A Room That’s Just Right: Rob’s Comedy Playhouse

When I have the pleasure of listening while comics talk shop, I hear a lot about bookers, managers, crowds in different parts of the country; I hear details of the business side of stand up that remind me how much of my experience of a particular show has nothing to do with the comic or his/her material. Going to a live performance of any art, I’m aware how important the setting is to my enjoyment. I’ve seen comedy in large auditoriums and college activity rooms, in VFW halls and cruise ship theaters. I’ve watched in brick-and-mortar clubs built for 24/7 stand up and hotel conference rooms converted for Thursday-thru-Saturday laughter.

Space matters to me.

Over the years, I’ve been in crowds that felt too big and clubs that felt too small. It’s so subjective and I can only explain how it affects me personally, but I think it’s worth discussing.

I’m 5’1” on my tallest days. I can easily get lost in standing crowds and flat-floor cafeteria-style seating. I don’t carry my own booster seat, and I am officially too old to flash my tits to get to the front of the stage (where I wouldn’t be comfortable, anyway). If I am so desperate to see a comic that I’ll go to a standing show, I prepare for a less-than-awesome time. I know I’m going to miss all the visual cues of the performance, that the audio could be muffled depending on the height of the people around me. I know Randy Newman will be singing softly in my brain all night: Short people got no reason, short people got no reason to live….

 Naturally, you’d think I’d love the intimacy and great visuals of the 60-seater, the room where anyone in the front row can tie the MC’s sneakers and play grab-ass with the comic without leaving their seat. But, no. That kind of room freaks me out unless I’m sitting in the very back. Because I never want to be part of the show. I don’t want you to know if it’s my birthday, I don’t want to talk about why I’m there alone. Hang out with me later, in the bar or at a diner, and I’ll be your straight woman all night. I’ll take your bait, laugh at all your throwaways and maybe give you a giggle in return. Not during the show, not in front of your audience. I’m pretty certain you had jokes prepared when you booked the gig, and that’s why I’m there. I am enjoying, analyzing, comparing, reminiscing, absorbing, processing – I am doing more than just listening to you, and I don’t move in and out of that state well when I’m really into the act.

Don’t misunderstand why I’m sharing this. I’m not complaining that I need optimal conditions to want to attend a show. I don’t. I just want to remind everyone that the environment plays a part in the live show experience, and it’s good to know your own personal biases. Because I know mine, I want to tell you how much I enjoy Rob’s Comedy Playhouse, in Williamsville, New York.

I’ve only seen a handful of shows at Rob’s, maybe three as a general audience member, and two as a guest of the comic. Still, every experience has been good for me because Rob’s is the “just right” for my Goldilocks syndrome.

 The room itself sits in an enclosed space next to the bar at dandelions, a great place to grab food before a show. Check out their menu at www.dandelionsrestaurant.com.

Rob’s, as a room, has a pretty simple set up: a small stage in the front, tables flowing out in three directions, a sound system that doesn’t overwhelm the space. There’s a feeling of comfort, like you’re about to hang out with a bunch of your best friends and watch another of your friends put on a show. I don’t mean that in a Little Women or Garland and Rooney way; this isn’t homespun, bed sheet curtain entertainment. The quality of the comics at Rob’s is worthy of your attention. With shows on Saturday nights only, the talent runs the gamut from local acts on the rise to popular road dogs passing through. Rob Lederman has drawn on his own years of experience as a comic, club owner and radio personality to create a space worthy of the very affordable $10 ticket.

I have watched Dan Pordum and Rob (and, on a few fun nights, my friend Chet Wild) warm up the crowd or transition between acts with improv games that, hit or miss, always allow for safe audience participation. I’ve watched Steve Burr keep the room in stitches for an hour, while I sat on a stool near the bathrooms off stage right (your left, audience). I’ve watched Austin Lafond and Chet both kill from seats along the back wall. And I’ve had the most unique, and therefore special, experience watching Paul Hooper from behind the black curtain that blocks light from the walk-in closet within the room that houses the sound system and glassware. I will tell you all about that in my continuing series of blogs about Paul. In the meantime, go to www.robscomedyplayhouse.com and find out what’s coming up. Take a Saturday to check it out.

I like this room.

And, though it shouldn’t have to be said, let me just add that liking this room doesn’t imply or suggest that I dislike another room. I love the Comedy Club in Rochester. I’ve enjoyed shows at Wise Guys in Syracuse, Comedy Zones in Harrisburg, PA and Charleston, West Virginia, Nietzsche’s and O’Connell’s in Buffalo, some bars and VFWs in random towns. I’ve seen Denis Leary at Harro East, Penn and Teller at the Auditorium Theater (or was it the Eastman?) and A. Whitney Brown at Yuk Yuk’s. I had the first greatest comedy weekend of my life at the Comix Café in Rochester with Tom Rhodes, and the most recent greatest comedy weekend of my life at the Comedy Zone, Charleston, with Paul Hooper. I shared some of my favorite laughs with one of my favorite comics in the basement of Edgerton Community Center, in a booth at the Liberty Diner and under a tree in Riverside Cemetery. Diner booths have also brought me wonderful comedy conversations with Theo Von and Carl LaBove, to namedrop just a few. Some of my favorite local shows happen at The Space, Dub Land, Boulder, Acanthus and even aboard the Mary Jemmison while cruising down the Genesee River.

