As a newbie, there's a lot of "outside looking in" feeling at the open mics. There are people who are comedy friends, as in when they're out performing or watching they'll generally hang out with each other at the venue. In the real world, if you're friends with someone, it's because you like them, had adventures, shared troubles, all that stuff. So when you make each other laugh, there are years backing that up. I've touched on this before; something that you do or say that makes all your friends laugh, may or may not work on stage. That's not my point, though.
I'd sometimes see someone go up, and notice that some people would pay more attention than they did to others. They seemed to get more laughs than others did. Were they funnier than average, or were their friends boosting the laughs because they knew them? Combination? Are these people friends only because they're funnier than average? I have no idea. But that's not my point, either.
The most obvious examples are when I've been to open mics where the crowd seems completely dead. Then one person will go up, and before they're even talking, there's a lot more excitement. Like I said, maybe it's because that person is really good, or maybe because that person is one of a tight knit group of friends that are having a good time, or who knows what. Ultimately, though, I think one shouldn't care. What I mean is, I'd think the best thing is to not worry about how well someone else is doing on stage, and if they're doing well if that means people "like" them more than you. Because they might be that funny, or they might be that friendly, but it doesn't matter. That's my point.
Like any social interactions, there are times when you hear about people who really aren't friends. Perhaps they don't like each other, which is natural. Worse yet is if people pretend to like each other because they're the right people to be friends with. I've seen it in real world, and it annoys me. I haven't been around in comedy long enough to witness it personally, but I've heard whispers, and I feel sad about it. I think I view it differently because of the "stakes" involved. My motivation in this is to be funny, and maybe one day be thought of (by myself and others) as funny enough that it's worthwhile to have an audience hear my stuff. Since I'm not looking for money or fame, hearing about that kind of faking feels like exploitation on an almost sadistic level. As in "why would you do that"? But not everyone has my motivations. For some it's their everything, so maybe it's purely a means-to-an-end kind of a thing. Again, though, I have no idea. Upon reflection, that's probably my actual point.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
My to-do list
There's this thing called your "voice", and in brief, it's a comic's point of view, cadence, style, persona, etc. It takes time to develop, and I don't have mine yet. I'd imagine that finding your voice just happens, where eventually you just are who you are. I don't really think about the process, but my ignorance leads me to almost fear the end result. Like a child who doesn't want to grow up, a paranoid part of me thinks, "but won't that mean I'm limited?" That's silly, though, and it's really just a culmination of comfort on stage with who you are as a performer. I'll still do whatever I want.
Putting all of that aside, there are specific things that I'd like to work on. For instance, if you watch a real comic, most of them will have a central idea. They'll present that idea, follow up with a punchline, or more often a series of punchlines that build on each other, perhaps lead to a new idea. I can't do that. I'll have a central idea, and if I come up with more than one punchline, I'll try to pick the "best" one and use it exclusively. Continuing to talk about a single idea almost feels like I'm repeating myself.
In a related line of thought, I'd like to get better with storytelling. My issue is rambling. Now, some people can ramble and it's funny, but I tend to muddy up the waters by going on unfunny tangents, so it ends up being confusing and boring. The whole "grass is always greener on the other side" thing comes to mind. I was talking to a comic that I admire. She was saying how she wants to do more punchline-y stuff. Ironically, when I heard her say that I sort of thought "Why would you want to do more punchline driven stuff, when you're so good at storytelling?". Yet here I am, wanting to change what I usually do. In her/my defense, I feel she's much better at what she does than I am at what I do.
But that's one of the nice things about going to open mics. You get to see how other people craft their jokes, revealing how they think and structure their act. When you talk to them before and after the open mics, you get to know other people's desires, insecurities, etc., and it builds that sense of community.
P.S. I didn't know that the magazine RE:COM ( http://www.recomedymagazine.com/ ) used "Comedy from the trenches" as part of their slogan, so while I'm keeping the address, I changed the title of this little thing here.
Putting all of that aside, there are specific things that I'd like to work on. For instance, if you watch a real comic, most of them will have a central idea. They'll present that idea, follow up with a punchline, or more often a series of punchlines that build on each other, perhaps lead to a new idea. I can't do that. I'll have a central idea, and if I come up with more than one punchline, I'll try to pick the "best" one and use it exclusively. Continuing to talk about a single idea almost feels like I'm repeating myself.
