In between sips of Jameson, standing to the side of the stage at Boulder Coffee Co. in Rochester, NY last night at the comedy open mic I felt, for the first time, that I was part of something bigger than my own intentions. Shoulder to shoulder with some of the smartest, funniest people in the entire city I knew I was where I belonged and, though I may not be on their level or anywhere near their ability, felt accepted into a strange club where the members meet in public a few times a week to tell jokes to a room full of strangers. And, now I'm hooked. More than hooked, obsessed with the idea of growing and supporting the comedy scene in Rochester as best as I can; while, obviously, trying my hand at it as well.
Having said that, I'm sure more than a few of the comics that performed last night would disagree with me. They don't really know me from a hole in the wall, but we chatted amicably and traded some zingers back and forth like I imagine established comics (like Patton Oswalt, David Cross, Brian Posehn, etc.) do every night in green rooms and backstage areas across the country. It was, pathetically, a dream come true for me to rub shoulders with the likes of Vinny Paulino, Dan Maslyn and Dr. Will; whom I've seen perform countless times but had rarely approached before or during a show. I didn't feel worthy of inclusion into their secret society of funny people, but after a little more than two months doing open mics around town I felt comfortable not only with my ability, but in their company and that has made my life a whole hell of a lot easier and my stand-up a whole hell of a lot better.
I know I'm gushing uncontrollably right now, but I can't help myself, so please forgive me for showing human emotions and blogging riotously about my love of all things having to do with Rochester, NY comedy. There's just too much talent in my hometown to ignore now, and the fact that I get to hobnob with them, delusional though it may be, has made me the happiest I've been in a very long time. Really, though, this post should be about encouraging you, my faithful reader, to go out and support these people as much as you can.
The open-mic night, Sundays at Boulder Coffee Co. at 8:00, is free and features -in my opinion- the best stand up comedy in Rochester at the moment and the crowds have been showing up in full force over the past month or so; which has been great, but I'm crippled with dread that once the summer ends and people start heading to college or get back to work or do whatever they do that keeps them from going out on a Sunday night, the crowds will dry up. This can't happen, fellow Rochestarians and readers from abroad, and I don't plan on letting it happen as long as I'm involved. I will, badger you with my belligerence on these pages and on twitter where I will shamelessly self promote myself and humbly request your attendance and laughs for the other comedy minds my hometown has to offer, and they are legion.
I feel now, that I can kind of, sort of introduce you to the cream of the crop with brief profiles here in this blog; just to wet your whistle and encourage you to come join in the fun, so let's give this a try.
Host of All Hosts: Bryan J. Ball.
True story: Bryan lives about 4 houses down from me on the same street and we did not meet until the end of last week's open mic night at Boulder. Truer Story: He is one of the funniest people I've ever met or seen perform. He is a slick crafter of jokes and makes with the funny on a painfully regular basis that makes me boil with jealous rage. He makes it look so easy I almost expect him to take the mask off and reveal himself to be Louis C.K. in disguise. If he doesn't make it big outside of Rochester I will be shocked, amazed and disappointed to the point where I'll be inconsolable for days on end. Good thing I'm pretty sure it's going to happen for him though, when you're that good, you generally don't fail.
Jokes That Make You Go, Huh?: Wes Bauer
Every time I've done stand-up since I got back into it 8 week ago I've had the pleasure of being there with Wes Bauer; who, for my money has some of the best material I've ever heard locally or nationally. Honestly, when the audience isn't responding to Wes positively I question whether they have pulses or just aren't paying attention. Maybe they're just playing catch-up, because his jokes have a tendency to make you think prior to laughing, and that can work against a guy on stage seeking instant gratification for his cleverly created chuckle-fare. I love his stuff, his stage presence and the fact that it took us 6 weeks before introducing ourselves to each other. Comics are, by and large, shy people who hate everything, but Wes and I click on a weird level in that we are not filled with outright consternation and capable of mentioning Rasputin and then going through the litany of ways in which a joke could be made about him. sigh He's really, really funny and very bright and smart and missing out on his set will sorely disappoint you.
