 photograph by Minh Carrico |
wide, setting up our tents wherever there’s
a microphone, a spotlight, and
a sign that says “Comedy Night.” I rather fancy myself a roving court jester,
traveling to the outposts of Texas
civilization and bringing laughter and good cheer, hoping not to be lynched by
a militia if the NRA jokes don’t go over too well. Hey, it’s a crap shoot.
There is a certain degree of madness in this nomadic lifestyle. Here’s the job
description: You drive hundreds of miles for a 30-minute chance to make a
barroom full of drunken strangers laugh. You get a place to stay and a hundred
bucks if you can pull it off. Terrifying, right?
But consider the alternative. I used to wait tables — job description: Anyone
who walks through the door sits down, tells you what to do, you do it, then you
hope they pay you!
I’ll take the former, thank you. So now you’re thinking, “Okay, sounds like
good work, J.C. How do I get it?”
The first trial by fire for a comic is “open mike” night where a club invites
anyone (and I do mean anyone) who signs up to perform onstage for five minutes.
You’ll be one in a long freight train of would-be comics; a typical open mike
will have 20-30 performers. If you’re new, you’ll be put at the end of the
show. If anyone’s left in the audience by the time you get on, they’ll be
drunk, laughed-out, barely conscious, and usually rude. Be ready for deafening
silence, blank stares, and complete apathy — if you’re lucky. On the worst
nights, there will be heckling and loud, oblivious table conversation to
overcome.
When you’re getting stage time in five-minute chunks, it can take months, even
years, to develop a 30-minute set. But when your fragile ego has been slapped
so hard for so long that it’s as leathery as elephant hide, you’re ready for
the next level.
You have your 30-minute set (which means a punchline about every 15 seconds,
or 120 jokes). Now you must capture your sizzling comedic magic on tape so you
have a product to sell. Finding a place to do 30 minutes in front of a loud,
appreciative crowd is a topic for another day, but when the gods finally smile
on you and you get a good set on film, you’re ready for the road.
The comedy market today is a little different than it used to be. Ten years
ago, comedy was king — or at least a dashing young prince (yeah, yeah, yeah…
or princess) — of the entertainment world. Just about every little town that
had a bar spawned a comedy club, and the clubs made money. Lots of money.
Supply struggled to meet demand, and a lot of people who should never have had
access to a microphone were making a living on the comedy circuit. The best
comics (or those with the best agents) made it to television, where a spate of
cable shows — A & E’s Evening at the Improv, Caroline’s Comedy
Hour, and Showtime, to name a few — made comedy available around
the clock.
Naturally, this comedy glut couldn’t last forever, and when the pendulum
reversed itself, clubs started closing as quickly as they had popped up. Which
brings us to the present. There are still a lot of major clubs in major cities,
but the circuit is cliquish and plenty hard to crack. The alternative is a
network of small, independent booking agents who manage to keep a string of
“one-nighters” or weekend rooms open in the smaller towns, usually cities that
are so bereft of culture that when a smartass stranger comes to town and sets
up a soapbox in the neighborhood saloon, the locals flock in from the fields to
drink, spend money, and dare the outsider to make ’em laugh. This means that I
get to head out to bizarre spots like Waco, College Station, and most recently,
Midland — cities ideally suited to welcome my particular brand of wacky,
left-of-center, anti-corporate comedy with open arms. Yikes!
Midland is a weekend gig
in the bar of the downtown Hilton. As I leave Austin at 7am Friday morning, the
I-35 rat race is in full swing. I cut across Cesar Chavez with the first
sunbeams dancing across Town Lake and hit Mopac, where I’m finally free and
going against the grain of traffic, which is flowing like a butter-clogged
artery into the workaday world.
As soon as I’m past Oak Hill and out on the open road, I light a joint. The
soothing wake ‘n’ bake buzz brings a radiant clarity to the golden green
lushness of the Hill Country. I settle into the rolling highway rhythms and my
thoughts unfold, pushing out to the edges of the receding horizon. I was born
to ride the Texas highways, across this land once trampled by the hoofbeats of
primitive tribes and bullet-spewing badmen toting sacks of pilfered gold…
whoa! Watch out for the skunk!
