Much like Andrew Dice Clay, Pauly Shore is a part of my youth.
I remember his MTV VJ ride, his Totally Pauly show. I won’t say I was a huge fan, but I found him amusing. I was always a little more enamored of his mother, Mitzi. I had read all about the Comedy Store and what she had accomplished there; I heard the good and the bad, but not being part of the inner circle means you don’t hear the ugly. I thought it was cool that a woman was doing so much to help the careers of mostly men in a mostly male field.
In the right moments, with the right friends, I could laugh at Pauly Shore movies. While Encino Man never did much for me, I dug Bio-Dome in a guilty pleasure kind of way. In the Army Now brought me a smirk and a chuckle or two. I think my niece was more of a fan, but she was a few years younger than me, and he seemed to play better for her peers than mine.
I wasn’t sure what to expect at the show. The radio had been horribly, awkwardly unfunny. I knew Pauly had done a little stand up early on, but I couldn’t recall any of it. The last few things I’d seen were his mockumentary, Pauly Shore is Dead, and his recent Las Vegas production, which was more about other performers. My hopes weren’t high that I was going to experience the kind of stand up that I consider good. In the past few months, I’ve seen Keith Alberstadt, Pat Dixon, Alonzo Bodden, Rich Vos. East and West Coast, under and overexposed, more and less known. All funny. All good at actual stand up.
At the club, I sat off to the side along the wall. A couple was ushered to the table next to mine. The woman, we’ll call her Jennifer, came over and introduced herself to me. She told me she’s a very outgoing person who makes friends wherever she goes. I asked her if she was happy to be there and she said yes, that Pauly had been a part of her childhood and she was really excited to get to see him live. Similar to my excitement over Dice, I said. Throughout the show, I would look over at Jennifer for a temperature check. Our expressions began in very different positions, but by the end of the show, it seems we had arrived at the same place on the emotions face chart.
We were both disappointed.
I’m not going to go on at great length. Pauly had some material, which he told us up front was mediocre. I appreciated the warning. His self-deprecation seemed a little more real now: some of you people just came to see if I was still alive; playing the smaller markets, like those listed on Gallagher.com (a double whammy!); just turned 44 and 44 x 2 = dead. Much of what he did seemed like thoughts he had while hanging with his entourage, who must have told him they were all great, but forgot to encourage him to develop them into actual jokes. You know, for an actual comedy audience who paid money to see him in an actual comedy club. The next time someone has an idea to let the Weasel do his “Obama got Osama” rap in a rubber mask, tell them to wait a few hours after the drugs wear off and see if they still find it funny. I didn’t. Jennifer didn’t. Most of the audience didn’t.
I guess what was most disappointing, beyond the actual set content, was the cavalier attitude. It felt, true or not, like he didn’t really work on this show, like he was willing to ride on the wave of curiosity and nostalgia that would bring people in the door. It felt like one big “Fuck You, Buuudy.”
I asked Jennifer, after the show, what she thought. She was polite, she chose her words carefully. She said she had expected more and didn’t think it was worth the ticket price, but she was happy she got to see him. I felt for her. She was surfing on that same wave.
Honestly, I don’t have a problem with this being who Pauly is right now. I can’t imagine what it was like for him growing up in Comedy Ground Zero, having access to too much too soon, being good at one thing that may not translate to the other things he wants to be good at. I think of him more as a comedic personality than a stand up. I think there are some comedic actors who can do both – Steve Martin, Eddie Murphy, Billy Crystal, Orlando Jones (See his stand up if you haven’t. you will be impressed), to name just a few – but they aren’t interchangeable. Comedy has genres. Funny comes in a variety of flavors. Embrace your Chunky Monkey, but don’t insist on passing yourself off as Raspberry Fudge Whirl.
In all fairness, I was told the Saturday shows were much better.
Pauly did get one thing incredibly right, and I personally want to thank him for it.
Dude, the vibrator ABSOLUTELY is your pinch hitter. Spread the word.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Keith Alberstadt, Chet Wild and Kate Anderson
Dick Cavett once said, “I don’t think anyone ever gets over how differently one audience reaction is from another.” While he was most likely referring to viewers of one of his myriad talk shows, he could just as easily have been referring to his brief stint as a stand up, thus stating one of the great truths of live comedy. The audience has a role to play in a show, whether they recognize it or not.
Friday night just seemed, well, off. Both shows were under-attended, so the room carried silence all around the edges. Seating, when you have a smaller crowd, is intentional; people are placed in a way to maximize the feedback to the stage. It isn’t just for the comic, though. Laughter is very much a social reaction. There are plenty of things that I find funny, but I’m more likely to laugh aloud at them if I’m sitting in close proximity to others who are laughing. The audience collectively feels more sociable, more like laughing, if they are seated together.
Someone pointed out it was a Friday the 13th, but I’m not superstitious. I don’t know what was going on, but the comedians felt it, the lack of energy in the room, the dearth of pre-show conversations. Still, 7:30 came and they started.
I’ve written about Chet in an earlier piece, so you already know how I feel about his comedy. He’s been working in new material since December and the week’s events had given him something to explore. He just ended a relationship with a Tweet queen (she wrote a whiney blog, he wrote jokes) and has a new bit about how far we’ll go with social media. “Will we reach a point where, let’s say, I take a girl back to my room, we start to get into things, and I pull out my phone – checking in to her vagina. Look, 11 others were recently here….” It’s evolving, but funny. When the audience didn’t really react, Chet moved on to more proven bits. Jokes that I’ve seen him land 40 times in the last year just didn’t seem to hit, and it wasn't him. It was the crowd.
