At the beginning of the year, Charles slid into my DMs. He was getting married in the fall and he wanted to have a comedian at his wedding. I discussed the details with him a little more on Instagram and over the phone, and said “alright, let’s do it.”
That’s what my mouth said, anyway. My brain took me back to the handful of private hell gigs I have done – a particularly disastrous corporate Christmas party where I killed for 10 minutes then bombed for the next 20 immediately came to mind – and said “this could be a really terrible idea.”
Like most comics who are trying to wring old TV credits for all they’re worth, I take private gigs to pay the bills. A little roasting at a birthday party here, a little doing standup at a golf course there. They are, as a baseline, tougher than the average club spot or alt show. The audiences are a crapshoot. Sometimes they’re looking over their shoulders a little more than usual, not wanting to piss off the boss or guest of honor. Sometimes, they’re completely indifferent, treating you more like elevator music than a real live human being hired to entertain them. I’m rarely the cup of tea for your average corporate entertainment booker – I’m not clean and I don’t pretend to be – but when one of them decides to take a flyer on me and book me for a gig, I always do it. Personally, I like the comedic exercise, even if it’s the comedy equivalent of doing wind sprints until I puke.
I’ve learned it’s better to be open than closed.
“The very essence of playfulness is an openness to anything that may happen, the feeling that whatever happens, it's okay... you're either free to play, or you're not.”
John Cleese
When I started doing comedy in earnest 13 years ago, I didn’t know that you shouldn’t be a closed-off dick. I would go to the open mic at Jack Sprat Café in Chapel Hill, sit there, plan my set in silence, deliberately not laugh at people, do my set, hang out for a little bit, then drive back to Elon, thinking "yep, that's how you do comedy!” My mindset was the same as a shitty reality show contestant: I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win.
At first, other open micer guys would approach and try to talk to me, but I was so deliberately standoffish that they’d get the hint and head to their own table. Because I wanted to take comedy seriously, I thought that meant I had to be deadly serious. That actually wasn't the case.
The man who made me realize this, by bombarding me with small talk, was this guy Alex. A gigantic blond Bostonian who I can only ever picture wearing Patriots gear. He was the force for friendship I needed back then. A benevolent guy ready to make sure the new kid navigating the high school lunchroom of comedy wasn’t sitting by himself, eating a sad sandwich.
Alex opened me up to the idea that part of doing comedy is hanging out with comedians. Little by little, mic by mic, he showed me that all the commiserating and riffing and shit-talking wasn’t frivolous; it was the only way to keep you out of your head.
Sure, stand-up is you, on stage, by yourself, but that doesn’t mean comedy is a solo activity. Like all artists, you need to have a sense of community. You need friends you can confide in, acquaintances you can talk shop with, colleagues you can praise in passing. You need clubhouses that feel like home base, and you need to take field trips to remind yourself that you shouldn’t rest on your laurels.
Comedy does not exist in a vacuum. You need to be open to the idea of being around other people who you might not have ever been around before if you weren’t in the same dive bar signing up for the open mic.
I handled Charles and Darla’s wedding the way I'd handle any other roast: I did some research and got to know my targets. We got coffee in the summer, me and them and their dog, and talked about how they met, how they became a couple, how they got engaged. I ask them to tell me the flaws they overlook because they are in love, and they tell me the inconsequential secrets that will become material in a few months.
It’s strange to think of a wedding from a place of detachment, as just another audience I am tasked with entertaining. I keep this in mind – and the request that things be kept relatively PG – as I prepare.
I arrive at the reception with plenty of time to observe the people and the surroundings, collecting the data I need to be present. I eat passed apps. I talk to the bride, the groom, the best man, the wedding coordinator. The DJ and photo booth operator both ask me if I’ve done this before while we eat dinner. “Not exactly,” I tell them.
I notice that this is an emotional crowd, so I decide to keep my off-the-cuff remarks light and stick mostly to the material. I’m here to entertain, after all, and going full Don Rickles mode doesn’t seem like it would go over well when there are people crying during toasts.
The time comes for me to start my set, so I take the wireless mic and charge through the crowd as they applaud.
“A comedian at a wedding, how weird!”
I stand next to the couple and introduce myself as a stand-up comedian and professional roaster. A murmur ripples through the crowd. I make eye contact with the father of the bride, sitting about 7 feet away from me, front and center. Moment of truth.
“Thanks for dressing up, sir.” He laughs. The crowd follows. I grin. “You look like you just finished coaching a church basketball game.” More laughter. Turns out it’s easy to dress down someone who’s already dressed down.
The rest of the set goes well. Turns out wedding guests aren’t like corporate drones at a Christmas party – they’re actually there to enjoy themselves. Plus, they’re already a little tipsy. Win-win.
After I introduce the speeches, I stand to the side by the yet-to-be-cut cake. I make mental notes for future sets: drop your expectations. Remember you’re there to do what you do best. Allow yourself room to look at things differently.
There's a myriad of reasons that comics say the hang is just as important as the stage time. My reason? Because the hang is where you truly learn to be open.
Openness begets community, and vice versa. You need to open yourself up to being a part of the scene, not apart from them. That’s not to say you have to like everything happening in a scene, but you need to be open enough to experience what’s on offer. For instance, I will continue to crow, at any chance I get, about how much of a cancer I think pay-to-play Slotted mics are on a comedy scene, particularly in LA. But I went there, I did that, I bought the overpriced bottle of water, and then I allowed the experience to inform my opinion. Maybe you’re the kind of person who would rather do the Stockholm Syndrome version of comedy that they provide over the waiting game of a bucket mic, but for me, I know that I don’t get much out of rooms full of indifferent people paying more attention to their phones than whoever’s on stage. To me, that’s not community.
What has really been cemented for me thirteen years into taking comedy seriously is this: I think that seeking a group of people who are in your corner, and whose corner you are in, is a great way to be better at comedy. The more I try to be open, the more I feel the need to dive into the community. Sometimes the waters are cold and choppy, but it has always been worth the plunge.
Feel free to hire me for your wedding.