Clearly, the Hill Country teems with varied fauna, as I can see by the
flattened specimens of wildlife in its unnatural habitat — the highway.
I’ve had to give up one of my favorite vices on this trip: speeding. Imagine a
500-mile commute over rural Texas highways, and you can see how one might be
tempted to haul ass. With three tickets in the last six months, however, I’ve
been financially coerced into obeying the law. As I approach Fredericksburg, I
make an interesting discovery: It’s a lot more dangerous not to speed.
Nothing pisses off one’s fellow motorists more than strict adherence to the
speed limits. As I manhandle the brakes to comply with the 70 to 55 to 45mph
zones, the line of vehicles behind me nearly piles into the bed of my truck.
“Back off, folks, I’m trying to obey the law here!”
An angry one-fingered salute. “Up yours, hippie boy!”
“Gee, sorry, sheriff!”
Later, I pass one of those old dudes in his cowboy hat and muddy pickup, puttering along in the right
lane. I glance over and wave, and an epiphany strikes — that man’s face! Not a
trace of stress, tension, or worry! Not like the psychotic, screwed-up faces in
the mad rush to work. This is the key to life! These old codgers are content
because they know it is pointless, dangerous, and harmful to the health to rush
everywhere. Slow down. Enjoy the ride. That’s why we’re here.
The back roads of Texas offer all sorts of little surprises, like the tiny
town of Brady that pulls you off the highway and makes you do-si-do around the
town square. I hit San Angelo around lunchtime and stop at a Mexican joint
called Hidalgo’s for a steaming plate of steak, eggs, and warm tor-tillas
washed down with a pot of cowboy coffee. Fortified for the last leg of the
journey, I head back to the main road, watching the river mosey through the
center of this quaint, quiet town.
When Highway 87 gives way to 158, it’s a straight shot across the vast plains
to Midland. After 90 miles or so, the city suddenly appears like some metallic
Oz in the desert. Four miles out of town, my nose picks up a distinct and
different smell… sniff, sniff… hmm, is that methane? Must be the
smell of money.
By 1:30pm, I’m settled into the Hilton downtown, and I have eight hours until
showtime. Though it’s cool and breezy, I don my trunks and head outside to boil
myself in the hot chlorine vats they call jacuzzis. After, it’s a leisurely
hour-long shower; god, how I love big hotels where the hot water never runs
out! I could pull a chair and a few pillows into the tub and build a little
steam nest! I’m sure the maids would love that.
After an afternoon nap, I call room service and order the grilled red snapper
(Midland being a mecca for fresh seafood!) and a glass of chardonnay. I open
the curtains and look out over the vast panorama of lights coming on across the
plains. Feeling expansive, I charge my meal, banking on that future stardom I’m
counting on to pay today’s bills. I know that’s not very prudent, but let’s
face it, you have to be a little cocky to make it in this business.
 photograph by Minh Carrico |
looking at the cowboy hats and square haircuts and telling myself that for the
next 30 minutes I own their minds. I notice a chubby Republican at the bar
wearing the Limbaugh tie and the puffy Newt haircut like right-wing badges of
honor. You have to spot your “out” before the show starts; if things get rocky,
“Newt” becomes the plaything, the sacrificial goat that every audience demands
of barroom comics. Gotta give ’em what they want.
The set goes well, helped along by a table of large, jolly women who cackle
hysterically at damn near everything that comes out of my mouth. The pot
material is just slaying them.
“What’s with you guys?” I ask. “Got a big tank of nitrous oxide under your
table or something? Man, I wish we could pump that stuff through the vents.
It’d make comedy a lot easier.”
I slip seamlessly into my Marlboro television commercial (sorry, you’ll have
to see the act for that one), which finishes up with a segue into my Limbaugh
routine. “Don’t worry about the environ-ment, though. The great genius Rush
Limbaugh has pronounced, `It is the height of human vanity to believe that man
can harm the planet.’ Oh really, Rush? I believe it’s the height of human
vanity to think you’re right all the time!”
Dead silence. Gee, what a surprise. Time to go to plan B.
“By the way, folks, say hello to Newt Gingrich up at the bar there.”
Everyone turns to look and they have to laugh; the guy’s a dead ringer for
Gingrich.