Kate Anderson had slightly better luck. Her stage persona is a little insecure, a little Sad Sackish. She’s living in Buffalo, where she’s “had to learn to get by without stuff, like success.” Her material about being disqualified as a Dairy Princess because they found out she was lactose intolerant got some giggles and seemed to finally break the ice with the audience. I like Kate’s style; she lulls you in with her self-deprecation, then hits you with a punch you didn’t see coming. She’s the first comedian I’ve ever heard tell a your mama joke in Polish. Coming from a small town where they still celebrate Farmer’s Fair after 98 years, my favorite bit of Kate’s was the reference to Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery (“I drew the black dot, and I had to leave town or become the next harvest sacrifice”).
I have to admit, I was excited to see Keith Alberstadt. When comics speak highly of another comic, it tends to carry weight; I had been hearing good things about Keith for weeks and was anticipating a great show. It was clear Mr. Monistat had a lot on his mind while he waited for his set. He had taped the Late Show with David Letterman the night before, and would be watching himself on television in a few hours. That sense of distraction was only apparent in the back of the house, though. The moment he stepped onstage, the audience knew they were seeing something special. Me, too.
While he frequently reminds you he’s a dork and a smart ass, Keith’s comedy feels unforced and relatable. From the witty (I used to think soy beans was Spanish for “I am beans”) to the mundane (the million mispronunciations of his name), from potentially shared experiences (meeting someone who has rescued a pet) to what could only come from his unique brain (losing a child named Marco), his delivery is relaxed and very evenly paced. The drawl is soothing. His use of silence to emphasize facial expressions or punctuate a punch line is incredibly natural. When I close my eyes and listen, he sounds a lot like a young Ritch Shydner. Can a Nashville boy who moves to Queens have vocal inflictions similar to a New Jersey boy who moves to Virginia? Like every comic who insists he isn’t lucky with the ladies, when he holds a grin for a still second, he looks like Malibu Ken. Kif stuck with his strengths and earned laughs from both audiences, despite the strangeness of the evening.
Saturday night, fortunately, a different group of people showed up. The late show crowd especially came ready to laugh, ready to play. Keith got to do some audience work that showed he is not inaccurate when he calls himself a smart ass. When an overexcited Giants fan broke up one of his bits, he pulled us back together by asking: You know what’s overrated in comedy? Timing.
Go to www.keithcomedy.com and get to know Kipp Applesack. If you like a clean show, you’ll love him. If you prefer something a little raunchier, you’ll still love him. He’s just that good. Buy his cds – you will find yourself listening to them again and again. Check out both of his Letterman appearances. And, next time he’s in town, come to the Comedy Club and give him the kind of audience he deserves. Be sure to tell him Marla sent you.
Friday night just seemed, well, off. Both shows were under-attended, so the room carried silence all around the edges. Seating, when you have a smaller crowd, is intentional; people are placed in a way to maximize the feedback to the stage. It isn’t just for the comic, though. Laughter is very much a social reaction. There are plenty of things that I find funny, but I’m more likely to laugh aloud at them if I’m sitting in close proximity to others who are laughing. The audience collectively feels more sociable, more like laughing, if they are seated together.
Someone pointed out it was a Friday the 13th, but I’m not superstitious. I don’t know what was going on, but the comedians felt it, the lack of energy in the room, the dearth of pre-show conversations. Still, 7:30 came and they started.
I’ve written about Chet in an earlier piece, so you already know how I feel about his comedy. He’s been working in new material since December and the week’s events had given him something to explore. He just ended a relationship with a Tweet queen (she wrote a whiney blog, he wrote jokes) and has a new bit about how far we’ll go with social media. “Will we reach a point where, let’s say, I take a girl back to my room, we start to get into things, and I pull out my phone – checking in to her vagina. Look, 11 others were recently here….” It’s evolving, but funny. When the audience didn’t really react, Chet moved on to more proven bits. Jokes that I’ve seen him land 40 times in the last year just didn’t seem to hit, and it wasn't him. It was the crowd.
Kate Anderson had slightly better luck. Her stage persona is a little insecure, a little Sad Sackish. She’s living in Buffalo, where she’s “had to learn to get by without stuff, like success.” Her material about being disqualified as a Dairy Princess because they found out she was lactose intolerant got some giggles and seemed to finally break the ice with the audience. I like Kate’s style; she lulls you in with her self-deprecation, then hits you with a punch you didn’t see coming. She’s the first comedian I’ve ever heard tell a your mama joke in Polish. Coming from a small town where they still celebrate Farmer’s Fair after 98 years, my favorite bit of Kate’s was the reference to Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery (“I drew the black dot, and I had to leave town or become the next harvest sacrifice”).
I have to admit, I was excited to see Keith Alberstadt. When comics speak highly of another comic, it tends to carry weight; I had been hearing good things about Keith for weeks and was anticipating a great show. It was clear Mr. Monistat had a lot on his mind while he waited for his set. He had taped the Late Show with David Letterman the night before, and would be watching himself on television in a few hours. That sense of distraction was only apparent in the back of the house, though. The moment he stepped onstage, the audience knew they were seeing something special. Me, too.
While he frequently reminds you he’s a dork and a smart ass, Keith’s comedy feels unforced and relatable. From the witty (I used to think soy beans was Spanish for “I am beans”) to the mundane (the million mispronunciations of his name), from potentially shared experiences (meeting someone who has rescued a pet) to what could only come from his unique brain (losing a child named Marco), his delivery is relaxed and very evenly paced. The drawl is soothing. His use of silence to emphasize facial expressions or punctuate a punch line is incredibly natural. When I close my eyes and listen, he sounds a lot like a young Ritch Shydner. Can a Nashville boy who moves to Queens have vocal inflictions similar to a New Jersey boy who moves to Virginia? Like every comic who insists he isn’t lucky with the ladies, when he holds a grin for a still second, he looks like Malibu Ken. Kif stuck with his strengths and earned laughs from both audiences, despite the strangeness of the evening.