In a related line of thought, I'd like to get better with storytelling. My issue is rambling. Now, some people can ramble and it's funny, but I tend to muddy up the waters by going on unfunny tangents, so it ends up being confusing and boring. The whole "grass is always greener on the other side" thing comes to mind. I was talking to a comic that I admire. She was saying how she wants to do more punchline-y stuff. Ironically, when I heard her say that I sort of thought "Why would you want to do more punchline driven stuff, when you're so good at storytelling?". Yet here I am, wanting to change what I usually do. In her/my defense, I feel she's much better at what she does than I am at what I do.
But that's one of the nice things about going to open mics. You get to see how other people craft their jokes, revealing how they think and structure their act. When you talk to them before and after the open mics, you get to know other people's desires, insecurities, etc., and it builds that sense of community.
P.S. I didn't know that the magazine RE:COM ( http://www.recomedymagazine.com/ ) used "Comedy from the trenches" as part of their slogan, so while I'm keeping the address, I changed the title of this little thing here.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The first time I bombed pt2
Ok so what happened? Context matters, primarily what happened at the prior open mic I had done. I had a joke that went over really well. Being new, there's a lot of uncertainty, so having a joke do well is the best you could hope for. To add an extra layer of context, the joke was an old one, but I took it in a new direction, the idea for which came the day before. Spontaneity can lead to some great humor, but ego led me to think that all my spontaneous ideas are funny. It's an old thought, but getting big on yourself is a good way to fail. That lead to one of the most important lessons that I learned; you have to try.
There are two aspects of that "trying" that I've learned so far. There's the content of what you're trying to say, and the delivery (how you say it). I failed on both counts. I took what could have maybe been a good nugget of an idea, and I took it into an unfunny direction. I've listened to my delivery that night a couple of times, and I can hear me start to give up about halfway through.
To avoid sounding like I'm just getting down on myself, I should mention the audience. It was a particularly noisy night. I saw plenty of other comics bomb that same night, including people who are consistently funny. The hosts of the open mic had to repeatedly ask the people to quiet down, more than usual. There are ways to deal with a uncooperative crowd, but I'm not at a comfort level to be able to do that.
If that's what happened, how did I get over it? Some realizations helped. For instance, nobody cares. What I mean is that nobody's "judging" you on any single performance, and bombing doesn't mean that everyone hates you.
It also doesn't mean that you're not funny. It could mean that the joke isn't funny, or you didn't have "it" that night, or that the audience didn't care, but it's not an indictment of you as a comic. I've done enough open mics to see professional, well known comedians do a full set to almost dead silence. Seeing it happen to others really makes you feel better, because you know that you're not alone in this. There is literally no comic who has never bombed.
Despite realizing all of this, I was still afraid to get back on stage. I avoided doing an open mic for a couple of weeks, but I wish I hadn't. You can feel sorry for yourself, or you can use that as motivation to get better, try harder, try something different, and I did, eventually. The next open mic did go well, and I got some laughs. That helped out more than any self analysis, because it demonstrated what I thought I knew. People were nice, it was like the prior performance never happened, and the laughs were confirmation that I had the capability of being funny.
I've bombed since that first time. While it sounds cliche, it really does get better. It doesn't get to you as much. It still hurts at the time, but it's not devastating like that first time. Now, my feeling is "well THAT sucked", and that's about it. It definitely makes me think harder about what I want to try next time, to do better/be funnier.
So, those are the three things I came away with in this experience. Think about why you bombed, and take ownership of it. Try to think of something new and funner. And get back on that horse as soon as possible. It isn't a big deal, it really isn't.
There are two aspects of that "trying" that I've learned so far. There's the content of what you're trying to say, and the delivery (how you say it). I failed on both counts. I took what could have maybe been a good nugget of an idea, and I took it into an unfunny direction. I've listened to my delivery that night a couple of times, and I can hear me start to give up about halfway through.
To avoid sounding like I'm just getting down on myself, I should mention the audience. It was a particularly noisy night. I saw plenty of other comics bomb that same night, including people who are consistently funny. The hosts of the open mic had to repeatedly ask the people to quiet down, more than usual. There are ways to deal with a uncooperative crowd, but I'm not at a comfort level to be able to do that.
If that's what happened, how did I get over it? Some realizations helped. For instance, nobody cares. What I mean is that nobody's "judging" you on any single performance, and bombing doesn't mean that everyone hates you.
It also doesn't mean that you're not funny. It could mean that the joke isn't funny, or you didn't have "it" that night, or that the audience didn't care, but it's not an indictment of you as a comic. I've done enough open mics to see professional, well known comedians do a full set to almost dead silence. Seeing it happen to others really makes you feel better, because you know that you're not alone in this. There is literally no comic who has never bombed.
