Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

The thing about running a club, it’s a thankless job. It takes a lot of work and patience, made
worse by lack of support from the venue itself.
Time and time again I’ve heard club owners- even at established places-
tell the same story, that the venue expects the club owner to bring in the
crowd while doing little to nothing to promote the events themselves. It takes a lot of patience to push through
it. I should know, I co-founded Taboo
with a partner at one venue and five seasons later we were at a third venue and
I was running the club virtually alone. Night after night the only people in the bar
were there to see the show and when the bar came under new management, they
thanked us by giving us the opportunity to pay them so we could have another
season. We declined and Taboo was dead.

When I got a chance to open a
place on my own I took it. Now Crossfire
is in its second season and I really like the venue, but my relationship with
them is just as tenuous as ever.
Stability just doesn’t come with the territory, so it doesn’t surprise
me that clubs come and go. I’ve seen a
few rise and fall over the last few years, but there’s one I miss more than any
other: Copperfields. Get a bunch of
comics together in a room and it won’t be long until we’re swapping war stories
from that place.

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Copperfields started not long after I did, founded by a
sweet old man that loves standup, loves performing, loves being on stage. What he lacked in ability to effectively run
a club in a good venue, he made up in enthusiasm, which created a very surreal
atmosphere. If I’m hungry for stage time
now, I was starving then, so I went every night. At first.
After the first month I started to wonder why I bothered; there was
little to no crowd (five people for the show was a good night), the place was
lit up like an operating room, there were TVs throughout showing football and
you couldn’t always count on the staff to turn them off, and there were a lot
of alcoholics there for cheap beer and the Jack Vegas slot machines at the back
of the room (one night, one of them turned around from Jack Vegas and screamed
“SHUT UP!” at the comic on stage). If I
was lucky, I’d make someone smile or maybe even get a chuckle. I stopped going so often.

Then, at another club, I bombed
for the first time. Hard. It happens to everyone, but when you first
start in standup, it’s a boogeyman. You
know it’s only a matter of time before it will happen for the first time and
you’re afraid of what it will feel like.
Spoiler alert: it sucks.

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On a Wednesday, I told a friend after a show that I didn’t care
what the crowd thought of me. On
Thursday, I went to Solna Comedy Club (RIP).
I was so excited, my set was to be twelves minutes long. Twelve minutes! I had less than six months experience by that
point and twelve minutes was more than double the sets I was doing
elsewhere. I invited a bunch of people
and ten of them came to see me. I was up
first and the microphone was wireless, the first time I’d worked with one. It seemed that if I moved in any direction it
caused massive feedback, so I stood as still as I could. The speakers were behind and just above my
head and it sounded like I was screaming, so I held the mic by my chest. Unfortunately, everyone that had come to see
me was standing at the back of the room and couldn’t hear a word I was saying. There was no stage and I was standing
directly next to a table full of people who didn’t know there was going to be a
show and were very irritated that I was there.
Another table nearby was full of people there for comedy and they were
laughing, but I didn’t know then to focus on them and shut out everyone
else. Instead, I started sweating
buckets, delivering material while thinking, “No one’s going to laugh at this.
No one’s going to laugh at this.” After
six minutes I gave up, saying, “Well, I just bombed for the first time. My name’s Ryan Bussell.” I saw my girlfriend laugh at that.

That was the start of a four-day
holiday weekend, which I spent in a dark funk.
All I wanted to do was to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my
head. To this day my girlfriend shudders
at the memory. But it was important to
me as a comic. Certainly I’ve bombed
since then but not nearly as badly. It
still sucks, but it’s easier to deal with.
In any case, I learned a humbling lesson: I do care what the audience
thinks. Or, they don’t have to agree
with me or even like me, but they do need to pay attention to me.