Saturday night, fortunately, a different group of people showed up. The late show crowd especially came ready to laugh, ready to play. Keith got to do some audience work that showed he is not inaccurate when he calls himself a smart ass. When an overexcited Giants fan broke up one of his bits, he pulled us back together by asking: You know what’s overrated in comedy? Timing.
Go to www.keithcomedy.com and get to know Kipp Applesack. If you like a clean show, you’ll love him. If you prefer something a little raunchier, you’ll still love him. He’s just that good. Buy his cds – you will find yourself listening to them again and again. Check out both of his Letterman appearances. And, next time he’s in town, come to the Comedy Club and give him the kind of audience he deserves. Be sure to tell him Marla sent you.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Andrew Dice Clay
There’s a U2 song that I don’t know that well. I couldn’t identify it if it was coming through my stereo speakers, but I’ve known and admired the title for a decade. “Stuck In a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of” came to mind as I watched one of my former favorites, the legendary Andrew Dice Clay, standing closer than I’d ever imagined, performing at the Comedy Club on Friday night.
Let me give you my Dice history, so you understand how much I appreciate what this man brought to comedy. In 1989, I was finishing up my four years at Bard College, a liberal arts school of extraordinary vision and incredible diversity. This place, more than any other, encouraged me to explore everything while never feeling compelled to surrender any of my uniqueness. I made friends from other countries, other cultures. I embraced my humanist tendencies and feminist leanings. I became socialized, politicized, mobilized.
And I saw the HBO special “The Diceman Cometh.”
Cliché as it may be, my world was rocked.
I laughed from the opening flashbacks (love me some Julie Warner, mistakenly listed as Julie Werner in the credits), through the solidly-written and beautifully-performed jokes and nursery rhymes, at the greatest boy scout camping trip of all time and the back alley epilogue. What stuck in my heart, though, was the very grateful man I watched thank the audience at the end of the show. He obviously had acting skills, so I could have been taken in by a professional fake sincerity. It didn’t seem that way to me, though. I thought I had watched a talented actor present a well-developed character in a delivery that felt more like a one-man show than a stand up routine. I was hooked.
When the Dice character first hit the stage, there was something new about him. Insult comics had been around for a long time, but such blatant misogyny and obscenity was rarified air. Having spent my entire teens and early twenties feeling like I was supposed to be sexually free, but bearing the weight of the reputation that came with those choices, the Dice character was one I had to love.
Many of my more staunchly feminist friends were not as amused. They were quick to take offense, as much of the world did. They called him a vile spewer of hatred, which I never understood. Seriously, “What’s the big fucking deal?” I spent a lot of time defending Dice, and never regretted it for a moment. I’ve always felt that losing my ability to laugh at things I may not support was an act of intolerance. If I can’t laugh at myself as a woman, I soon won’t be able to laugh at anything. Dice was a comedian, for God’s sake. It’s right there in the job title. He wasn’t the enemy. There were real predators, puritans and politicians inflicting actual suffering on women and children who needed to be dealt with. To a young woman who has never hesitated to talk about, engage in and write about sex, he was a bit of a hero.
And last week, my hero came to the Comedy Club.
The place was packed, with both Friday shows selling out. The atmosphere in the room was indescribable; people were drinking, laughing, throwing out their favorite Dice classics and obviously shivering with antici---------pation. The young comedian sitting across from me told me his whole life as a man was based around Dice’s act. I warned him that might not play well with some women. He did his own bit about how disappointed he was when he finally read Mother Goose and there were no uteruses anywhere in the book. Dice had obviously had an impact on many of us in the room that night.
As a performer, he knows the importance of the image, the spectacle, and he delivered. Security met him in the parking lot, walked him in through the bar, escorted him to the green room and waited. When it was time for his entrance, they walked him to the stage and took their positions on either side of the fake brick wall.
Gray sideburns aside, it was the Diceman. He lit his cigarette (without the help of the woman from the crowd who jumped up to assist and became an ongoing part of the show) and moved into his material. The opening warning – “There are people who leave my show feeling worse than when they came. It’s what I do.” – was both funny and apt. The lines were new, yet familiar. “Life’s too short. If you don’t like the dick you’re sucking, just get a new one.” I have some images (box lips, brown skirt steak) that may never leave my head. All around me, the room was exploding with every word out of his mouth.
And, while I was laughing, I couldn’t help feel a little awkward. The Diceman hadn’t changed much. The man behind the character, though, what about him? It seemed like he was trying to work in jokes that, although not far from the mythic material that made him larger than life, were at least a little new, a little fresh. His take on today’s aggressive woman was a nice acknowledgement that times had changed. Many of the fans surrounding me, however, seemed to barely be listening. They laughed deliriously, uproariously, but also kept screaming out “Hickory Dickory Dock!” and “Mother Goose!” I felt as though I was watching someone caught in the spotlight of their own past, trying to cover a larger area on stage, only to be pulled back to that one small circle by an adoring, but unyielding fan base. Being the savvy entertainer that I’ve never doubted him being, he gave us what we came for. He gave us the money shot. The audience shouted those nursery rhymes with their hero, their legend.
And that, friends, is when the U2 song title popped into my head. Andrew Dice Clay was trapped in a moment he couldn’t seem to get out of. That’s the feeling I had when I went home after the screaming, shrieking standing ovation we gave our hero. That’s the feeling I had when I sat down to write this review. Just to be more informed, I thought I should look up the lyrics and see what U2 was actually saying; it spun me around completely.