Despite realizing all of this, I was still afraid to get back on stage. I avoided doing an open mic for a couple of weeks, but I wish I hadn't. You can feel sorry for yourself, or you can use that as motivation to get better, try harder, try something different, and I did, eventually. The next open mic did go well, and I got some laughs. That helped out more than any self analysis, because it demonstrated what I thought I knew. People were nice, it was like the prior performance never happened, and the laughs were confirmation that I had the capability of being funny.
I've bombed since that first time. While it sounds cliche, it really does get better. It doesn't get to you as much. It still hurts at the time, but it's not devastating like that first time. Now, my feeling is "well THAT sucked", and that's about it. It definitely makes me think harder about what I want to try next time, to do better/be funnier.
So, those are the three things I came away with in this experience. Think about why you bombed, and take ownership of it. Try to think of something new and funner. And get back on that horse as soon as possible. It isn't a big deal, it really isn't.
Monday, September 19, 2011
The first time I bombed pt1
The ironic thing is that for seasoned comic, bombing is not a huge deal, but it was absolutely devastating to me the first time it happened. Before I forget what it felt like, here's the story:
It was at an open mic. I did the first joke, and got a couple of laughs. Next joke - dead silence. I pointed out that I wasn't sure if that was a great joke, which just made it worse if anything. At this point I wasn't happy, but I thought the next and last joke was the best one, so maybe I can wring a few laughs out of the audience. Again, stone dead faces throughout the whole thing, while in my head I'm going "c'mon, laugh". But looking insecure is usually death on stage. I sheepishly finished and sat back down. I've had individual jokes not do well before, but I've been to move on and maybe get a laugh on a subsequent joke. The sustained silence was different, and it was painful.
While in my chair, I was warm in the face, almost wanting to cry. It sounds melodramatic, but that's how it felt. The rest of the night buzzed by, and I had the distinct feeling that everyone else in that room didn't want me to be there. I felt that the people didn't just think that I wasn't funny, but that they also didn't like me personally. I left at 2am, and complained outside in front of the bar with another guy who also didn't do well. That helped a little. I then drove to a late night Taco Bell, and got myself some sympathy tacos.
From there it spiraled into thinking nothing I did was funny, and I had no business pursuing comedy. There are people who really want to do standup, and they just don't have "it". What if that's me, and I couldn't recognize it? For the next couple of days I was a little depressed, and then got angry. Screw those guys, why should I care what they think of me, if they hate me so much? That's when I realized I was being silly, and I needed to not worry about it so much.
There's a line of thought that open mics are only to practice being on stage. There's truth in that, but more truth for a seasoned/working comic. Here's what I mean; since I haven't had any chances to do shows for a "real" audience, open mics are where I've gotten any direct audience feedback. That's why I give it more weight than it merits, and why it hit me so hard.
It's like the breakup of your first real relationship. It's painful, but you almost need to have that happen to you to become an adult. The difference between bombing and a breakup is that bombing is something that happens quite often. So often, that your skin thickens up and it becomes not that big a deal at all, just a learning experience.
And I've learned a few things, two of which I covered in the "The Hard Way" post, but some more things that helped me "get over" feeling bad for myself.
It was at an open mic. I did the first joke, and got a couple of laughs. Next joke - dead silence. I pointed out that I wasn't sure if that was a great joke, which just made it worse if anything. At this point I wasn't happy, but I thought the next and last joke was the best one, so maybe I can wring a few laughs out of the audience. Again, stone dead faces throughout the whole thing, while in my head I'm going "c'mon, laugh". But looking insecure is usually death on stage. I sheepishly finished and sat back down. I've had individual jokes not do well before, but I've been to move on and maybe get a laugh on a subsequent joke. The sustained silence was different, and it was painful.
While in my chair, I was warm in the face, almost wanting to cry. It sounds melodramatic, but that's how it felt. The rest of the night buzzed by, and I had the distinct feeling that everyone else in that room didn't want me to be there. I felt that the people didn't just think that I wasn't funny, but that they also didn't like me personally. I left at 2am, and complained outside in front of the bar with another guy who also didn't do well. That helped a little. I then drove to a late night Taco Bell, and got myself some sympathy tacos.
From there it spiraled into thinking nothing I did was funny, and I had no business pursuing comedy. There are people who really want to do standup, and they just don't have "it". What if that's me, and I couldn't recognize it? For the next couple of days I was a little depressed, and then got angry. Screw those guys, why should I care what they think of me, if they hate me so much? That's when I realized I was being silly, and I needed to not worry about it so much.