I am not trying to start a riot, Laugh or otherwise (yes, Dario and Kevin! You’re welcome!).

I just wanted to get you thinking about the things that make a show memorable to you, that go beyond who is performing. Maybe it’s the free parking, the comfort you have with the wait staff, the friends who meet you there for shared laughter, the wing sauce and the funky cocktails. Maybe it’s the fact that you can see over even the tallest person in the room because that’s how the place is laid out. Maybe it’s not having to be pulled into a show because the comic’s knees are almost touching your nose and it seems antagonistic not to talk when you’re practically licking someone’s leg. We bring a lot of expectations with us to live shows, we bring habits and preferences and height – well, not so much, in my case. Every now and again, it’s important to acknowledge the role those expectations play in our enjoyment of a show.

 And, to my dear comic friends who love to believe that the whole thing rests on their shoulders, that they should be good enough to rise above a bad floor plan, an over-served crowd, a poor sound system or a table full of girls sucking more happily on plastic penises than they ever will the real thing, keep on usin’ the illusion. Do your best, adjust however you see fit. But don’t accuse me of trying to placate you when I say some of the responsibility of the show rests with the audience, the space, the universe. Live performance is like life, it’s a coming together of a number of elements to form a glorious, amazing whole. Like it or not, we’re all part of the show.

If your merch sucks, however, you can take all the blame yourself. Proofread, for God’s sake.

Back in the Groove

The holidays were overwhelming, full of work and family obligations at a level I haven't experienced for a number of  years. The extra contract came with a big December event. The holidays required multiple visits to in-laws and an extra "yes" or two that I didn't really want to give. Still, it was mine to manage, and I did so poorly. I caught whooping cough, which laid me up for a bit, and I had a tidal wave of emotional scenarios to ride out. All in all, I'm happy to say I was even able to watch live comedy through the past two months.

Now I have pages and pages of notes, and no blogs to show for them.

There were some really great shows that I will be sharing with you: Rachel Feinstein, Orlando Jones, Brian Posehn and Bob DiBuono were here. Locally, there are new open mics and scripted productions and, coming all too soon, a farewell show that will leave me sadly optimistic for one of my closest comedy friends. So much I need to write about, and yet I can't seem to get back into the swing of it.

So, here's the deal. I'm just going to start tonight and write one review per day until I get caught up, until these scribbled pages, napkins and index cards lead to something I can share with you here at the giggle.

I will always, always tell you to go to The Comedy Club and watch live comedy. Yes, I know I can sit on my couch and watch the tv, my dvds, YouTube feeds, my laptop, and I can hear jokes that way. But a live comedy experience is about more than just the jokes. There is an exchange between audience and performer, there is a contract that is upheld or annihilated. There is a unique entity that exists for a very brief moment in any live show, and your presence makes you part of it.

I am approaching the one-year anniversary of this blog, and some of the comics are beginning to come through The Club again. If you didn't catch them before, but found something in a review intriguing, come see them this time. If the show is different, if something catches me unaware, I'll write another review. Rich Vos was certainly a different experience the second time. Pat Dixon's show was made otherly by a change in venue that brought out a different crowd. Those are things I think about, and will share with you if they seem worth your time.

It's no small feat to keep a club of any kind open for 5 years, given the current finances of the average American. Mark Ippolito puts his heart and soul into The Comedy Club and I am grateful, so very grateful, that he does, because it is the place where I laugh most publicly and most consistently. It is the place where I meet the Paul Hoopers and the Carl Laboves of the world. It's the place where I see Keith Alberstadt on the same night he's appearing on Letterman. It's the place I watched a room full of people burst into both laughter and tears together while watching my friend Tiny one final time. So go to www.thecomedyclub.us and check out the upcoming schedule. Me? I'm looking forward to Dave Foley and Esther Ku, neither of whom I've seen live. There are two seasons of Kids in the Hall on my dvd shelf, and we all know how I feel about funny females. In addition, the returning favorites list is enough to make my head spin. Godfrey! Theo Von! And Brian Dunkleman! Throw in a road trip to see Paul Hooper and the phrase "March Madness" finally has some meaning for me.

And then One Girl's Giggle is going to expand.

While The Comedy Club will always hold my heart, I believe the only way we're going to sustain a real, thriving comedy scene in Rochester is if we educate and grow an audience. The media-soaked masses we have become are great for some forms of entertainment, and deathly for others. So, here in my own little corner, I'm going to offer more. There will be more reviews of local up and comers, more open mics and specialty projects. I'm going to tell you about Woody's podcast and Mikey's Goo Yard, share more on Jimmy's After Bedtime show and Pam's Comedy with Curves. I'm going to tell you about a documentary that I am supporting and a cd release party in February for another of my comic friends. I will review some projects you may not have heard about by pulling a dvd, book or cd off my personal shelves. Finally, I may toss a few of my own essays in here. It seems only fair to give others a chance to review my sense of humor, too. And, as always, I welcome reader comments and guest reviewers.