__________________________________________________________________

Copperfields was my return to the stage after that debacle
and I had an epiphany- if the crowd didn’t care about me, I didn’t have to care
about them. I wasn’t getting paid, I had
absolutely no responsibility to anyone.
I could do what I liked, try new things, move around on stage more, try
new styles of delivery. I expected
little and got it and I was happy. I was
free. As a direct result, I never had a
bad time there.

Inexplicably, Copperfields added a second night every week
and I went then, too. It had earned a bad
reputation by then and a lot of the comedy community stayed away, which meant
even more stage time for those of us willing to deal with it. I learned that if a joke earned a chuckle
there, it would get an applause break at another club. For all of that and more, I am honestly
grateful that the club existed when it did.

At the time though, I don’t
think I yet appreciated it as a training ground to the extent that I do
now. Back then, I kept going out of pure
fascination, because I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next. In fact, my opening line on that stage was,
“I love coming here because I always get surprised. On my way I think, ‘There’s no way it could
possibly be worse than the last time I was there,’ but somehow it is.” You might think that’s a shitty way to start
a show but it always worked because it was obvious to everyone there that this
was not quite what they’d expected a comedy club to be like.

_________________________________________________________________

There was a comic there almost
every night, let’s call her X. It seemed
like she was co-running the club, but if this was official it wasn’t
clear. What she lacked in ability to
entertain a crowd, she made up in enthusiasm, which created a very surreal
atmosphere. She was usually the first
act and joked that the reason she got so much stage time was because she was
sleeping with the host; once, a female comic asked her off stage if that was
true and X started to sob. A ukulele and
“ribald” songs were a significant part of her act, one night causing a comic
with plans for a UK tour to erupt in laughter.
The host mistook that for laughing with her, and after X was done he
introduced her to the comic. “You should
take her with you!” She beamed with
pride, he squirmed with discomfort.

_________________________________________________________________

There was the time, the only
time, a certain comic was there to headline.
He sat at the comics’ table at the back of the room with his head in his
hands, mouth and eyes wide open. When he
took the stage he addressed the six people in the crowd, “I’ve been here all
night and I have to ask- why are you here??”

_________________________________________________________________

There was the time two people
showed up, the only two people in the room other than comics. For the first time, I talked to someone from
stage, found out one of them was visiting from Gothenburg. “Let’s pretend you came all this way to see
me, okay?” I performed, essentially, to
an audience of one and we had a blast.

_________________________________________________________________

There was the time the bartender
gave me a beer on the house and said, “You’re the funniest one that shows up
here.” The same night I mocked the
Halloween decorations on the ceiling and the St. Pat’s decorations over the
bar- it was August- and he never spoke to me again.

_________________________________________________________________

There was the time a woman teaching
a comedy course brought her class to Copperfields for their first-ever
gig. I couldn’t imagine a more hellish
first time, but one of them was quite funny.
Maybe that was a good test after all.
I encouraged her and she stuck with standup for a while longer, which is
more than I can say for her classmates.

_________________________________________________________________

Since so few comics were asking to be part of the show, the
host added music to the bill. First half
comedy, second half open mic for music.
Which was fine, in theory, except the time I was up fourth and there was
a full house, a rare event, which was exciting.
Unfortunately, the first two comics still bombed. The third comic was more of a pro and
actually got the crowd going, so I was happy to follow him. Before I could, though, X walked up to
me. “There’s a band here playing in the
second half, they have drums in a car double-parked outside so they need to set
them up now.”

“Now?! But the crowd is finally warmed up!”

“They won’t take long.”

They took twenty minutes. Three college kids setting up an electronic
drum kit. The host went up and
ineffectually tried to improv and keep the crowd happy. X did the same, with the same result, playing
the same song she’d played fifteen minutes earlier. A couple of guys in the crowd doubled over
laughing, the same way that comic had done before, called her to their table
when she was done and asked if she could play that song just one more
time. She beamed with pride, went up on
stage and played it a third time. After
that, despite the kids not being done, I walked on stage. “Hi everyone!
I want to thank my backup band for taking so long, after my hour on
stage we’re going to have a huge climax.
They’re great guys but they don’t have much sense of TIMING OR KNOWING
WHEN TO GET OFF THE STAGE.” The crowd
liked seeing me vent bile on them and the kids got the point, scurrying off the
stage.