There's a line of thought that open mics are only to practice being on stage. There's truth in that, but more truth for a seasoned/working comic. Here's what I mean; since I haven't had any chances to do shows for a "real" audience, open mics are where I've gotten any direct audience feedback. That's why I give it more weight than it merits, and why it hit me so hard.
It's like the breakup of your first real relationship. It's painful, but you almost need to have that happen to you to become an adult. The difference between bombing and a breakup is that bombing is something that happens quite often. So often, that your skin thickens up and it becomes not that big a deal at all, just a learning experience.
And I've learned a few things, two of which I covered in the "The Hard Way" post, but some more things that helped me "get over" feeling bad for myself.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The hard way
There are some things that I would have rather known ahead of time, because it would have avoided embarrassment. Maybe you have to learn the hard way for it to stick. Here are my lessons so far (by the way, the second person "you"s are referring to me; this isn't advice, just notes to myself):
-You're not as funny as you think you are. Those things you say that makes your friends laugh, might not make people who don't know you laugh.
-Shocking is easy, but not necessarily funny on its own. Eating boogers is gross, yes, and.....? Besides, "shocking" usually isn't even shocking; it's more boring than anything. My point is to have a point to go with the shock, if you're going that way.
-Merely observing a truth might not be funny, especially if it's a truth that everyone already knows.
-"Brevity is the soul of wit". That doesn't mean jokes have to be short, but useless details obscure what you're trying to convey.
-You have to try. It's very, very rare to be naturally hilarious enough to just go up and be funny consistently without trying (see the first note).
The list grows as I learn, and there are a lot of things that I still have to learn to do/be. For instance, I'm getting better at having a thicker skin, which is a requirement for comedy. Something else I'd like to develop is to venture a little bit outside of setup/punchline kinds of jokes, a conveying of an idea. That's part of the process of learning to "walk", I suppose, which is the theme of this site.
-You're not as funny as you think you are. Those things you say that makes your friends laugh, might not make people who don't know you laugh.
-Shocking is easy, but not necessarily funny on its own. Eating boogers is gross, yes, and.....? Besides, "shocking" usually isn't even shocking; it's more boring than anything. My point is to have a point to go with the shock, if you're going that way.
-Merely observing a truth might not be funny, especially if it's a truth that everyone already knows.
-"Brevity is the soul of wit". That doesn't mean jokes have to be short, but useless details obscure what you're trying to convey.
-You have to try. It's very, very rare to be naturally hilarious enough to just go up and be funny consistently without trying (see the first note).
The list grows as I learn, and there are a lot of things that I still have to learn to do/be. For instance, I'm getting better at having a thicker skin, which is a requirement for comedy. Something else I'd like to develop is to venture a little bit outside of setup/punchline kinds of jokes, a conveying of an idea. That's part of the process of learning to "walk", I suppose, which is the theme of this site.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Why I probably won't go anywhere
For a lot of comedians, this is their passion and for some their career. For me to say that I'd like to perform in front of an audience, it might come across like me telling a surgeon, "yeah, I've thought about cutting up some people, I'll give it a try". Not only would I be misunderstanding what it means to be a surgeon, but I'd also be disregarding the effort it took to become one.
There are dozens of open mics in Chicagoland, but I go to about 1 or 2 a week, which is paltry compared to many of the other comics. There are people who will go out every night, constantly honing their act, networking, etc. It can literally take up the same amount of time as a job, without pay. That might sound crazy to someone not trying to do comedy. The thing is, it sounds a little crazy to me. I admit to spending a decent amount of time thinking about comedy. But I don't want to go to an open mic (or two or three) every night. If I don't want to, and someone else does, then they're likely going to be better than I am, or at least more deserving.
Reputation matters, and you can't get that by doing this for a few months. I'm sure there are people who did some open mics, then went on with their lives, and years later they'll tell people "Yeah, I used to do comedy". No you didn't, and neither am I, not until I've been doing this for much longer.
The other reason I might not get anywhere is that I'm just not that funny. But that's another frustration of a new comic like me. There's no real way to know if you're funny or if other people think you're funny. I've been fortunate to do enough open mics to get recognized and get the occasional "good set" (congratulations on a job well done, sometimes it's just courteousness). The first time that happened I had split feelings. I was sitting next to someone who did well, and a comic told him "good set", saw me sitting next to him and said it to me too. A) It was clearly mostly because I had just been sitting next to him, but B) it still felt good to hear it. But back to my point, eventually you'll know if you're good because you'll be asked to do shows, or you'll ask to be in a show and the host/organizer ok's it.
