, either now or sometime in the near future, to the question I've been pondering ever since that first night back in Austin. Can I hang?
I don't know what will come of tomorrow night, nor do I know what this blog will beget. But after thinking about comedy for over a decade now, I wanted to put my thoughts on the process down on paper (so to speak), if for no one else's amusement than for my own. It could lead nowhere (like most blogs I've started), or maybe this will be the one that sticks.
Either way, I'm ready to get this show on the road...
I remember the night in great detail. Cary was funny - he wasn't polished (he is probably much better now, if he's still doing stand-up), but he definitely had some good ideas. I was proud of him. But that's not what I remember most.
What I recall most vividly about that night is not Cary's performance, but how bad everyone else was. Bad probably isn't a strong enough word. To say they were bad would be to call World War II a minor skirmish. They were dreadful. One after the other, the performers (I can't bring myself to call them comedians) came to the mic and bombed in every way possible - they were crude, they made bad puns, they had set-ups with no punchlines, they had punchlines with no punchlines. It was awful.
And yet, for some reason, I was riveted. I remember going home that night to my dorm room and thinking, for the first time, that I might really like to try that someday. I have no idea why their failure made me think I could do it, but somehow it did.
That winter break my family and I went on a cruise, and I spent a lot of my free time writing my first attempts at comedy*.
*I have that document somewhere, but the only bit I can remember offhand was about the airplane's black box, if you can believe it. So original, right? What's the deal with those things anyway? It was basically a bit about how I think it's funny when after a plane crash they always hold off on any analysis until they see what was recorded on the black box - like the pilots are going to have some really calm, rational explanation of everything that went wrong. Isn't it probably just a pair of pilots screaming, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, WE'RE GOING TO DIE!!!" Hilarious**.
**I love how I pretend that I was naive to think that bit was funny back then. I still think that's funny.
After college I moved to Boston, and I fully intended to take that first step into the world of stand-up comedy. I had a do-nothing job running a Prometric testing center, serving as a glorified test proctor (glorified? Who am I kidding?) for 40 hours a week. With tons of time to kill, I continued to write out the bits that came to my mind - but I never got on stage. Not that year in Boston, not the year after in Syracuse, and not in the 6 years since in Atlanta.
This became a pattern. I would write something I thought was funny, come up with enough material to take a crack at an open mic, but when push came to shove I always found an excuse not to do it. Rinse, lather, and repeat, for the last 8 years.
I was talking to a friend today about what has kept me off the stage, and while I think there are a variety of reasons (can you say procrastination?), there is one in particular that I've always felt a little, well, funny about.
I find it incredibly embarassing to tell people I'm interested in doing stand-up. I think it's because by saying I do (or want to do) stand-up, what I am basically telling people is, "I am very funny."
This seems like a pretty arrogant statement. "Look at me! Not only am I hilarious, but people should spend money to see and hear my hilarity in person! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!" It makes me feel incredibly self conscious.
And yet, at the same time, I love to make people laugh. I have given many a rehearsal dinner toast over the years, and every time one goes over well it feels like...well, I don't think I write well enough to describe the feeling, but as Snoop Dogg would say, it's the shiz-nit.
All of which brings me to the advent of this blog and the reason I am sitting on my couch writing this out tonight.
Tomorrow night, after several years of false starts, I will finally make my stand-up comedy debut at an open mic night at the Laughing Skull Lounge in Atlanta.
What finally pushed me over the edge? I have no idea. A few weeks ago I started to think about the upcoming summer, and that maybe I should take up a hobby of some kind, and I guess it finally just clicked. It was time.
I went back through my notes, trying to discern what if anything that I'd ever written was even remotely funny, and put together a set. I've practiced some - I don't really know how to practice without feeling like a complete a-hole, but I've written out exactly what I think I'm going to say and said it into a dictaphone to play back how it sounds (it sounds stupid).
I have no idea how it will go over. I truly believe the stuff I have is funny material, but I know there is more to making an audience laugh than that. It's about timing. It's about inflection. It's about letting the spaces in between the words be as funny as the words themselves. I know all about comedy and what makes it good or bad, and yet armed with that knowledge I still have no idea whether I'm going to kill or bomb tomorrow night. For some reason it feels like there can be no middle ground.
No matter what, I do think it will be interesting, and a great experience, and who knows where it could lead. I know there is a part of me that will be proud just for giving it the ol' college try, but a larger part of me thinks moral victories are for sissies and wants a definitive answer, either now or sometime in the near future, to the question I've been pondering ever since that first night back in Austin. Can I hang?
I don't know what will come of tomorrow night, nor do I know what this blog will beget. But after thinking about comedy for over a decade now, I wanted to put my thoughts on the process down on paper (so to speak), if for no one else's amusement than for my own. It could lead nowhere (like most blogs I've started), or maybe this will be the one that sticks.
Either way, I'm ready to get this show on the road...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
