Make 'Em Laugh

          My latest Netflix selection turned out to be Eddie Murphy’s stand-up special “Delirious” from 1983. I was interested to see it again as it had been well over 10 or 15 years since I last saw it and I wanted to see how well it held up. It was a mixed verdict. Some of it did (the classic “You dropped your ice cream!” is still a classic, and Eddie’s rant in his father’s voice about the family reunion wrecking his house is still very funny) and some of it didn’t (his first five minutes of “faggot” material would  only work these days at a Larry the Cable Guy show). I still liked it, and it made me think back to one of my first obsessions: stand-up comedy.

            When I was ten years old I watched TV on Thursday nights like everyone else. The Cosby Show was the biggest thing in popular culture at that time and it was the original “Must-see TV.”  After that came “Family Ties” and then “Cheers.” That was normally followed up by “Night Court” but one week something else came on after “Cheers.” It was the 23^rd anniversary special for “The Tonight Show.” I saw Johnny Carson come out in prime time (usually in a tux) and do a monologue, then play funny clips and special moments from his show. It is not a stretch at all to say my life changed that day. I was transfixed on this, especially since my stepfather Marty used our house’s new toy, a VCR, to tape the show, allowing me to watch it over and over again. And that I sure did. The comedians were my favorite, and I would watch, rewind and watch again as they set up their premises and delivered their punchlines. When I went to school and re-told the jokes, and got laughs, I became even more addicted.

            I asked Marty if he could tape Carson’s show every night for me. He gave me a bit of a funny look at first but he did it, and soon Letterman’s show was on tape every night too. I’d race home from school and watch the previous night’s late-night lineup, studying everything Carson did in particular. Watching him was like taking a master’s class in comedy. He and Ed McMahon were so fundamentally sound as a comedy team it helped teach me how critical rhythm and pacing were when telling jokes. Keep them concise for the most part, choose your words carefully (some words, even if they're synonyms, are funnier than others) and put in strategic pauses to make that punchline hit just right. 

            Those shows also introduced me to a slew of other stand-ups of course, and those late-night showed me there were as many different comedy styles as there were comedians. George Carlin’s nimble use and parody of the English language, a pre-sitcom Jerry Seinfield’s slice of life routines and Garry Shandling’s self-deprecating humor were all completely different and funny. I recall guys like John Caponera, Richard Jeni, Drew Carey, Jake Johannsen, Ellen Degeneres (fantastic as a stand-up), Jay Leno (a legend of the stand-up and one of the most consistently funny guests on Letterman back then) and I absorbed everything I could from them.

            The next step involved our regular trips to the library. One of the greatest gifts my mom gave to me as a regular ride to the library. It gave me my love of reading and also enabled my new comedy obsession as they had a whole section of vinyl records there. I had to develop a strategy when it came to library albums. There were plenty of Bob Newhart and Bill Cosby records there, but there were also George Carlin, Richard Pryor and Robin Williams albums too, and those were R-rated. I figured out I could take two Cosby albums (thank goodness there were a lot of those) and sandwich the R-rated stuff in between them when I checked out. Mom either didn’t notice or let it pass. I spent many evenings in the family room downstairs with a Pryor, Carlin or Sam Kinison album on the record player, sound turned down as low as I could get it and lay on the floor with my ear literally pressed against the speaker giggling until tears were running down my cheeks. 

 I always admired these guys for turning things that bothered them or even severaly traumatized them (Pryor and Kinison in particular turned their emotional pain into routines brilliantly) into bits that hit home to audiences and made them howl.

I firmly believe stand-up comedy is one of the single most difficult forms of performance. I can tell a joke. I’m generally considered a moderately funny person, and it’s been suggested many times I give stand-up comedy a try. I did a couple of things for my high school drama class that came close, but I’ve never gone up on stage and try my luck.

 This past year I went to a comedy club and caught a “showcase” night, which is comedy club-speak for “amateur hour.” Comic after comic came up on that stage…and none of them were funny. They’d tell a joke or two and I could hear their timing being off a tick, or hear a poorly-phrased joke. One by one they tanked, and they knew it. A look of “Oh crap, this isn’t working,” slowly crept across their faces. Some shut down and started muttering more than talking. Others even grew belligerent, with one cursing out the audience and stalking out. It all served as a reminder just how damn hard that job is. There is no one to help you. No director or editor can be blamed for ruining your performance, and no screenwriter to blame for the bad jokes. It’s just the comic versus the audience.

Make no mistake, it’s an adversarial relationship. You can hear that in the vernacular. If a comedian does well, he “killed them,” “slayed them,” or “knocked them dead.” When it doesn’t go well, he “died” or “bombed.” All violent images for something designed to make people happy. If that doesn’t give insight into the damaged comic psyche I don’t know what does.

Carson would deflect jokes that didn’t work with an eyebrow raise or a look at the camera, silently communicating to the audience, “whoops, that didn’t work but stick with me, I’ve got better ones,” and with that he could get the crowd back on his side. Others ignore them and plow ahead ot the next bit, never losing their outward confidence, almost dragging the crowd along as if to say “nothing to see here, folks, let’s just move along and forget that bad one.” It’s all about confidence up there. You have to at least appear to be positive you’re going to be a hit or the people sitting out there in the dark will eat you alive up there.

That’s why I’m so drawn to those who do it well. It’s lonely. It’s tremendously difficult. Then there is this point: when it works and something you came up with makes people laugh, it’s one of the most rewarding feelings there is.