“I'm not afraid of anything in this world
There's nothing you can throw at me that I haven't already heard
I'm just trying to find a decent melody
A song that I can sing in my own company….
I am still enchanted by the light you brought to me
I still listen through your ears, and through your eyes I can see….
I know it's tough, and you can never get enough
Of what you don't really need now....
You've got to get yourself together
You've got stuck in a moment and now you can't get out of it
It's just a moment
This time will pass….”
I was surprised. Turns out, Andrew Dice Clay isn’t the one stuck in the moment. It’s us, his fans, the many people for whom his comedy means, has meant, something. Fans in a mid-sized city, in a small comedy market, who were still happy to shell out $50 a ticket to see Dice. Younger comics who cite him as the reason they get on stage every couple of weeks at the local open mics. And me, the smitten kitten who will never get “You got the bonus plan, honey” out of her head twenty three years after watching Andrew Clay Silverstein take the stage as Dice. We were stuck in that moment.
Andrew was just kind enough to join us for the show.
Let me give you my Dice history, so you understand how much I appreciate what this man brought to comedy. In 1989, I was finishing up my four years at Bard College, a liberal arts school of extraordinary vision and incredible diversity. This place, more than any other, encouraged me to explore everything while never feeling compelled to surrender any of my uniqueness. I made friends from other countries, other cultures. I embraced my humanist tendencies and feminist leanings. I became socialized, politicized, mobilized.
And I saw the HBO special “The Diceman Cometh.”
Cliché as it may be, my world was rocked.
I laughed from the opening flashbacks (love me some Julie Warner, mistakenly listed as Julie Werner in the credits), through the solidly-written and beautifully-performed jokes and nursery rhymes, at the greatest boy scout camping trip of all time and the back alley epilogue. What stuck in my heart, though, was the very grateful man I watched thank the audience at the end of the show. He obviously had acting skills, so I could have been taken in by a professional fake sincerity. It didn’t seem that way to me, though. I thought I had watched a talented actor present a well-developed character in a delivery that felt more like a one-man show than a stand up routine. I was hooked.
When the Dice character first hit the stage, there was something new about him. Insult comics had been around for a long time, but such blatant misogyny and obscenity was rarified air. Having spent my entire teens and early twenties feeling like I was supposed to be sexually free, but bearing the weight of the reputation that came with those choices, the Dice character was one I had to love.
Many of my more staunchly feminist friends were not as amused. They were quick to take offense, as much of the world did. They called him a vile spewer of hatred, which I never understood. Seriously, “What’s the big fucking deal?” I spent a lot of time defending Dice, and never regretted it for a moment. I’ve always felt that losing my ability to laugh at things I may not support was an act of intolerance. If I can’t laugh at myself as a woman, I soon won’t be able to laugh at anything. Dice was a comedian, for God’s sake. It’s right there in the job title. He wasn’t the enemy. There were real predators, puritans and politicians inflicting actual suffering on women and children who needed to be dealt with. To a young woman who has never hesitated to talk about, engage in and write about sex, he was a bit of a hero.
And last week, my hero came to the Comedy Club.
The place was packed, with both Friday shows selling out. The atmosphere in the room was indescribable; people were drinking, laughing, throwing out their favorite Dice classics and obviously shivering with antici---------pation. The young comedian sitting across from me told me his whole life as a man was based around Dice’s act. I warned him that might not play well with some women. He did his own bit about how disappointed he was when he finally read Mother Goose and there were no uteruses anywhere in the book. Dice had obviously had an impact on many of us in the room that night.
As a performer, he knows the importance of the image, the spectacle, and he delivered. Security met him in the parking lot, walked him in through the bar, escorted him to the green room and waited. When it was time for his entrance, they walked him to the stage and took their positions on either side of the fake brick wall.
Gray sideburns aside, it was the Diceman. He lit his cigarette (without the help of the woman from the crowd who jumped up to assist and became an ongoing part of the show) and moved into his material. The opening warning – “There are people who leave my show feeling worse than when they came. It’s what I do.” – was both funny and apt. The lines were new, yet familiar. “Life’s too short. If you don’t like the dick you’re sucking, just get a new one.” I have some images (box lips, brown skirt steak) that may never leave my head. All around me, the room was exploding with every word out of his mouth.
And, while I was laughing, I couldn’t help feel a little awkward. The Diceman hadn’t changed much. The man behind the character, though, what about him? It seemed like he was trying to work in jokes that, although not far from the mythic material that made him larger than life, were at least a little new, a little fresh. His take on today’s aggressive woman was a nice acknowledgement that times had changed. Many of the fans surrounding me, however, seemed to barely be listening. They laughed deliriously, uproariously, but also kept screaming out “Hickory Dickory Dock!” and “Mother Goose!” I felt as though I was watching someone caught in the spotlight of their own past, trying to cover a larger area on stage, only to be pulled back to that one small circle by an adoring, but unyielding fan base. Being the savvy entertainer that I’ve never doubted him being, he gave us what we came for. He gave us the money shot. The audience shouted those nursery rhymes with their hero, their legend.
And that, friends, is when the U2 song title popped into my head. Andrew Dice Clay was trapped in a moment he couldn’t seem to get out of. That’s the feeling I had when I went home after the screaming, shrieking standing ovation we gave our hero. That’s the feeling I had when I sat down to write this review. Just to be more informed, I thought I should look up the lyrics and see what U2 was actually saying; it spun me around completely.
“I'm not afraid of anything in this world
There's nothing you can throw at me that I haven't already heard
I'm just trying to find a decent melody
A song that I can sing in my own company….
I am still enchanted by the light you brought to me
I still listen through your ears, and through your eyes I can see….
I know it's tough, and you can never get enough
Of what you don't really need now....