So, while it's been a tough couple of months, there's much to look forward to. There's more to write, more to praise, more to support.

More reasons to laugh, to groan, to snort, chuckle or guffaw.

But, mostly, more reasons to giggle.

See you tomorrow.

8/16 Carl LaBove and Brian Herberger

Outlaws of Comedy. Sam Kinison. Friendship. Paternity. Support. Lien. Fucked up mess.

There. I got that out of the way for you, so you can focus on what’s important for the next few moments. Carl Labove is so much more than just THAT story, than just that guy’s friend. Carl Labove is an exciting, exquisite teller of tales and comic in his own right, and that’s what I want you to think about during this review.

First, let me mention that Brian Herberger had one of the strongest sets I’ve ever seen him deliver at The Comedy Club this weekend, and it was delightful to see the audience’s temperature and his pause rate meld together into something perfectly timed and well-received. Congrats, Brian.

Now, let’s turn our attention to the man who made me laugh out loud more times this weekend than I have altogether in the past month. Carl started out with a little priming of the small but eager audience by telling us he’s tired of crowds. He likes this intimate approach, he’s not into laughter like some comedians. If half of us are just staring at him, it’ll be fine. Naturally, everyone is now ready to go wherever he chooses to take us. And what a ride it is.

From his sphincter muscle tension during the puddle jumper trip to get here, to the breakfast line of air-conditioned stroke zombies at the hotel, every small moment of daily living becomes a shared chuckle, an embarrassing anecdote or an aberrant whopper to be hung over the mantle and marveled at en mass. There are few simple observations – they all seem to be integral parts of a bigger exchange. The sound effects, the pratfalls, the contortions and conniptions involving his every physical part make this show more than a comedy set. This is living theater.

While each of Carl’s five shows were different, either in content or organization, they all were filled with funny. This night, he takes us through stories about his $900 asthmatic Devon Rex kitten, an unplanned acid trip at 18 that led to his encounter with a talking vagina, getting a job on the water truck at the construction site, bull riding at Mickey Gilley’s place and his mother’s religious conversion. Along the way are lots of shared tidbits that seem like words of advice from a funny uncle. This is paraphrased, as I was listening and laughing too hard to write it verbatim. Ladies, if you’re on a date and you need to put an end to unwanted sexual tension, use your straw. Gag on it (simulated sucking and choking). Then say, oh, this straw is so huge! The next words out of his mouth will be, “Check, please.” Retold on Friday and Saturday, Carl uses the neck of his Corona bottle to the same laugh-inducing effect. Also a standout is his explanation of organized religion: it’s like Amway. The product is good, but I don’t want to hang out with the salesmen.

Carl keeps the audience included in the stories through comments like, “That’s the loneliest clap I’ve ever heard.” “I wrote that joke for one clap, but I bet it’ll be getting 15 by Saturday.” “This must be what a stripper feels like when there’s only one guy left in the club.” I’ll never get that dance out of my brain.

The bit that I connected with most strongly is the tale of his mother and her religious conversion. The description of her Christian Tourettes – random shouts of “Jesus Christ” or “Hallelujah” – is a little more animated than my own mother’s relationship with the Lord, but that one crying confession – “I wish you were going to Heaven!” – hit home. I’d been on the receiving end of that line many times throughout my years. I felt even more nostalgic when he shared his trick of faking his way through the hymns to shift the ever-present eye of Christian judgment to some other stranger in the chapel that day. When Carl belted out “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” I was both warmed by his beautiful voice and transported back to my church choir Sundays at Chestnut Grove. A bit that can evoke mirth and memory at the same time is a gift.

I guess there’s no hiding how much I adore Carl Labove. Every show was mesmerizing. I recorded an overwrought video note on my way home Friday night: in your review, say something about how in another time, on nights of angry skies filled with lightning, Carl would be the distracting voice around the fire, soothing children and reminding the elders of past storms weathered, bringing light of a more permanent kind to the darkness. He would be able to wear the mask of tragedy, but not without pulling it aside to wink at those who watched, to remind us that we can turn any story into a comedy, if we choose.

Many people tell stories, few people tell them so well, so completely, as Carl Labove. Another of my comedy heroes, Tom Rhodes, describes Carl to me as one of his favorite human beings on the planet, and I couldn't agree more. Check out www.carllabove.com for one of the coolest web site designs I’ve seen in a while. You can get info on his upcoming projects, including a possible movie of his personal story and a future book of his twisted tales. Support him live any chance you get, because he’s simply amazing.

On a personal note, I wrote in my Mid-year report that I have not found much joy with comedy recently. I told you that I shared that with my comedy angel, never expecting a reply – I talk to the dead often, they talk back only rarely. Apparently, Tiny just needed enough time to finish his holy set and make a few phone calls. I got the message, the reminder that my comic view has always had more than one channel, has always been bigger than the space I inhabit. There will always be friends willing to pass the punch lines and I need never feel lost simply because my comics are spread around this world or another.