_________________________________________________________________

As time went on, the line between comedy and music vanished
and the nights got even more chaotic.
You might be third on the list to go on stage only to have the host
throw a musical act on instead. During a
season premiere, due to renovations in the main room we had to move the show to
a small corner upstairs. There was a
stage, albeit tiny, and a small crowd to match.
The host didn’t bother with a setlist for comics, leaving it up to us to
decide. Which we did, but he still threw
music acts on as he liked. Including an
opera singer who, shockingly, didn’t go over well, followed by a three-piece
band that wouldn’t leave the stage after they were done. This made the already small stage even
smaller, so we could barely move when we were up there. We could’ve sat on the snare kit. The drummer got the idea to do drum rolls for
random punchlines, which delighted a one-liner comic to no end (and by “delighted”
I mean he hated it).

When it was my turn I got heckled, which happens so rarely
that while I do hate it overall, I sort of appreciated it that night. I had mocked the crowd for having no pride in
Sweden, not knowing that the proudest woman in Sweden was there. She barked at me then and would later shout
out random words like “flag” and “Vasa Museum”.
I had fun beating her into submission.

The “comedy” portion of the show being over, we just
left. Which is kind of a shame, because
it turned out that the season premiere was also the club’s finale, and if I’d
known that then I would’ve stayed and had a few drinks in its honor. Copperfields, you were the worst of clubs and
the best of clubs. Thanks for the
memories!

There’s a club owner
in Stockholm with some very outspoken views on what is and what isn’t standup. He and I have had the same conversation on
this topic a few times; being a comedy snob myself, I enjoy talking to people
who make me feel less extreme. As
judgmental as I can be, I do think standup is an enormous umbrella, covering a
wide range of styles and techniques. I’m
not a huge fan of standup involving a guitar, a puppet, or any props now that I
think about it, but I still consider it standup. His view is that standup is a sort of
conversation with the crowd, a connection with them, so it’s only standup if
the comic has a natural, conversational tone on stage.

While I don’t agree
with him to such an extent, this is something that’s been on my mind quite a
bit, and I’ve touched on it now and then in various blog entries. The Stockholm scene is so active and open, we’re
spoiled as comics. Getting stage time is
easy- there’s no paying for spots or dragging people into a club to pay a cover
charge and 2-drink minimum. One can be
brutally, embarrassingly unfunny and still manage to get spots. Obviously one is not going to get a lot of
experience and longer sets without any talent at all, but the fact that someone
like that could manage to get a spot or two a month does say a lot about
conditions in this city.

There are a few
reasons for this. There is at least one
club in operation every night of the week, the majority of the clubs are free,
and the two biggest open mics are each open several nights a week. But the biggest reason is that standup itself
is still relatively new in Stockholm, compared to New York or London. Crowds, for the most part, are polite, and
heckling is rare. When there is heckling
it’s usually just some drunk being rude and not especially challenging to shut
down. Most importantly of all, crowds
are patient, especially at the open mics where there can be ten, fifteen,
twenty comics on the lineup. Three or
four comics in a row can bomb and while the crowd will hardly be enthusiastic
about it, they haven’t walked out, either.

Because of this, there
is a small but thriving genre of standup here that doesn’t need laughs, that
just involves the comic saying his (almost exclusively male, in this case)
piece and leaving the stage feeling like a success. This is something for which I have a tremendous
amount of respect, because when I perform, entertaining the audience is the
last thing on my mind. I need them to be
entertained, of course, because I don’t enjoy bombing and I do want more
opportunities, but I want to have all the power instead of the other way
around.