I'm not at a point where I feel I have enough solid material to do a show, nor solid enough on stage to present that material. So, I'm not going to ask. And I haven't been doing this nearly long enough to where anyone is really going to accept me or ask me to be in a show. I want to clarify that I'm not complaining about this, just recognizing it. This is the process, and I'll have to put in the time. But to go back to my first point, if I'm not putting in the time that others are, maybe that means that my goal of performing never happens. There are ways to get on a showcase without being asked, and I'll likely go that route for my "first time", because it's a pretty common way to go (more on that in another post).
And that's another dangerous aspect of being so new; there's a very, very real possibility that I'm not cut out for this. But I won't know for a while. On the other hand, one could argue that there is no "goal", that this process IS the goal. There's a lot of truth in that, yes. But who wouldn't be bummed after realizing that they're ultimately not cut out for an endeavor that they've spent a decent amount of time on. If I could just remove the goal of performing for an audience, then I can't be disappointed. Too late, though, it's in my head, so it's not going away.
I'm not good with conclusions.
There are dozens of open mics in Chicagoland, but I go to about 1 or 2 a week, which is paltry compared to many of the other comics. There are people who will go out every night, constantly honing their act, networking, etc. It can literally take up the same amount of time as a job, without pay. That might sound crazy to someone not trying to do comedy. The thing is, it sounds a little crazy to me. I admit to spending a decent amount of time thinking about comedy. But I don't want to go to an open mic (or two or three) every night. If I don't want to, and someone else does, then they're likely going to be better than I am, or at least more deserving.
Reputation matters, and you can't get that by doing this for a few months. I'm sure there are people who did some open mics, then went on with their lives, and years later they'll tell people "Yeah, I used to do comedy". No you didn't, and neither am I, not until I've been doing this for much longer.
The other reason I might not get anywhere is that I'm just not that funny. But that's another frustration of a new comic like me. There's no real way to know if you're funny or if other people think you're funny. I've been fortunate to do enough open mics to get recognized and get the occasional "good set" (congratulations on a job well done, sometimes it's just courteousness). The first time that happened I had split feelings. I was sitting next to someone who did well, and a comic told him "good set", saw me sitting next to him and said it to me too. A) It was clearly mostly because I had just been sitting next to him, but B) it still felt good to hear it. But back to my point, eventually you'll know if you're good because you'll be asked to do shows, or you'll ask to be in a show and the host/organizer ok's it.
I'm not at a point where I feel I have enough solid material to do a show, nor solid enough on stage to present that material. So, I'm not going to ask. And I haven't been doing this nearly long enough to where anyone is really going to accept me or ask me to be in a show. I want to clarify that I'm not complaining about this, just recognizing it. This is the process, and I'll have to put in the time. But to go back to my first point, if I'm not putting in the time that others are, maybe that means that my goal of performing never happens. There are ways to get on a showcase without being asked, and I'll likely go that route for my "first time", because it's a pretty common way to go (more on that in another post).
And that's another dangerous aspect of being so new; there's a very, very real possibility that I'm not cut out for this. But I won't know for a while. On the other hand, one could argue that there is no "goal", that this process IS the goal. There's a lot of truth in that, yes. But who wouldn't be bummed after realizing that they're ultimately not cut out for an endeavor that they've spent a decent amount of time on. If I could just remove the goal of performing for an audience, then I can't be disappointed. Too late, though, it's in my head, so it's not going away.
I'm not good with conclusions.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Wrong Assumptions
At my first open mic there were two kinds of people I noticed, loners and a small group socializing. I assumed the loners were the pros and the social group was comprised of people who didn't take it too seriously. I was wrong, not only in my assumptions about the people, but even the notion that there are "two kinds".
About that social group, you'll need to understand a couple of things. An open mic is kind of like a rehearsal for a comic or a training ground for a wannabe like me. You'll see the same faces repeatedly. There are dozens of open mics all over Chicagoland. Many open mics are set up to be first come first serve, so you may have to get there early if you want a good spot on the list. Seeing the same people over and over, sitting in the same room for hours, not surprisingly, people become friends.
So, it's not that they don't take it seriously, they're just not a bundle of nerves. They're hanging out with friends (or at least friendlies) that they've known for years. They were intimidating to me because it felt a little clique-y, and with any community, that happens. But what I didn't realize was what it's like from their perspective. There are a ton of reasons someone might go to an open mic; some are starting out, fulfilling a New Year's resolution, facing their fears of public speaking, perhaps simply checking it out. You'll see new faces every time that you will never see again. So, it's not personal if you're ignored, it's just not reasonable to go make nice with every new face. They're talking to their friends, you're a stranger. That there's a shared purpose of an open mic doesn't change either of those two facts.
