Clubs Closed, Comedians Search for Laughs Offstage
Maria Bamford was supposed to be returning from a comedy festival in Michigan and getting ready for a gig in Vermont when coronavirus came to America. So Bamford improvised. “Instead of traveling, I'm [offering] a couple hours of quote unquote ‘helping people online,’” she says. For just $25 (which goes towards the Downtown Women’s Center), the experimental comedian who just released a superb new special, will hold court with a stranger over the phone. “I'll help with anything,” she says.”But mostly it's been people wanting help with comedy writing.”
Bamford, who’s also been hosting comedy shows for parties of one over Facetime (“a weird experience, but once-in-a-lifetime”), is one of a number of comedians using their newfound ample free time towards creative means. Thrown into a situation that’s no laughing matter, and stripped of stages on which to perform, the people previously paid to crack jokes are taking to apps like Zoom, TikTok, Facetime, and, in particular, Instagram Live. Some comedians have fashioned their quarantined lives into absurd sorts of reality shows, broadcasting themselves (to a greater extent than usual) to the world. And others are hosting facsimiles of their weekly shows from their living rooms, bringing a lineup of guests onto their streams.
The transition from club to couch can be a tricky one, as Catherine Cohen—one of GQ’s 2019 “Kings and Queens of LOL”—found out last Wednesday night, when she moved her weekly Cabernet Cabaret (usually held at New York’s Club Cumming) to Instagram Live. As host, she donned an elegant red dress, sipped from a martini glass, swayed to some vintage lounge music, and performed her act, singing cheeky originals as a grandiloquent version of herself. Cohen was initially worried that performing for just her smartphone (and her boyfriend) would “feel psycho,” but she quickly settled in. Instead, it was the app itself that caused problems—glitching when Cohen tried to welcome guests.
But the biggest divergence from her live shows to a live-streamed one became clear when the other comedians actually made it on. Where Cohen did actual material, most of the guests reverted to what can be best described as performative chatting—hamming it up with their host while attempting to instill levity into a bleak moment. “We're all tweeting through our self-isolation and trying to make the best of it, but it is hard for me to think about doing my normal jokes when I know that there are so many people who can't self-isolate and who are worried about their jobs,” says Joel Kim Booster (also GQ royalty), one of Cohen’s guests. What materialized took diaristic comedy to the extreme—we weren’t just hearing about these peoples’ private lives; we were seeing them, bathrobes and all. The guests, most of whom were friends of Cohen’s (and fellow millennials), weren’t always funny, but they were all noticeably comfortable in the form.
The question of how to proceed amidst a slow-burning tragedy, though, remains one many comedians are wrestling with. “I don't want to make light of the situation, but I don't want to treat it totally somberly and soberly,” says Ike Ufomadu, a Brooklyn-based comic known for his dry, deadpan delivery. “Maybe there's some way to embrace the gravity of the times but make it lighter and more manageable.” (After we talked, Ufomadu landed on reading Anna Karenina—all 864 pages of it—on his feed.)
Performers who do find a way to thread that tricky needle have already been met with a large, receptive (and often otherwise bored) audience. Clips of Norm Macdonald and Cardi B (one of America’s great comedians when she wants to be) addressing coronavirus have gone viral. And Brian Volk-Weiss, the CEO and President of the production and distribution company Comedy Dynamics, says that with so many people at home with free time on their hands, demand has never been greater for streaming entertainment. The company, which has managed to continue business as usual, is planning to move specials initially slated for late summer up to May and June. Volk-Weiss reluctantly says that the disaster has “definitely [been] a boost for our business,” even as they cut prices.
And Volk-Weiss is of the mind that comedians who release material into this vacuum will benefit when the crisis is over. “People will remember who made them laugh and who distracted them from the chaos outside,” he says.
But unlike other national tragedies, when this all ends, a lot of people won’t have much disposable income to pay the comics forward, leaving stand-ups like Never Not Funny host Jimmy Pardo to wonder: “When people are able to go to the comedy clubs, will they have the dough to do it?” Some shows that were scheduled for this spring are being reslotted for the summer or fall—assuming the corona curve flattens by then. But in a recent article for Vulture, Daily Show correspondent Roy Wood Jr. astutely pointed out that there could be a trickle down effect, where big names bump smaller ones: “If you’re a performer that’s getting canceled right now or set to perform at a comedy club in the fall, your dates may not be safe.”
Some comics, of course, count themselves as fortunate to make their livings doing jobs that are unaffected, like writing for television, hosting podcasts, or doing voice work. But those who rely on touring or supplementing their art with day jobs are among the millions of Americans whose livelihoods hang in the balance. Naturally, it’s frightening. For comedians, the absence of stage time is also existentially daunting. “It's a symbiotic relationship,” says Jo Firestone, who hosts the weekly Brooklyn show Butterboy (which has also moved to a live stream format). “The comedians need people there to laugh and give feedback. And the audience needs the comedians to make them laugh.”
That symbiotic relationship, Maria Bamford says, is the real reason she started doing the help sessions and the comedy shows-for-one. “Feeling useful is a huge human need, which is why I'm calling the sessions 'Help Me, Help You, Help Me'—because it's all helping me. I need structure and I need some way to feel connected.”
Bamford says this as she is quite literally helping me help her. After an initial interview, I call her back, hoping to learn first-hand what her help sessions entail. After warning me that her advice may be harmful, she asks, “What made you interested in this topic in the first place?”
"I was curious what comedians would do in a situation that’s so unfunny."
“And as a writer, is there any personal part of it?”
"Just finding a different angle to cover a big story, and bringing value," I reply.
“That could be the through line!” she says, ecstatic. “Maintaining a sense of relevancy and usefulness. Whether it's GQ, or a writer, or a comedian, I think everybody wants that feeling of being needed.” At that, the crowd (...of one) went wild, and the comedian stayed home happy.
A queer industry that depends so deeply on person-to-person connection is moving from the bars and the clubs to the live streams.
Originally Appeared on GQ