You've got to get yourself together
You've got stuck in a moment and now you can't get out of it
It's just a moment
This time will pass….”
I was surprised. Turns out, Andrew Dice Clay isn’t the one stuck in the moment. It’s us, his fans, the many people for whom his comedy means, has meant, something. Fans in a mid-sized city, in a small comedy market, who were still happy to shell out $50 a ticket to see Dice. Younger comics who cite him as the reason they get on stage every couple of weeks at the local open mics. And me, the smitten kitten who will never get “You got the bonus plan, honey” out of her head twenty three years after watching Andrew Clay Silverstein take the stage as Dice. We were stuck in that moment.
Andrew was just kind enough to join us for the show.
Young Comics Showcase
“One night I was walking up the hill. On that hill stood a haunted house. There was a light in the house. So I went in. The chairs had blankets of dust on them. The stairs screeched. I knew I was being watched. Suddenly bats came flying all over me. Then they disappeared. I looked behind me and saw a skeleton. On my right was a ghost. Then – “Eee-e-e-e-e!” ************ And I never came back again!”
So, what in the hell is that, you may be asking yourself. That, friends, is a piece I wrote in 3rd grade when I was 8 years old. I have a thin book covered in faded purple construction paper full of the stories and poems that spilled out of my ugly yellow number 2 pencils. Though you can’t always tell from these reviews, I am a much better writer today. I am working on two books, hope to find an outlet for my essays and still return regularly to indulge my passion for poetry.
I share this to remind you that everyone you admire for anything was once a beginner. I was fortunate to have a great teacher that convinced me I had a way with words, that told me writing could be a part of my future. She gave me special assignments that encouraged me to learn structure, grammar, and technique. She recommended books that were always a level or two ahead, and challenged me to reach. And she taught me a very simple, but powerful, word: tyro. I loved the sound, and the meaning she shared was simple enough. Tyro – a beginner in learning anything.
Tonight, I watched two showcases full of tyros. Like brightly-colored plastic markers making their way across the Chutes and Ladders board, they are each at a different point in the game. A few stepped on stage for the first time ever, in a room filled with supportive friends and compassionate fans. Several had performed a few times, maybe done an open mic or two, but not much more. At least two had more exposure, but seemed to be trying out some new material.
No one failed.
I say this because no one backed out; no one changed their mind about taking the stage and sharing their musings with an audience. For me, that’s winning.
Stand up is one of those careers where you can only get on-the-job training. Athletes have farm camps. Doctors do residencies. Hair dressers practice on plastic heads and wigs. How many of us had to learn our trade by stepping into its actual environment, alone, and being expected to accomplish the exact same thing as the twenty-year vet?
These brave and funny souls are the future of our local comedy scene. We can crush them now, while they’re still new and fresh and hopeful, but to what end? Feeding on your young is never a plan for sustainability. So consider the following list my contribution in introducing the tyros: a rookie card with a quick reference to a strong punch line or novel idea that jumped out at me in particular tonight. Comics, though I won’t write it here, you may safely assume I mean the whole joke.
Showcase 1:
Corey Loomis: Holiday drug chart. This resonated with me because ‘shrooming on Halloween was the norm at my school. It might even have been in the freshman handbook.
Greg Owens: they don’t kill non-Catholics – unless they’re in Northern Ireland.
Paul Shipper: usually gruntled, sheveled. As a writer, wordplay is my foreplay. Great bit.
Mason Dean: It WAS a marvelous night for a lap dance. Music parody done well.
Kate Anderson: He can take a joke. He can’t take a punch.
Jason Pomietlasz: Happy Hour lasts two weeks, then….
Paul Truax: … or at least a woman who would dress like one.
Grant Fletcher: No sex before Monopoly, and the tramp stamp line
Mike Gifaldi: the Def Leppard football bit.
Showcase 2:
Corey Smithson: react differently to what you run over.
Maryanne Donnelly: I took away lettuce.
Mark Rabin: Her saying that I could rape her daughter….
Adam Taupin: … it’s a change of pace for me….
Todd Youngman: My area down there is ripped!
Nate Clark: You won’t do it, but it’s good to write it down.
Brett Von Soosten: So, I’m in Florida….
Austin Lafond: Dude, that’s too bad. I really like you.
Evan Kelly: Talking to women is a lot like listening. (This should be a bumper sticker.)
Tony Rizzo: Trying to become an organ donor, but she….
Jessie Volpe: Ok, guys, do you want jobs or …?
Dan Grabowski: Sports commentator on roommate’s encounter
If you love stand up, drop in to showcases and open mic nights. Support the tyros. Comedy, as a career, is harsh, extremely competitive and often demands sacrifice. Those of us who benefit from the end product, who lounge in laughter, need to be more grateful, helpful and kind. Life will find a way to slap you down, kids. This is my way of slapping you up.
Good job out there tonight. Thanks for the laughs.
So, what in the hell is that, you may be asking yourself. That, friends, is a piece I wrote in 3rd grade when I was 8 years old. I have a thin book covered in faded purple construction paper full of the stories and poems that spilled out of my ugly yellow number 2 pencils. Though you can’t always tell from these reviews, I am a much better writer today. I am working on two books, hope to find an outlet for my essays and still return regularly to indulge my passion for poetry.
I share this to remind you that everyone you admire for anything was once a beginner. I was fortunate to have a great teacher that convinced me I had a way with words, that told me writing could be a part of my future. She gave me special assignments that encouraged me to learn structure, grammar, and technique. She recommended books that were always a level or two ahead, and challenged me to reach. And she taught me a very simple, but powerful, word: tyro. I loved the sound, and the meaning she shared was simple enough. Tyro – a beginner in learning anything.