Sometimes the "group" isn't comprised of people who are friends. One time I struck up a conversation with a guy, and we really didn't know each other. But, we'd seen each other at open mics here and there, and we started talking about whatever. Then another guy came by that neither us knew at all, and then a girl that I kind of know. I realized that we looked like a group of friends talking, and none of us barely know each other. If a paranoid person was there for the first time, we might look like a group of friends not interested in anyone else.
The deep-in-thought/intense loner was the other other type I noticed at the first open mic, assuming they were the pros. They MIGHT be pros, but in my limited experience it breaks down more like:
1) Extremely nervous, maybe from stage fright or perhaps a newer comic, but in general, just frazzled and barely holding it together.
2) A comic thinking/working on their material.
3) Shy/temporary loner, not nervous or anti-social, but maybe not wanting to bother anybody or be bothered at the time.
4) Anti-social weirdo - it's almost cliche, but it is true that some comics are only comfortable on stage, and have trouble interacting with people on a personal level.
There isn't a correlation between the categories and how funny the person is or how well they do on stage. That's why they were the first illusion shattered. There were three really intense loners that have stuck out in my mind, mostly because of how completely awful they were on stage. I don't mean that as a judgement, honestly, because I'm just starting out myself, and heck, it could have been a fluke. But the point is, their pre-game face was no indicator of their success.
This entire post (and blog) is pointless, really. It's saying things that are no more than common sense, especially for anyone who's tried to do comedy. "No duh" would be the best response to any of my conclusions. When you're a child, though, you see things as more black/white, good/bad, and you learn the nuance as you go. It's just an easier way to process something so new; these are the pros, these are the cool kids...
As someone entering a new thing, an innate fear brought out these thoughts. Fortunately, as I got over those anxieties, I picked up a few others which I'll have to get over by being not ignorant. We'll see if I make it out of pre-school.
About that social group, you'll need to understand a couple of things. An open mic is kind of like a rehearsal for a comic or a training ground for a wannabe like me. You'll see the same faces repeatedly. There are dozens of open mics all over Chicagoland. Many open mics are set up to be first come first serve, so you may have to get there early if you want a good spot on the list. Seeing the same people over and over, sitting in the same room for hours, not surprisingly, people become friends.
So, it's not that they don't take it seriously, they're just not a bundle of nerves. They're hanging out with friends (or at least friendlies) that they've known for years. They were intimidating to me because it felt a little clique-y, and with any community, that happens. But what I didn't realize was what it's like from their perspective. There are a ton of reasons someone might go to an open mic; some are starting out, fulfilling a New Year's resolution, facing their fears of public speaking, perhaps simply checking it out. You'll see new faces every time that you will never see again. So, it's not personal if you're ignored, it's just not reasonable to go make nice with every new face. They're talking to their friends, you're a stranger. That there's a shared purpose of an open mic doesn't change either of those two facts.
Sometimes the "group" isn't comprised of people who are friends. One time I struck up a conversation with a guy, and we really didn't know each other. But, we'd seen each other at open mics here and there, and we started talking about whatever. Then another guy came by that neither us knew at all, and then a girl that I kind of know. I realized that we looked like a group of friends talking, and none of us barely know each other. If a paranoid person was there for the first time, we might look like a group of friends not interested in anyone else.
The deep-in-thought/intense loner was the other other type I noticed at the first open mic, assuming they were the pros. They MIGHT be pros, but in my limited experience it breaks down more like:
1) Extremely nervous, maybe from stage fright or perhaps a newer comic, but in general, just frazzled and barely holding it together.
2) A comic thinking/working on their material.
3) Shy/temporary loner, not nervous or anti-social, but maybe not wanting to bother anybody or be bothered at the time.
4) Anti-social weirdo - it's almost cliche, but it is true that some comics are only comfortable on stage, and have trouble interacting with people on a personal level.
There isn't a correlation between the categories and how funny the person is or how well they do on stage. That's why they were the first illusion shattered. There were three really intense loners that have stuck out in my mind, mostly because of how completely awful they were on stage. I don't mean that as a judgement, honestly, because I'm just starting out myself, and heck, it could have been a fluke. But the point is, their pre-game face was no indicator of their success.
This entire post (and blog) is pointless, really. It's saying things that are no more than common sense, especially for anyone who's tried to do comedy. "No duh" would be the best response to any of my conclusions. When you're a child, though, you see things as more black/white, good/bad, and you learn the nuance as you go. It's just an easier way to process something so new; these are the pros, these are the cool kids...