But… and this is what’s
been nagging at me. This particular
style of standup exists in a vacuum. It
doesn’t matter if there are two, twenty, or two hundred people in the
audience. It feels more performance than
standup. If the crowd enjoys it, it goes
very well. If they’re not into it at
all, it doesn’t. In either case the
performance is exactly the same. There’s
no connection with the crowd, no adapting to the current conditions of the
room. The performer exerts no control at
all to determine how well, or how poorly, his or her own set goes.

This, then, is the
problem as I see it. Some of the
toughest, most successful comics- or performers, let’s say- have years of
experience. They know how to work a
room, how to build a good feeling and connection with the crowd, but often
choose not to. This is inspiring,
perhaps, but for good and for ill. It is
all too common to see rookies emulating that behavior from the start. “I’m going up on stage and saying what I want
to say and fuck the crowd if they don’t like it.” It gnaws at me because I love that, in
theory. In reality, it translates to
someone going up on stage for the very first time, to dead silence from the
crowd, and four minutes into a five-minute set saying something like, “So then
I got my third finger into her asshole…”
(Guys- we can talk about literally anything when we’re on stage. Why do we love talking about anal sex so
much?)

Performers aren’t
limited to sex and politics, though. Another
example, involving the aforementioned club owner- One night, we were watching a female comic
who usually does quite well, but the crowd wasn’t going for it this particular
evening. Minute after minute of silence
slowly passed and it didn’t seem to faze her at all, since the delivery, beat
for beat, word for word, was exactly the same as the last time I’d seen her
kill. He started pulling his hair
out. “What is she doing?” he hissed.

“She’s going through
her script,” I replied. I doubt she felt
good after plowing through the rest of her set, but the crowd’s reaction or
lack thereof, hell, the crowd itself was irrelevant. She might as well have been at home,
performing in front of a mirror. It’s
interesting to me that she didn’t perform as a character- for some reason, the
ratio of female characters vs female comics is higher than male characters vs
male comics- but despite the conversational delivery, there was no connection.

It’s a tricky thing,
choosing to be a performer instead of an old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill
conversational comic. On the one hand, they
stick out and get a lot of positive attention, particularly amongst their
peers. On the other hand, that complete
surrender of control to the crowd is more than I could deal with. There have been nights when I went to a club
with a set in mind but found the room would not support it, so I changed my set
to adapt. On many of those nights,
despite very tough conditions, I managed to do at least a little well, and even
if I was grumpy about not being able to do what I’d wanted to do, I didn’t feel
like I bombed, either. If I was a
one-liner comic or performed as a low-energy character, there’d be no way to
adapt. I would bomb and just have to
hope that the next time I performed my set exactly the same way I’d do it for a
better crowd.

In any case, while it’s
been on my mind I have no final judgment on the matter. I don’t think it’s better to adapt to the
crowd than stick to one’s guns and not adapt at all. Considering the amount of respect performers
get from other comics, it’s probably better to be that way. But I can’t help but feel that it is a
failing to completely ignore the environment and the audience, and I’ll always
have the most respect for comics that kill no matter what. On the bright side, the Stockholm scene
supports however one wants to be.

”Adam and Eve were in
the Garden of Eden and Adam said one day, ’Wow, Eve, here we are at one with
nature, at one with God, we’ll never age, we’ll never die, and all our dreams
come true the instant that we have them.’

And Eve said, ‘Yeah…
it’s just not enough, is it?’”

– Bill Hicks

His joke was meant as
a slag on women never being satisfied, but I’ve applied that to my own life
more and more over the past few years.
Once, long ago while I was married for the first time, a good friend asked,
“Are you happy?”

“I’m satisfied,” I
replied. She got angry. “That’s not enough! You deserve to be happy!”

“I’m satisfied,” I
repeated. “How many people can say the
same?”

It took several years
before I had to agree with her, I did deserve more than I’d had, did deserve to
be happy. I met people who made me feel
interesting, I left someone who made me feel lousy about myself and found
someone who truly appreciated me. My self-esteem
skyrocketed, to the point that I was ready to follow a life-long dream of
trying standup.