Tonight, I watched two showcases full of tyros. Like brightly-colored plastic markers making their way across the Chutes and Ladders board, they are each at a different point in the game. A few stepped on stage for the first time ever, in a room filled with supportive friends and compassionate fans. Several had performed a few times, maybe done an open mic or two, but not much more. At least two had more exposure, but seemed to be trying out some new material.
No one failed.
I say this because no one backed out; no one changed their mind about taking the stage and sharing their musings with an audience. For me, that’s winning.
Stand up is one of those careers where you can only get on-the-job training. Athletes have farm camps. Doctors do residencies. Hair dressers practice on plastic heads and wigs. How many of us had to learn our trade by stepping into its actual environment, alone, and being expected to accomplish the exact same thing as the twenty-year vet?
These brave and funny souls are the future of our local comedy scene. We can crush them now, while they’re still new and fresh and hopeful, but to what end? Feeding on your young is never a plan for sustainability. So consider the following list my contribution in introducing the tyros: a rookie card with a quick reference to a strong punch line or novel idea that jumped out at me in particular tonight. Comics, though I won’t write it here, you may safely assume I mean the whole joke.
Showcase 1:
Corey Loomis: Holiday drug chart. This resonated with me because ‘shrooming on Halloween was the norm at my school. It might even have been in the freshman handbook.
Greg Owens: they don’t kill non-Catholics – unless they’re in Northern Ireland.
Paul Shipper: usually gruntled, sheveled. As a writer, wordplay is my foreplay. Great bit.
Mason Dean: It WAS a marvelous night for a lap dance. Music parody done well.
Kate Anderson: He can take a joke. He can’t take a punch.
Jason Pomietlasz: Happy Hour lasts two weeks, then….
Paul Truax: … or at least a woman who would dress like one.
Grant Fletcher: No sex before Monopoly, and the tramp stamp line
Mike Gifaldi: the Def Leppard football bit.
Showcase 2:
Corey Smithson: react differently to what you run over.
Maryanne Donnelly: I took away lettuce.
Mark Rabin: Her saying that I could rape her daughter….
Adam Taupin: … it’s a change of pace for me….
Todd Youngman: My area down there is ripped!
Nate Clark: You won’t do it, but it’s good to write it down.
Brett Von Soosten: So, I’m in Florida….
Austin Lafond: Dude, that’s too bad. I really like you.
Evan Kelly: Talking to women is a lot like listening. (This should be a bumper sticker.)
Tony Rizzo: Trying to become an organ donor, but she….
Jessie Volpe: Ok, guys, do you want jobs or …?
Dan Grabowski: Sports commentator on roommate’s encounter
If you love stand up, drop in to showcases and open mic nights. Support the tyros. Comedy, as a career, is harsh, extremely competitive and often demands sacrifice. Those of us who benefit from the end product, who lounge in laughter, need to be more grateful, helpful and kind. Life will find a way to slap you down, kids. This is my way of slapping you up.
Good job out there tonight. Thanks for the laughs.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Kris Shaw and Pam Werts
A comic friend and I were recently having a spirited debate about the merits of writing versus performance in the current incarnation of stand up. He often compels me to listen, to sometimes close my eyes and just listen to the actual spoken words, and ask myself how the material holds up. If you ever see me sitting in the booth at the Club with my eyes closed or my head down, that’s what I’m doing. Seriously. I swear I am not sleeping through a live comedy show. I will confess to falling asleep during a Motley Crue concert, but I’m pretty sure I saw Nikki Sixx yawning onstage first.
But I digress.
I knew Woody Allen as a writer before I ever heard his stand up or watched his films. I used to borrow the Official Whatever joke books from friends of my older brother and read them cover to (flip it!) cover. Somewhere in my collection is a tattered copy of Arrow Book of Jokes and Riddles that I stole from our classroom bookshelf in second grade. I never saw live stand up when I was young – first, came words on a page.
At some point, the words started to exist outside my head, in their owners’ voices. I began collecting comedy albums. My second-hand vinyl stash contained Bill Cosby, Steve Martin, Lily Tomlin, Bob Newhart, Flip Wilson and a prized red Lenny Bruce disc that I have somehow misplaced in my current home. Comedy moved from the page to the air. Delivery became all about the cadence, the pitch, the speed, the timing. I fell in love with smart throwaways, the seemingly incidental lines whose appeal is elevated by how quickly they fly by and whose brain is processing fast enough to catch them. Sometimes the success of the throwaway is the line itself, and sometimes it is only funny because of the way in which it is delivered.
After college, with the birth of Comedy Central, stand up and I began video dating. I judged it differently. The image, the body language, the costume - all new variables that rolled into the equation and remain today. Still, I found the familiar in the new, like the throwaway “Shelley or Byron” line from This is Spinal Tap. It wasn’t that the line itself was all that funny, but Harry Shearer sold it and I burst into laughter in a crowded theater, loudly and alone. As a former drama queen, I know I pay a lot of attention to delivery; still, my writer brain somehow always gives bonus points if the joke is well-written.
By now you must be wondering if a review for this week’s show is ever going to materialize. Yes, it was a long ass introduction, but it sets the stage for what I want to share with you next.
This weekend, I had the pleasure of listening to some well-written, well-delivered stand up. One comic got me with delivery, one was an aural sensation. Together it was an awesome show.