As someone entering a new thing, an innate fear brought out these thoughts. Fortunately, as I got over those anxieties, I picked up a few others which I'll have to get over by being not ignorant. We'll see if I make it out of pre-school.
Monday, August 15, 2011
The first open mic
My first open mic was at the Edge Comedy Club. My girlfriend and good friend came too. One of the first things I noticed were the notebooks; practically every comic has a notebook, laptop, or notes on their cellphone. I had a small notebook, which I bought thinking that I was just being prudent. Seeing everyone else with one was a pleasant surprise and comforting, like a tangible connection we all had.
I also noticed the deep concentration that some people seemed to have. There would be people intensely staring at their notebooks, with a 6 foot personal space bubble. I assumed that these were definitely the "pros" who took this seriously. There was also a small group of people laughing and talking before the show started. I figured that they must treat this as more fun than a career. It was a little intimidating because it felt like these were the cool kids who'd be making fun of me after the show.
After the open mic started, at best, I was half listening the whole time, repeating the jokes I was going to do in my head. The night before, I picked out 2.5 minutes of jokes. I went over the jokes almost phonetically, so that I wouldn't think about what I was saying. Some people went long, so by the time it was my turn, I only had about 100 seconds to be on stage. But between the drinks to calm the nerves and the memorization, I couldn't adapt. So, I just said everything twice as fast. Being my first time, the crowd was very supportive, but I was focused on getting through a joke monologue. Since I was rapid fire talking, barreling through it, I didn't enjoy being on the stage.
When the show was over, I felt kind of used, if that makes any sense. The social people still hanging around talked to each other, and the loners left. I suppose I was expecting everyone to bond over a shared experience, but that didn't happen. I questioned my girlfriend and friend at length about how it went, expecting them to remember every syllable, and every reaction the audience may have had. Then I asked them the same questions again, over-analyzing everything.
Ultimately, I didn't enjoy being on stage, I felt rushed, that I wasn't that funny, and some paranoia made me feel judged. However, I said that I'd try it at least 2-3 more times. I started thinking about what jokes I would/could do next. In a way, I was looking forward to something that I didn't enjoy. Weird. I think I know why, but that'll be in another post.
I also noticed the deep concentration that some people seemed to have. There would be people intensely staring at their notebooks, with a 6 foot personal space bubble. I assumed that these were definitely the "pros" who took this seriously. There was also a small group of people laughing and talking before the show started. I figured that they must treat this as more fun than a career. It was a little intimidating because it felt like these were the cool kids who'd be making fun of me after the show.
After the open mic started, at best, I was half listening the whole time, repeating the jokes I was going to do in my head. The night before, I picked out 2.5 minutes of jokes. I went over the jokes almost phonetically, so that I wouldn't think about what I was saying. Some people went long, so by the time it was my turn, I only had about 100 seconds to be on stage. But between the drinks to calm the nerves and the memorization, I couldn't adapt. So, I just said everything twice as fast. Being my first time, the crowd was very supportive, but I was focused on getting through a joke monologue. Since I was rapid fire talking, barreling through it, I didn't enjoy being on the stage.
When the show was over, I felt kind of used, if that makes any sense. The social people still hanging around talked to each other, and the loners left. I suppose I was expecting everyone to bond over a shared experience, but that didn't happen. I questioned my girlfriend and friend at length about how it went, expecting them to remember every syllable, and every reaction the audience may have had. Then I asked them the same questions again, over-analyzing everything.
Ultimately, I didn't enjoy being on stage, I felt rushed, that I wasn't that funny, and some paranoia made me feel judged. However, I said that I'd try it at least 2-3 more times. I started thinking about what jokes I would/could do next. In a way, I was looking forward to something that I didn't enjoy. Weird. I think I know why, but that'll be in another post.
After only a couple of open mics, I learned some things that I wish I knew ahead of time, if only to alleviate some of the worries I had. I'll go over those in another post too.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Goals in comedy
Everyone has their reasons for trying to do stand-up, from passion to greed. You should skip the next two paragraphs if you're even barely familiar with the comedy scene, because it's practically a template.
I'd always loved comedy. As a child I used to listen to my dad's albums of Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby, and Woody Allen. There was an AM radio show that came on really late Saturday nights that I'd record onto a cassette and listen to, over and over. I'd memorize jokes from the "Truly Tasteless Jokes" books. While not really the "class clown", I definitely wanted to be the funny one in just about any group, more by saying things than through actions, (although after watching Forest Gump in the theater I did a pretty mean recreation of his running style in the parking lot). However, the idea of performing didn't really occur to me, just "being" funny was enough.
