This is part I of a II part essay.
It’s pitch black.
I can’t see anyone in the audience. All I can see is a bright, piercing light at the back.
It’s silent, really silent.
Silence on stage, as opposed to anywhere else, is one of my favourite things.
It can carry tension and hope and the obvious, heartbreak. But it can also carry glory.
What is laughter if not glorious? The release of it, the very release of it is a miracle. Your soul being caught off guard for the sake of amusement.
It lifts the spirit, it strengthens out the brow, it uncurls the fingers.
There’s a light, a presence, an indefinable force that moves, and it moves through me now and into these 24 people seated in the basement of a North London pub.
Let me pause here to reassure you, and say that I do know what that sounds like. It sounds like absolute pretentious drivel, baloney, a spoon full of mustard.
I should mention here that I’m not a sentimental fool even though I have been mistaken for one.
Most comedians don’t read this much into a gig. Of course, they don’t.
I look at the stage, and see a setting for magic whilst some, I should say a disturbing amount of comedians, look at the stage and see a setting for dick jokes, or at the very least jokes.
I stopped doing ‘jokes’ a long time ago. Something, as of yet undefined, died in me, and I simply could not muster jokes anymore. The artifice of it, the jarring, self-congratulatory artifice of it. I would rather watch a recording of myself getting struck on the face with a dirty, wet sock than watch a comedian doing jokes on a stage.
Naturally, this ethos does not sit well with everyone. Not every MC is delighted to see me rock up at 7pm to sign up for a spot.
Performing at a comedy night without any jokes is harder than it sounds.
Some members of the audience give me quite a bit of attitude if you can believe it.
Crossed arms, raised eyebrows, a left foot flipping me off in the front row by tap, tap, tapping on the ground.
These people do not like the idea of watching me grapple with an existential crisis for 5 minutes in the higher quest for a unique comedic voice. This seems strange to me.
People love watching characters in films struggle with great outbursts of self-pity and self-doubt but they do not, for some reason, want to watch this at a comedy night.
It’s not that I don’t want laughs. I do, I just don’t have any jokes.
What I do now is go on stage and hope to God that jokes will appear. It rarely works except for the times it does work.
I grab the mic.
I make an observation about it being pitch dark, and the mic being sticky from the last comedian.
Then I ask a few people if they are alright.
You alright?
You alright?
You alright?
Most people ignore me but a man a few rows down responds that he is good, and thanks me for asking.
‘Sorry, before we start, I just have to do something.’
I do a few shoulder rolls to relax myself.
Roll, roll, roll.
Something magnificent happens then.
On my third shoulder roll, I get a laugh.
I settle down and stare out into the audience even though I can’t see anyone. I’ve had my first laugh, one minute in. This might actually turn out alright.
I explain that as a comedian, I’m not for everyone. I am bringing something different to the table, and a few people chuckle. This confuses me. I don’t understand why they are laughing, which is not ideal really, because as a comedian, I should know why people are laughing.
It only occurs to me much later on the train home that they are laughing because it is obvious I’m not a regular comedian considering there’s been no actual punchlines for the last 2 minutes.
I press on with the show.
‘There’s been a lot of jokes tonight, hasn’t there.’
I grimace. This is a reflex suggesting I don’t like jokes, which I don’t, but actually it sounds like I’m putting down every single comedian who’s gone on before me. One person laughs.
It’s the same man that laughed at the shoulder rolls. 3rd to the left, front row.
I explain that some audiences just want jokes and a good time but this audience is clearly not like that. They want more. I can tell. This, apparently, splits the room. A few people disagree, and do just want to have a good time.
‘Well - HERE I am!’, I announce with open arms. The same man in the front row laughs. No one else joins in, of course.
If I was going to win over the room, this would’ve been the perfect time but no one except the one man laughs.
A very important part of your job as a comedian is to pretend you are not surprised when no one laughs. I would say about 90% of my energy on stage is devoted to pretending I am absolutely on board, and not devastated at all, about the lack of laughs. No laughs? No problemo!
I’m a professional, and I can take these things on the nose, or the eye socket, or whatever the saying is.
To tell you the truth, pretending I am on board and not devastated with the lack of adoration and laughs is more exhausting than pretending I understand why people are laughing.
After this little setback, I decide to focus all my energy on the one person laughing in the front row.
‘God, this is special. Do you realise how rare this kind of connection is? How often does this happen?...How often do you go on a date, and get exactly who you wanted? Never! Neeeeeever!’
This gets me a few new laughs from a couple of women at the back.
My audience is growing. This is the exciting bit of the night. I can sense the taste of hope at the back of my ovula.
Whatever I do, or say next, will make or break the following 7 minutes, and, coincidentally, make or break the remainder of my weekend.
‘You are loving this moment…It’s a special moment.’, I tell the man on the front row.
A few people on the second row join in with the cackling. Once again, I do not understand why people are laughing, and this is starting to irk me somewhat. I become suspicious.
Perhaps this is not laughter of agreement and adoration. What kind of laughter is it?
Bloody hell, I don’t know what kind of laughter it is.
I turn to them in the darkness. There is something defensive in my voice now.
‘You are scared!’
A small percolating of laughter from the third row.
‘No, it’s true. You are laughing because you are scared! You are scared of connection!’
This is it.
This is the tipping point.
The biggest laugh rolls through the room.
A bigger group of people across all 5 rows have come together and decided, in the flash of a moment that they understand me. They finally understand me!
In the silence that follows, there’s an unsettling yet promising current enveloping the room. No one knows what will happen next, least of all me.
Every time I read one of these pieces from you, Rosana, I curse the fact that I don’t live in London and I can’t be that guy in the first row laughing, because I would be.
Thanks for this piece Rosana, been there, experienced that. I rethought of myself as an entertainer with musical props, rather than a comic. But the challenges in gaining traction with an audience are the same. early days...... 30 - 40 in the crowd, me in danger of being drowned out by one noisy table ignoring me. I'd stop performing and silently stare, smiling at them, slowly the whole room would do the same. The Noisys would suddenly realize, look at me, and I would ask "Can you hear me" Their response was invariably "Er, yes", to which mine was "I can hear you too" The room would chuckle and full audience participation ensued...... and I'd get another booking. Lovely. Looking forward to your part two. Peace, Maurice