Pam Werts is a local comic at the beginning of her career. She did very well in this year’s Funniest Person in Rochester contest and has a group of loyal fans who keep her going. I wasn’t initially one of them. And before you dash off to tell her I said so, don’t bother. I told her myself. When I first saw Pam’s act, I flashed back to Paula Poundstone’s Cats, Cops and Stuff. There was something about her delivery that felt kinda’ off, kinda’ old. I had no idea she’d only performed, like, six times at that point. There was enough of a natural ease and funniness about her that I assumed she was more experienced, which skewed my expectations. Thankfully, a friend provided enlightenment and the Comedy Club provided more opportunities to watch Pam. She has only been getting onstage for a little more than a year; in just four months, I’ve seen her act tighten up, her material get stronger and her audience grow. A year younger than me, her Bon Jovi, big hair and insurance salesman lines feel like thoughts from my own brain. After hearing her bit on the dumbing down of America, I hope you’ll think twice before your next sexual encounter. (Unless you’re one of the stupid people. In which case, find me after the show. I’ve got some condoms for you.)
I watched Pam’s set four times in two nights. When she speaks in her mother’s voice, I can see this woman I’ve never met, a woman almost as embarrassing as my own mother. Pam’s stage presence is natural, she looks like a woman confident in her container, which allows the audience to focus on the jokes. They are fully formed, shaped and shaded, tweaked with retelling and, most importantly, funny. Thanks to her appearance on Wease this week, I know she’s worth not just a look, but a real listen. Right now in her career trajectory, Pam hits strongest for me on a delivery level.
It’s very cool for Pam that she shared the stage with Kris Shaw. This is a comic who passes the “ears only” test, although I wouldn’t know that until Saturday night. The 7:30 Friday being my first exposure to Kris, I kept my eyes open. His presence is strong, focused, even though the persona he’s using seems slightly off. It disarms, it charms, it probably creates a little cognitive dissonance and allows him to be heard by people who might not initially know if they want to listen. The subjects are relatable: using MapQuest, women’s love of holiday gifts, getting head from a midget stripper. The delivery is familiar to Cosby fans, to Woody fans – it’s a storyteller style, told with quick bursts of quick wit and filled with solid throwaways, the kind that keep it really interesting for me. He’s a fast talker and, I would guess, a fast thinker, as well. Across four shows, while the core act stayed consistent and solid, the interactive bits were friendly and inviting. Early on, Kris tells us he’s proud of us as an audience, that we have a lot of potential. He plays with no meanness in his spirit. The gift of access I’ve been allowed has shown me that this is who he is offstage, as well. He encourages the younger comics, gives them support and direct advice designed to make them better. He does the same for the audience.
On Saturday night, I perform the test. I close my eyes and just listen. I hear a little Mitch Hedberg cadence, which is later seconded by Marcus Cox, the night’s local middle (see an earlier review of Marcus with Pat Dixon, and check him out when he’s at the Club. If you like smart comedy, you’ll love Marcus). I hear jokes that are now familiar, but aren’t losing any of their punch. I hear a variety of pace, tone, character. I hear controlled lulls, directed silence. Eyes closed, Kris’ act holds up. Aurally, I am impressed.
To write these reviews (and eventually the book), I try to stay in the moment of the show as much as I can. I jot down phrases that stand out, lines that get a strong reaction, so my notes can be a little scattered when I reread them. For most shows, I’ll fill one and a half to two pages in my little moleskin bible. For Kris, I’ve written four full pages, everything from “Find an off-duty carrier pigeon” to “I can hear enchiladas being sliced.” I find myself laughing out loud while reading the notes and I have that familiar feeling of sitting in my room and devouring “The Gossage-Vardebedian Papers” and “My Philosophy” from Getting Even. Though telling a good story does not always translate to writing a good book, I would gamble on Kris.
With the exception of one bit about the Jehovah’s Witness training program, you don’t need to see Kris to enjoy him. His is the kind of comedy I would be happy to read, if it wasn’t so much fun to watch him deliver it. You, however, will want to keep your eyes open. Between shows, while a few of us girls chatted in the back of the room, Kris had a quick photo shoot with Bruce, the house photographer. He was playing with the mic stand, making silly faces, the usual behavior you expect from a comic in front of a camera. At one point, he pulled the elastic band from his hair and let his shoulder-length braids/dreads – I’ll be honest, I didn’t look close enough to tell you which – fall around his face. All four women inhaled at the exact same moment and just stared. Where did THAT guy come from? For the first time in my life, I understood how glasses and a button-down shirt could hide the full nature of Superman. For the first time, Clark Kent made sense. Sure, Kris Shaw passes the “ears only” test. But he ain’t hard to look at, either. To take a peek, check him out on www.KrisShaw.com, friend him on Facebook or, most importantly, follow him on Twitter. He claims he only has 184 followers and wants to get 190 by 2013. You’ll also find him on YouTube and Rooftop Comedy.
So, there you have it. Another great comedy weekend here in Rochester.
Next week, Andrew Dice Clay!
But I digress.
I knew Woody Allen as a writer before I ever heard his stand up or watched his films. I used to borrow the Official Whatever joke books from friends of my older brother and read them cover to (flip it!) cover. Somewhere in my collection is a tattered copy of Arrow Book of Jokes and Riddles that I stole from our classroom bookshelf in second grade. I never saw live stand up when I was young – first, came words on a page.
At some point, the words started to exist outside my head, in their owners’ voices. I began collecting comedy albums. My second-hand vinyl stash contained Bill Cosby, Steve Martin, Lily Tomlin, Bob Newhart, Flip Wilson and a prized red Lenny Bruce disc that I have somehow misplaced in my current home. Comedy moved from the page to the air. Delivery became all about the cadence, the pitch, the speed, the timing. I fell in love with smart throwaways, the seemingly incidental lines whose appeal is elevated by how quickly they fly by and whose brain is processing fast enough to catch them. Sometimes the success of the throwaway is the line itself, and sometimes it is only funny because of the way in which it is delivered.
