Chris Cannon knows that not everyone in town believes he deserved to win this
year’s Funniest Person in Austin Contest.
“A friend of mine in the audience overheard one woman say, when my name was
announced, `He shouldn’t have been in it – he was too professional.'” Cannon
laughs. “That was nice to hear.” And it’s a comment that really zeroes in on
how Cannon has developed as a comedian during the last few years.
Having covered the comedy beat for three years, having both waitressed and
managed the Velveeta Room, having tossed back a cold cocktail or two at the
Laff Stop, I have seen Cannon perform quite a bit, and I agree with that
anonymous woman: He has come one hell of a way in the professional department.
It’s not that he wasn’t funny before. But he had his fair share of hit-or-miss
nights. These days, he’s “on” from the second he takes the mike to the second
he says “Thankyouan’goo’niteaustin.”
His uneveness of days gone by is a point he concedes, and is honest enough to
discuss… well, honestly. See, the Chris of these days still smacks of
bitterness, not unlike the Chris of those days. One big difference: These days,
it’s just a part of his act, and, because it is thus controlled, it always
works.
“In 1985, I was stationed at Ft. Hood and I used to come to Austin on Monday
nights for open mike at the Comedy Workshop,” he says, beginning what sounds
like a loooooong story, but (thank god) ripping right through the details. “In
1986, I dropped out for awhile. I wasn’t happy with myself on stage – I was
bitter and I was angry at the audience. Like any artist, I got discouraged.”
Even upon his comeback in 1989, he was not always Mr. Happy. “When I got back
into it,” he says, “it was like starting all over again. I’d go to the Velveeta
Room for open mike and not go on until 2am. Your friends would be in the
audience, you’d do a joke, it wouldn’t work, you’d say, `Fuck you.'”
In jest, this comment, of course. But after awhile, this not-so-serious
attitude got to him. “I realized I was hanging out, talking about what I was
going to do. I also realized I had to separate myself from (those wee hour
talks) and actually go out and do it.”
No problem. Well, except for that full-time truck driving job and the matter
of a marriage that was suffering the strains of Chris’ push to become a
professional comic. “Comedy and marriage were not cohesive for me,” he admits.
“Also, I’d get out of the Velveeta Room at 2am and have to wake up and go to
work at 4. But I stuck with comedy to the point where the full-time job was
gone.” Unfortunately, so was the wife. But he’s not bitter about that anymore
(really, those are just funny references in his act).
I asked Chris about nights I recalled when he seemed out of control, sincerely
angry, and maybe mean to the audience. Actually, what I said was: “Gee, Chris,
I’m surprised more people don’t jump out of the audience and beat the shit out
of some comedians.”
To which he responded, “When people walk in a club, I think they should have
`comedy’ stamped on their foreheads; they need to realize where they are.” But
is that an excuse for an all-out assault? (Though he wasn’t known for vicious
attacks, Cannon is not fully innocent of the charge.) “I still do 10 minutes
talking with the audience,” he says, “but my attitude is different. There will
be times I stop myself from saying something. I used to be bitter with them.”
Not everyone has been able to grasp that it’s all for fun, now. “In Longview,
at a Holi-day Inn, I started talking about Somalia,” Chris says, referring to a
bit that used to be a regular part of his act. “I didn’t even get to the
punchline and there was a guy in the audience who was a Marine. He was drunk,
and he stood up and started yelling, `You weren’t there!’ There’s nothing you
can do at that point but wail on yourself. How was I supposed to know? The
audience was destroyed.”
He brought them back, though. Of course, at the Funniest Person contest, he
never lost them. Both in his preliminary round and on the big night, he kept
the crowd perpetually in his proverbial palm. For the former event, I happened
to be a judge (a celebrity judge, thank you), and though I knew a lot of his
material, I found myself genuinely amused. The night of the finals, I brought
along my buddy Marty aka Mr. Stoneface aka “I’m from New York,
where we have real comedy.” Marty also cracked an audible grin.
What set Cannon apart both nights, though, was the polish. He was in control
and it was obvious. As Marty aptly pointed out, Chris went so far as to take a
chance on a night when most comics stuck to the tried and true. Regarding that
bit – some thoughts on the new Dell mansion being erected (“That’s not a house,
that’s a mall!”) – Cannon explains, “I did improv with the Laff Staff for
years, and that helps you think on your feet. I knew I was taking a chance, but
I knew when the first line got such a big response, I could go on with it.”
This is said unsmugly, with the tone of a casual observer almost.
“I was focused” he adds. “It wasn’t because I wanted the award so much. I
just went up and did what I do every night. That was no different than a night
in McAllen.”
Ah, McAllen. The road. Truck driving may be behind him, but he still drives
constantly. “There’s a lot of debate among comedians on whether or not driving
400 miles to do a one-night show is any benefit,” he says. “After working like
this, you come down with an attitude. I’m actually looking at myself as a
professional comedian now.”
That, far more than the lovely red robe, the shiny crown and the 500 bucks
he got (“It’s gone already.”) is what really makes Chris Cannon happy. “In high
school, people were going to the football games on Friday nights and I was home
watching Evening at the Improv. I was saying, `This is what I
want to do.'”
He’s doing it. Besides driving all over hell and back, he’s also a “fax-boy
for Leno” (his words), sending in bits that occasionally make it on air on
The Tonight Show. And, here in town, he’s opened for Judy Tenuta, Steven
Wright, and Ellen DeGeneres. “After my set for Wright, he came into my
dressing room and said, `You know that stuff you do on cats? That’s so funny,
man. That is so true.” Chris delivers this in perfect Steven Wright
deadpan and with a gigantic grin on his face. “That was so great,” he
remembers. “He didn’t have to do that.”
But it isn’t all totally happily ever after. It’s a little disgruntledly ever
after, too. There was still a real-life bitter residue apparent as the heir
thanked the audience at the Laff Stop. He took time to chastise the local media
for not giving local comedy enough attention. I teased him about being
insulted, and he took a moment to explain. “When I opened for DeGeneres and
Tenuta and Wright, I called both papers and they basically blew me off. To have
a cover story on Greek chefs and not concentrate on the core of the talent in
this town is just like, you know….”
He trails off, but yeah, we know, Chris. Here’s your article, no offense
taken. (Well, not with this reporter. Let me know what the Greek cooking
community has to say.) Oh yeah, and congratulations. n
Chris Cannon appears July 5-9 at The Laff Stop.
This article appears in May 26 • 1995 and May 26 • 1995 (Cover).