“What’s the matter, `Newt’? Didn’t like that one?”
“Newt” looks up from his 10th scotch. “Nope.”
“Hey, is that a Rush tie you’re wearing?”
“Yup.”
“I could tell because the tie’s just like Rush… loud and wide!”
That wins them back enough to return to my material. I wind up the set,
baffling them with bits on the V-chip and the Internet. Apparently, technology
hasn’t branched out to Midland yet. But I make fun of Clinton for his inability
to decide if he wanted to get high or not — big points from the decidedly
right-of-center crowd — and then the big “government out of our lives”
closer.
“See, folks, if we really want to get the government out of our lives, we have
to take responsibility for the way we live. If you don’t like dirty pictures on
the Internet, don’t look at them. If you don’t like sex and violence in the
movies, don’t go to them. You want to pray in school, that should be fine. You
don’t want to pray in school, that should be fine, too. See how this works,
folks?
“You don’t like pot, don’t smoke it. Bake it into brownies and eat it!”
Brownies get them every time! “Thank you, Midland. Good-night!”
While the headliner rails on women and relationships (“I don’t really have an
act; it’s more of a confession”), “Newt” is buying me drinks at the bar. I
graciously soak up this supply-side largesse while watching him degenerate into
complete sloppy drunkenness, groping sexual harassment, obnoxious small penis
references, and whining pleading for cocaine. With a mixture of horror and rapt
fascination, I egg him on.
“What about the war on drugs, `Newt’?”
“Fuck the war on drugs. Got any cocaine?” Cindy the bartender comes over and
refills “Newt”‘s scotch glass. “Ooh, c’mere, honey,” he slurs, “you shore got
pretty tits. I bet that little fag boyfriend uh yerszh got a tiny dick. Know
why. Got tiny fingers.”
I look at “Newt”‘s own digits. Amazingly childlike. Oh dear, the debasing
self-revelation phase has begun.
“So, `Newt,’ how’d you make your money?”
“I married it. Then the bitch left me.”
“Shocking! So what do you do now?”
“I don’t do shit! I own oilfields. Got more money ‘n I know what to do with.
Got any cocaine?”
How refreshing to find a Republican so staunchly defending the
traditional-values party line.
At the end of the show, I post myself by the door, hoping my fellow stoners
will stop by on the way out with a wink and a bud-laden handshake. No one’s
giving it up tonight. Oh well.
“Newt” stumbles out to drive home. Good luck, you fat bastard.
The next morning
I wake up without the aid of an alarm clock. This is the beauty of life on the
road — aside from that 30 minutes on stage, my time is completely mine.
No boss, no deadlines, just pure unadulterated freedom. That’s the real pay.
My favorite thing to do on the road is read. Holed up in a comfy hotel room,
none of the distractions of home to tempt my attention, I devour huge chunks of
reading material. Today I plow through a couple hundred pages of Frank Zappa’s
autobiography (not only was he a musical genius, but Mr. Zappa possessed one of
the great comic minds of our time). I believe that the only way to view our
society in an objective fashion is to turn off the mainstream media and delve
below the surface. For starters, purchase Rage Against the Machine’s Evil
Empire CD. Open the liner notes and you’ll see a pile of books ranging from
James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist to The Anarchist Cookbook to
Ben Bagdikian’s Media Monopoly. Read these books, and anything by Noam
Chomsky, and you’ll soon come to the conclusion that government is a puppet
show and big business pulls the strings. Once you become aware of the presence
of the corporate fascist state… oops, I forgot, this is a comedy article! Heh heh. Yeah, now my job is to try and make this stuff funny to crowds of overweight drinking conservatives who paid to hear a few dick
jokes. Phew! Better work on the dick jokes.
Later, I hook the camcorder up to the TV and watch my set from the night
before. This is an invaluable exercise, for one’s perception of how a set went
is often very different from the recorded reality. Lately I’ve been working on
the opening segment of my act because the opener is the key to winning the
crowd. A good opener establishes who you are and where you’re coming from, and
I’ve always struggled with this part of the act. This is the spot where most
comics who look like someone famous come out and make a joke about it. I have a
slight resemblance to Brad Pitt, but what’s funny about that? (Please send
ideas to me in care of this paper.)
 photograph by Minh Carrico |
always a gamble — and I see that I’d stumbled horribly through the delivery.