Since then, standup
has all but totally consumed my entire life.
Certainly my life revolves around it, from gigs to running clubs to the
vast majority of my acquaintances and friends all being involved in standup in
one way or another. Even while not doing
anything standup related, it occupies most of my thought while awake and often
creeps into my dreams. I get a lot of
ideas in the shower, for some reason.

I’ve come a long, long
way in just under four years. Well over
500 gigs, performed in several countries, two comedy clubs, even get paid now
and then. I’ve always been passionate
about comedy and now I’m devoting my life to it. That feels wonderful!

….And yet, I can’t
shake the feeling that it isn’t enough.
Years ago I said I was unhappy but satisfied, now I say I’m happy but
unsatisfied. The more I get, the happier
I become, the more I want. On the one
hand, that hunger is a good thing because it keeps me motivated, keeps me
chasing new opportunities. But it would
be nice to relax and say, “You know what?
My life is pretty great, I’m going to enjoy what I have.”

That feeling, in
regards to standup, anyway, increased recently.
I read the event info for another show and next to each performer’s name
was a quick summary of their accomplishments, as in, “So and So (Norra Brunn
[Sweden’s most prestigious comedy club], podcast, etc)”. I knew mine would read, “Ryan Bussell
(shitload of open mics).”

It was then I decided
to create a few opportunities of my own, rather than wait for doors to open to
me. Instead of waiting to be asked to
guest on one of the Legion of podcasts hosted by my peers (despite never
listening to podcasts), there must be some project or another I could develop
myself. (Actually, several months ago,
since everyone has a podcast, I recorded the first episode of a new show with a
friend; then we both lost interest because everyone has a podcast.)

I got involved in one
project with friends, one I’ve been asked not to talk about. Suffice it to say, it’s one of those things
everyone, including myself, has talked about doing forever but never actually
does. We will. Probably.
Comics are a flighty bunch.

I put a show together
with three other ex-pats, two Americans and a Canadian, called Team
Amerika. The ambition is to take that
show all over Sweden. How close we come
to that is anyone’s guess, but we have a debut show on the calendar at least.

A few days after my 40th
birthday, I’m headlining Friday and Saturday at Maffia Comedy, one of the few
shows in town that charges admission. I
have friends in video production that are going to record both nights and my
plan is to edit them together into one special, like an old HBO One Night
Stand. I even have a name for it: Simply
Resistible. (I’ll probably go with “Love
Refugee” for the next one.) Will it
work? I have no idea, but I’m going to
try.

To top it all off,
despite saying for years that I never would, I decided to email Norra Brunn for
a spot. I figured, what the hell? Lately they’ve had a bunch of rookies on
their stage and I thought I’d give it a shot.
Thing is, the most common way to perform there is to be invited by an
established comic. I don’t have that way
in, at least not yet, but I do have a few respected comics who will put in a
good word for me. Probably. Comics are a flighty bunch.

Maybe I’ll get a
chance to perform there. I’ll get five
minutes at a very prestigious club that will look very good on my resume and
maybe I’ll do very well and maybe they’ll have me back in the next six months
to do another five minutes. I’d be happy
for the chance, but I’m still passive about it.
I’d rather focus my energy on longer sets for a wider audience. Besides, I did five minutes at Norra Brunn
once already. Sure, it was before the
club opened, during a special event for rookie comics, but I’ve got a picture
of myself on stage with the Norra Brunn backdrop and that’s really what
matters.

Life has been pretty
challenging, mostly due to my apparent inability to remain employed, but for
the first time in a long time, things seem promising. I have comedy projects and a long-overdue
wedding coming up, not to mention moving to a more manageable apartment close
enough to my ex that I can spend every other week with my daughter instead of
every other weekend. Shit happens and
one never knows what to expect, but on paper, at least, everything points to a significant
increase in happiness. Satisfaction,
however, will likely remain elusive.