My Personal Favorite (No Offense Guys): Billy T. Anglin
I don't even know where to begin. I envy this man on so many levels it's not even pathetic, they haven't even created a word for how jealous I am of his ability to make a room full of strangers laugh at things like God making it rain because he felt like seeing a wet t-shirt contest. (No lie, my friend calls me once a week to remind me of that joke, followed by "you should be that good...some day.") It goes beyond that though, he has a passion for comedy that is mother f_cking infectious to be around and out and out delightful. He was the first person I introduced myself to on the fateful night at The Otter Lodge a long, long time ago when I got so drunk I forgot my jokes. After my set, he said to me, very wisely, "yeah, you don't want to do that again do you?" And I never have. It was advice without being "advice." Though he's many years my junior I find myself forgetting that whenever he's around, and if I can make him laugh during my set I know I did something right because the funniest man in the room is giggling in the background at whatever stupid joke I just told. (His only downfall is that he insists I am a "smart comedian;" which I just don't believe, at all.) If you live in Rochester, you need to come see Billy before he's on Comedy Central and too big and important for the little people.
I'll write more itty-bitty profiles of local comics in the days and weeks to come, but there's a few for you that hopefully sounded enticing enough for you to come out and support your local comedian. It means a lot to me, but for the guys with actual talent it means so much more.
Coming Tomorrow: My write up and encouragement/plea for you to attend the upcoming Fall Comedy Contest at The Tango Cafe!
Monday, August 23, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Standing Up, Falling Down
"Oh, I don't drink," he began in a low, growl of a voice that often times would skip up or down in pitch and tone depending on the emphasis he was trying to put on a certain word or sentence. If his voice went up an octave or two he was joking, if it slipped down he was deadly serious; somewhere in the middle is where you'd want to find him on any given day. "I never saw the point. I was fine with it, really, until I was about 22-23 and I saw all my friends going out to drink night after night," his voice climbs up, his eyes bulge slightly, "but I thought to myself, 'self, why would anyone want to do something that makes you forget what you just did?' This is why I stick to pot." As he said "pot" his voice got almost cartoonishly high and excited, this way the crowd new it was his punchline and they could laugh now.
The joke, on it's own, is layered and not terrible, but it's outdated and a little broad for the tastes of the apparent comedy connoisseurs in the audience who came to hear jokes written by Chomsky. As if dissecting the crowd with his eyes, the comedian made several decisions almost instantaneously -or so it seemed- that would steer the next three to five minutes of his set. Should he continue on with his normal material and hope to god that the next joke he normally tells -one which involves a reference to a bear shitting in the woods next to the pope- or if he should riff on something he was thinking about earlier in the day to prove to the starched shirts in the crowd that he is more than just an automated joke machine with a microphone.
"Have you ever noticed," he chooses to riff on whatever it is he noticed. Possibly something pertaining to city living or how it's impossible to get a cab in Rochester, because there are no (voice very high, very nervous, very excited) cabs in Rochester even though that's patently untrue. The death knell, it seems for all comedians not named Jerry Seinfeld, is the opening line "have you ever noticed," it befits a sort of hack quality to the coming joke, but also allows the audience to bathe themselves in a half remembered, but oh so comforting form of entertainment that was only ever perfected by one man. "Yes," they nod almost in unison, "I have indeed noticed that," they say to themselves, but they aren't laughing and they don't want to be. This is the point where the audience is lost and the comedian is in purgatory blindly flailing away inside his brain to find the thing that will bring them back.
"Fuck, just fuck it, you know?" Ah, he goes blue, the guaranteed audience attention getter that never fails. What Lenny Bruce began other comedians, less talented comedians, have been using and reusing to, at the very least, get the audience to look at them and, seemingly, say, "I too, use swear words." The following 2 minutes of stand-up comedy is riddled with words that mean nothing in correlation to the words before it. It's a lot of "fucks" and "shits" and various combination's of the two that would make even the most weathered sailor blush (if even just a little bit). Still, there are no laughs, there is no sign that the audience will ever warm up to this fellow. He's drowning on stage and the audience is throwing him anchors.
"At least they haven't turned on me," he mutters to himself, voice deadly serious and so low that even his own thoughts have a hard time sussing out what he just said. As if sent from heaven above to teach this man a lesson, a voice from the back of the dimly lit room cries out "you're mumbling! What the fuck?!" Indeed. What follows could be an interesting case study in unwritten laws of social interaction. Mere seconds before, the crowd was willing to sit silently as the comedian tortured himself on stage practically begging for their affection, but now that one of their own has aired his dissent the rules no longer apply. "Hack!" A voice yells from somewhere the comedian can't see. "Loser!" "Douche!" "I can't believe I paid for this!"