No wonder I was off to a slow start. I rehearse the new bits several times
before I head down to the chlorine vat for my daily boiling. Even when you
think you have the words down pat, there’s a certain flow and rhythm that can
only be acquired through repetition on stage.
The room is packed on Saturday night. I fire off my first three jokes…
absolutely nothing. Okay, so it’s not the delivery, it’s the material. The
crowd stares uncomfortably, looking at me like they think I’m going to fold.
Wrong. I give them a hard 10-second stare. I can wait all night, folks. My home
club is the Velveeta Room. I thrive on deafening silences and dumb stares.
“You know, folks, I practice these jokes by myself back at the house. I’d like
to thank you guys for making me feel right at home.”
That breaks the uncomfortable silence. Then I rear back and throw the old
fastball — the kd lang joke — right down the middle of the plate. They love
that one! “Okay, so it’s country music and lesbians you people want, huh? I
think I’ve found your level.”
I loosen up onstage and the crowd loosens up as well. Things go smoothly until
a bunch of guys from the Bridgestone tire convention show up drunk and start
their own show in the back of the room. If I want them to shut up, I’ll have to
confront them. “I see we’ve got the tire guys in the back, huh? The rubber
barons.”
“Yup. That’s us.”
“Great to have you. How about shutting the fuck up? I didn’t barge into your
sales meeting this afternoon and holler, `The Michelin Man’s better than
you!'”
“That’s pretty funny,” one of them yells.
“Thank you, sir. Here’s a guy so dedicated to the tire business, he has
treadmarks in his trousers.”
The rest of the crowd hoots and applauds at that one and, victorious, I return
to my material and finish the set. Not a great one but certainly fun. It’s like
my buddy Howard Beecher says, “When you’re the opener, you’re comedy Jesus. You
sacrifice your set so that others may kill.”
Which is precisely what happened. The opener’s job is to establish a tone and
whip the crowd into shape. Essentially, I’m getting them ready to laugh at the
headliner. I set ’em up, the headliner knocks ’em outta the park. All part of
paying one’s dues, I suppose.
Normally after the final weekend show, I sit around and knock down a few cold
ones, but I have to be back in Austin for a play rehearsal Sunday afternoon, so
I check out of the hotel after the show and hit the highway at midnight. A
startlingly bright full moon lights up the plains as I cruise down the silver
ribbon of empty highway unfurling before me. There is an inexplicable mystique
to the West Texas plains, something vast and untamed that draws the soul out of
its usual confines and shows it the splendor of the wide open world. This is my
time for quiet reflection, a realization that I have an infinite amount of
learning still ahead of me so I might as well enjoy the ride. A long, long
night of driving lies ahead and the country music on the radio is the perfect
accompaniment.
After a stop in San Angelo for coffee and gas, I tune in to a radio station
playing some great music. Each song is thematically connected to the next, and
the music plays on and on without a commercial break — Little Feat, Joe Ely,
Johnny Cash, Dylan, Patsy Cline, and a bunch of great songs I’d never heard in
between. I think to myself, “Man, I’m going to have to call someone in San
Angelo and find out what station this is! It’s dynamite!”
Then, just before the station fades out, a familiar voice crackles out of the
stereo: It’s Larry Monroe doing his Up All Night show. I wind my way
back through the Hill Country, rolling down Highway 71 with a sharp eye on the
speed limit signs. Herds of deer mill on the edges of the road; missing moving
targets keeps me wide awake.
As I come around a turn on the Southwest Parkway, the Austin skyline pops into
view. What a wonderful feeling. I can visualize my wife in bed, curled up with
the dogs, keeping my spot nice and toasty warm. I tune in KUT and catch the end
of Larry’s show as I coast through the quiet city I love. Ah, Austin, where the
Rush jokes always get applause, the Pentecostal “speaking-in-tongues” bit won’t
get me crucified, and the V-chip and the Internet are household words.
Wake, up honey! I’m home!
J.C. Shakespeare is a comic and actor.
This article appears in March 28 • 1997 and March 28 • 1997 (Cover).