At one point in the
documentary I am Comic (a brilliant film, by the way, and highly recommended)
there is a segment with the inventor of “Comedy Evaluator Pro”, a fairly basic
program that measures how good a comic is based on the amount of laughter
and/or applause during their set. They
say a comic is worthy of headlining generates at least 18 seconds of laughter
per minute, which gives a score of 30.

When I saw that, it
went against everything I believe about standup. I was reminded of Robin Williams in Dead
Poets Society, instructing his students to tear out the introduction in their
poetry books that stated all poetry can be broken down into formulas. Of Andrew Dice Clay essentially bombing at
Dangerfields for his album The Day Laughter Died and saying, “Comedy isn’t
about laughter.” Many of the most
powerful things I’ve heard comics say weren’t very funny at all.

Still… it stuck with me. I’ve always been curious about it because I
knew it was available online, but I didn’t feel like paying for it (and I am
useless at torrents, unless you deem downloading viruses to be successful). But now I felt like I had a little money to
spend and it could be something interesting to write about, even if I ended up
with a sobering score. Imagine my glee
to discover it was free to try to 14 days.

It’s as simple as I
saw in the film- listen to a recording of your set, hold down the spacebar
whenever the crowd is laughing and/or applauding, ignore individual
reactions. The inventor is clearly
sensitive to the criticism he’s received for this program and defends it by
saying comedy may be subjective, but at the same time, no matter what a comic
does, dead air is dead air. His
suggestion for long setups is to throw in a joke or two to keep your score up
and it’s hard to argue with that.

I evaluated an 18-min
long set that I did in 2013 and posted on YouTube, one of the best sets I’ve
done, definitely the best one ever recorded, and one that I still send to club
owners hoping to get spots. I hadn’t
watched it in a long time and even without using the program I thought how old
it seemed, about all the “uh…”s and using too many words. Feeling like I need to get a new recording,
hoping another year of standup since then has improved me somewhat.

Despite all of that,
it was a good set and the crowd was one of the biggest for which I’ve
performed, focused and generous with applause.
I got a score of 21, or a B, which was pleasantly satisfying. On the website they have a list of scores
from several different comics and seeing Bill Hicks with a 55 and Steven Wright
with 64 wasn’t surprising.

What is surprising is
that I didn’t come away from my experience with this program with a sour taste
in my mouth. As I said, the whole idea
of using software to review and apply a score to a performance is revolting,
but I can’t argue with the basic idea of needing less dead air in a set. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to secretly
record my peers and see if they get lower scores than me.

During the season
finale at Crossfire, Eva went around to comics and asked them, ”What do you
think of when you think of Ryan?” She
thought it would be fun to make that list, because what could possibly go
wrong? Here’s the list *:

– Beard (well,
obviously)

– Candid. Too candid.

– Beard

– Beard

– Beard (growing a
beard was one of my best decisions but I didn’t think it would define me)

– Handsome (well,
obviously. Love that one, it came from
another comic’s girlfriend)

– Annoying idiot (came
from that comic)

– Psychopath (more of
a sociopath, really)

– LEGO figure (now it’s
just getting personal)

– Beard

– Iranian (racist
Swedes)

Not on the list:
funny. Thanks, assholes.

I’ve mentioned before
that my reputation is important to me, so I was very pleased during a Christmas
party thrown by comics, for comics, to be nominated for Sexist Comic of
2014. Didn’t win, but it’s still an
honor! I’m not sure exactly why I was
included, if it was just totally random or because I’ve said I don’t want to be
thought of as sexist, despite making sexist jokes and comments. The standup scene is far from perfect and I
want to be part of the solution, not the problem, though I also want to be able
to say whatever I want without consequences.
I want to have my cake and fuck it, too.

It may have been
because of an incident at Maffia Comedy.
I’ve also touched on this before- I had a routine, Women Rant, the
punchline essentially being, the reason women can’t find nice guys is because
they’ve changed all nice guys into assholes.
It came across as very women-bashing, obviously, although my intent was
really to make fun of guys who think they’re nice but are, in fact,
assholes. I myself was the
inspiration.