After college, with the birth of Comedy Central, stand up and I began video dating. I judged it differently. The image, the body language, the costume - all new variables that rolled into the equation and remain today. Still, I found the familiar in the new, like the throwaway “Shelley or Byron” line from This is Spinal Tap. It wasn’t that the line itself was all that funny, but Harry Shearer sold it and I burst into laughter in a crowded theater, loudly and alone. As a former drama queen, I know I pay a lot of attention to delivery; still, my writer brain somehow always gives bonus points if the joke is well-written.
By now you must be wondering if a review for this week’s show is ever going to materialize. Yes, it was a long ass introduction, but it sets the stage for what I want to share with you next.
This weekend, I had the pleasure of listening to some well-written, well-delivered stand up. One comic got me with delivery, one was an aural sensation. Together it was an awesome show.
Pam Werts is a local comic at the beginning of her career. She did very well in this year’s Funniest Person in Rochester contest and has a group of loyal fans who keep her going. I wasn’t initially one of them. And before you dash off to tell her I said so, don’t bother. I told her myself. When I first saw Pam’s act, I flashed back to Paula Poundstone’s Cats, Cops and Stuff. There was something about her delivery that felt kinda’ off, kinda’ old. I had no idea she’d only performed, like, six times at that point. There was enough of a natural ease and funniness about her that I assumed she was more experienced, which skewed my expectations. Thankfully, a friend provided enlightenment and the Comedy Club provided more opportunities to watch Pam. She has only been getting onstage for a little more than a year; in just four months, I’ve seen her act tighten up, her material get stronger and her audience grow. A year younger than me, her Bon Jovi, big hair and insurance salesman lines feel like thoughts from my own brain. After hearing her bit on the dumbing down of America, I hope you’ll think twice before your next sexual encounter. (Unless you’re one of the stupid people. In which case, find me after the show. I’ve got some condoms for you.)
I watched Pam’s set four times in two nights. When she speaks in her mother’s voice, I can see this woman I’ve never met, a woman almost as embarrassing as my own mother. Pam’s stage presence is natural, she looks like a woman confident in her container, which allows the audience to focus on the jokes. They are fully formed, shaped and shaded, tweaked with retelling and, most importantly, funny. Thanks to her appearance on Wease this week, I know she’s worth not just a look, but a real listen. Right now in her career trajectory, Pam hits strongest for me on a delivery level.
It’s very cool for Pam that she shared the stage with Kris Shaw. This is a comic who passes the “ears only” test, although I wouldn’t know that until Saturday night. The 7:30 Friday being my first exposure to Kris, I kept my eyes open. His presence is strong, focused, even though the persona he’s using seems slightly off. It disarms, it charms, it probably creates a little cognitive dissonance and allows him to be heard by people who might not initially know if they want to listen. The subjects are relatable: using MapQuest, women’s love of holiday gifts, getting head from a midget stripper. The delivery is familiar to Cosby fans, to Woody fans – it’s a storyteller style, told with quick bursts of quick wit and filled with solid throwaways, the kind that keep it really interesting for me. He’s a fast talker and, I would guess, a fast thinker, as well. Across four shows, while the core act stayed consistent and solid, the interactive bits were friendly and inviting. Early on, Kris tells us he’s proud of us as an audience, that we have a lot of potential. He plays with no meanness in his spirit. The gift of access I’ve been allowed has shown me that this is who he is offstage, as well. He encourages the younger comics, gives them support and direct advice designed to make them better. He does the same for the audience.
On Saturday night, I perform the test. I close my eyes and just listen. I hear a little Mitch Hedberg cadence, which is later seconded by Marcus Cox, the night’s local middle (see an earlier review of Marcus with Pat Dixon, and check him out when he’s at the Club. If you like smart comedy, you’ll love Marcus). I hear jokes that are now familiar, but aren’t losing any of their punch. I hear a variety of pace, tone, character. I hear controlled lulls, directed silence. Eyes closed, Kris’ act holds up. Aurally, I am impressed.
To write these reviews (and eventually the book), I try to stay in the moment of the show as much as I can. I jot down phrases that stand out, lines that get a strong reaction, so my notes can be a little scattered when I reread them. For most shows, I’ll fill one and a half to two pages in my little moleskin bible. For Kris, I’ve written four full pages, everything from “Find an off-duty carrier pigeon” to “I can hear enchiladas being sliced.” I find myself laughing out loud while reading the notes and I have that familiar feeling of sitting in my room and devouring “The Gossage-Vardebedian Papers” and “My Philosophy” from Getting Even. Though telling a good story does not always translate to writing a good book, I would gamble on Kris.
With the exception of one bit about the Jehovah’s Witness training program, you don’t need to see Kris to enjoy him. His is the kind of comedy I would be happy to read, if it wasn’t so much fun to watch him deliver it. You, however, will want to keep your eyes open. Between shows, while a few of us girls chatted in the back of the room, Kris had a quick photo shoot with Bruce, the house photographer. He was playing with the mic stand, making silly faces, the usual behavior you expect from a comic in front of a camera. At one point, he pulled the elastic band from his hair and let his shoulder-length braids/dreads – I’ll be honest, I didn’t look close enough to tell you which – fall around his face. All four women inhaled at the exact same moment and just stared. Where did THAT guy come from? For the first time in my life, I understood how glasses and a button-down shirt could hide the full nature of Superman. For the first time, Clark Kent made sense. Sure, Kris Shaw passes the “ears only” test. But he ain’t hard to look at, either. To take a peek, check him out on www.KrisShaw.com, friend him on Facebook or, most importantly, follow him on Twitter. He claims he only has 184 followers and wants to get 190 by 2013. You’ll also find him on YouTube and Rooftop Comedy.
So, there you have it. Another great comedy weekend here in Rochester.
Next week, Andrew Dice Clay!
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