"You paid for this?" The comedian asks sincerely. "Why the fuck would you...really? You guys spent, what, $4 to come out here and sit there and drink your sangria and beer and listen to someone you've never heard of before tell jokes and I'm the idiot?" The crowd quiets down. The comedian's previous nerves have been replaced with a vitriolic disdain and overwhelming desire to mete out his own specific type of justice to such an ungrateful crowd. He stops. He collects his thoughts and decides to take the high road, "fuck every single one of you people." A laugh comes for the first time all night. "You've got to be fucking kidding me." Another laugh, this time bigger than the last. "Next time, let's start with the heckling and go from there, okay?" Huge, inexplicable laugh. "Ah, I wish this is how it worked at home," he begins, "my wife never laughs at me when I tell her to go fuck herself." Gigantic laugh, and the comedian is perplexed but taking mental notes all the same, caressing his ego in the process and wantonly unleashing his id. "My kids," he pauses, voice raising in preparation for the punchline, "think it's hysterical."
The joke, on it's own, is layered and not terrible, but it's outdated and a little broad for the tastes of the apparent comedy connoisseurs in the audience who came to hear jokes written by Chomsky. As if dissecting the crowd with his eyes, the comedian made several decisions almost instantaneously -or so it seemed- that would steer the next three to five minutes of his set. Should he continue on with his normal material and hope to god that the next joke he normally tells -one which involves a reference to a bear shitting in the woods next to the pope- or if he should riff on something he was thinking about earlier in the day to prove to the starched shirts in the crowd that he is more than just an automated joke machine with a microphone.
"Have you ever noticed," he chooses to riff on whatever it is he noticed. Possibly something pertaining to city living or how it's impossible to get a cab in Rochester, because there are no (voice very high, very nervous, very excited) cabs in Rochester even though that's patently untrue. The death knell, it seems for all comedians not named Jerry Seinfeld, is the opening line "have you ever noticed," it befits a sort of hack quality to the coming joke, but also allows the audience to bathe themselves in a half remembered, but oh so comforting form of entertainment that was only ever perfected by one man. "Yes," they nod almost in unison, "I have indeed noticed that," they say to themselves, but they aren't laughing and they don't want to be. This is the point where the audience is lost and the comedian is in purgatory blindly flailing away inside his brain to find the thing that will bring them back.
"Fuck, just fuck it, you know?" Ah, he goes blue, the guaranteed audience attention getter that never fails. What Lenny Bruce began other comedians, less talented comedians, have been using and reusing to, at the very least, get the audience to look at them and, seemingly, say, "I too, use swear words." The following 2 minutes of stand-up comedy is riddled with words that mean nothing in correlation to the words before it. It's a lot of "fucks" and "shits" and various combination's of the two that would make even the most weathered sailor blush (if even just a little bit). Still, there are no laughs, there is no sign that the audience will ever warm up to this fellow. He's drowning on stage and the audience is throwing him anchors.
"At least they haven't turned on me," he mutters to himself, voice deadly serious and so low that even his own thoughts have a hard time sussing out what he just said. As if sent from heaven above to teach this man a lesson, a voice from the back of the dimly lit room cries out "you're mumbling! What the fuck?!" Indeed. What follows could be an interesting case study in unwritten laws of social interaction. Mere seconds before, the crowd was willing to sit silently as the comedian tortured himself on stage practically begging for their affection, but now that one of their own has aired his dissent the rules no longer apply. "Hack!" A voice yells from somewhere the comedian can't see. "Loser!" "Douche!" "I can't believe I paid for this!"
"You paid for this?" The comedian asks sincerely. "Why the fuck would you...really? You guys spent, what, $4 to come out here and sit there and drink your sangria and beer and listen to someone you've never heard of before tell jokes and I'm the idiot?" The crowd quiets down. The comedian's previous nerves have been replaced with a vitriolic disdain and overwhelming desire to mete out his own specific type of justice to such an ungrateful crowd. He stops. He collects his thoughts and decides to take the high road, "fuck every single one of you people." A laugh comes for the first time all night. "You've got to be fucking kidding me." Another laugh, this time bigger than the last. "Next time, let's start with the heckling and go from there, okay?" Huge, inexplicable laugh. "Ah, I wish this is how it worked at home," he begins, "my wife never laughs at me when I tell her to go fuck herself." Gigantic laugh, and the comedian is perplexed but taking mental notes all the same, caressing his ego in the process and wantonly unleashing his id. "My kids," he pauses, voice raising in preparation for the punchline, "think it's hysterical."
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