During college I had a dream that I was doing standup, and I remembered one of the jokes. I told my roommate about the dream and the joke. He actually like the joke and said I should actually try doing standup. I started to note some of the things I'd say in conversation and think "that's pretty good", and keep it in the memory vault. Fear/anxiety and a general laziness kept comedy on the back burner. Then I saw a friend of a friend perform at the Lincoln Lodge having completed some standup classes. Seeing raw amateurs opening for seasoned veterans made me realize that it's not as scary as I'd thought it would be. That's when I started earnestly trying to write jokes instead of just remembering funny things I'd said. I Googled the open mic scene, found some websites and forums, and started doing some open mics.
So, my ultimate goals: I want to occasionally perform in front of an audience of non-comics who came to see comedy. I don't feel a need/want to headline, record an album, or even make a career out of this. Now, that sentence could very well invalidate everything I'm trying to do. But I'll get to that in another post.
There are a few mini-goals that I need/want to accomplish. The most imminent mini-goal is to have 6-7 minutes of material that I feel is really worth doing. What I mean is that an audience would laugh, maybe even remember some of it, but mostly come away not regretting that they just saw it. I'll be getting to those minutes, and how I feel that their "worth" doing, in future posts too.
I'd always loved comedy. As a child I used to listen to my dad's albums of Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby, and Woody Allen. There was an AM radio show that came on really late Saturday nights that I'd record onto a cassette and listen to, over and over. I'd memorize jokes from the "Truly Tasteless Jokes" books. While not really the "class clown", I definitely wanted to be the funny one in just about any group, more by saying things than through actions, (although after watching Forest Gump in the theater I did a pretty mean recreation of his running style in the parking lot). However, the idea of performing didn't really occur to me, just "being" funny was enough.
During college I had a dream that I was doing standup, and I remembered one of the jokes. I told my roommate about the dream and the joke. He actually like the joke and said I should actually try doing standup. I started to note some of the things I'd say in conversation and think "that's pretty good", and keep it in the memory vault. Fear/anxiety and a general laziness kept comedy on the back burner. Then I saw a friend of a friend perform at the Lincoln Lodge having completed some standup classes. Seeing raw amateurs opening for seasoned veterans made me realize that it's not as scary as I'd thought it would be. That's when I started earnestly trying to write jokes instead of just remembering funny things I'd said. I Googled the open mic scene, found some websites and forums, and started doing some open mics.
So, my ultimate goals: I want to occasionally perform in front of an audience of non-comics who came to see comedy. I don't feel a need/want to headline, record an album, or even make a career out of this. Now, that sentence could very well invalidate everything I'm trying to do. But I'll get to that in another post.
There are a few mini-goals that I need/want to accomplish. The most imminent mini-goal is to have 6-7 minutes of material that I feel is really worth doing. What I mean is that an audience would laugh, maybe even remember some of it, but mostly come away not regretting that they just saw it. I'll be getting to those minutes, and how I feel that their "worth" doing, in future posts too.
Friday, August 12, 2011
The reason for this
There are blogs and magazines that deal with the (under)world of stand-up in Chicago. Fans and wannabes like me know the places and players. There's also plenty of musings/advice available from veterans and seasoned amateurs. As a nobody in comedy, I thought it could be interesting to share what it's like to be a nobody.
So, I won't be offering advice, reviews, nor discuss the happenings in the "industry"; I'm not qualified and there are plenty of other sources. I'll be sharing my personal struggles and stray observations of slogging through the comedy trenches that I've dealt with.
To expand a little and give full disclosure, the "trenches" that I'm in are not even numerous enough to be considered a well rounded viewpoint. Being in a relationship, having a full time job with business hours, and a (kind of) social life that is not at all connected with comedy/comedians, the time and experiences that I've been privy to are narrow and limited at best. Therefore, comics of all levels would probably deem this blog as being stupid. If so, point taken, and frankly I would agree.
So, I won't be offering advice, reviews, nor discuss the happenings in the "industry"; I'm not qualified and there are plenty of other sources. I'll be sharing my personal struggles and stray observations of slogging through the comedy trenches that I've dealt with.
To expand a little and give full disclosure, the "trenches" that I'm in are not even numerous enough to be considered a well rounded viewpoint. Being in a relationship, having a full time job with business hours, and a (kind of) social life that is not at all connected with comedy/comedians, the time and experiences that I've been privy to are narrow and limited at best. Therefore, comics of all levels would probably deem this blog as being stupid. If so, point taken, and frankly I would agree.
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