It was a routine that
always worked well in Sweden, so I used to close with it, to applause (Swedes
either got my real message or just hate women, I’m not sure). In other countries it was hit or miss, mostly
miss. Worked in Paris, not popular in
London, nor Dublin. In Berlin it was met
with stony silence and when I said, “Ok, how do I turn this around?” a guy
yelled from the back, “Get off the stage!” so I did. (Have to give a shout out to Johnny Armstrong
who went on after me and blasted that heckler.)

I should’ve read that
particular room better, it was ultra-Hipster and a mix of standup, music and
poetry (the act two spots before me was a lesbian who said “Kill me” about
forty times). In any case, my theory as
to why it worked in Sweden so well and not so well in other places is that
standup is still relatively new here, while elsewhere crowds might just be
tired of seeing yet another guy bash women.

Women Rant was
semi-retired because I’d done it easily 100 times and was pretty tired of it,
but I brought it back when I got an urge to perform in Swedish a few times. I was reminded, quickly, of a slight problem
with this- I can do harsh material in English (say I hate Swedes, call them
assholes) and get away with it, but not when I say the same things in
Swedish. Not sure why, maybe it’s just
easier to accept coming from me in a different language. Anyway, I performed the bit at a club well north
of Stockholm called GASTA, a wonderful club although harsh material doesn’t
seem to go well there in either language.
They didn’t like it very much, but I switched to English to end with
Personal Question (me asking a woman in the crowd, in detail, how her
boyfriend/husband performs oral sex on her).

Here’s the thing with
Personal Question: I look around the room before I go on to find a potential
target, best when it’s a couple, most importantly a girl who’s enjoying the
show and isn’t likely to have a meltdown when I start talking to her. I keep an eye out while doing my set as well. I’ve always had a fear of asking the wrong
person, of ending up getting pounded by an offended boyfriend, but in my
experience, the tougher her guy looks, the more he enjoys the bit. In fact, one guy in particular, a real
bruiser, slowly moved away from his girl while I talked to her and she
literally dragged him back.

The crowd at GASTA
tends to be a bit older than the average Stockholm crowd and there weren’t many
good candidates, but I spotted a woman on the opposite side of the room with
potential. She was sitting with a
tough-looking guy and he was wary at first, but I told him, “It’s okay, I’m
engaged, we’re just talking,” and he relaxed.
After I was done she was pleased as punch to be made part of the show
and became a small distraction for the other comics because she wouldn’t stop
talking to the others around her about the experience, and her boyfriend walked
out in disgust. Made me worry that I
wasn’t going to be the one hit that night.

The next night I was
back in Stockholm at Maffia and did exactly the same routine, with the same
result for Women Rant. Place was packed
and there was one girl that clearly did not enjoy it at all. Finishing with Personal Question, despite all
the warning signs and there being several other women I could’ve spoken to, I
picked the girl who didn’t like me.
Perhaps out of spite, perhaps because I am self-destructive.

But she was there with
a guy and a few other friends, so I thought she could be a good choice after
all. She wasn’t. She was cold as ice throughout the whole
exchange, but her boyfriend enjoyed it, her friends enjoyed it, everyone else
in the crowd enjoyed it, and I ended my set on a good note. When I left the stage and passed her, I folded
my hands and looked her in the eyes as if to say, “Sorry if I made you
uncomfortable, but everyone had a good time, so thanks.”

I got a beer from the
bar and went to the side of the room to watch the next comic. I could see that she was making her entire
table leave with her, but they were waiting for the comic to finish their
set. Crap. When the host took the stage they all got up
and walked out, but she walked straight up to me and I could feel waves of hate
coming off of her. You know how it is
when someone is so pissed they don’t even blink? That was her.

“That was the worst
thing I have ever heard. You come here
with your sexist jokes and tired clichés..”
“Whoa, I’m sorry! I had no idea you were on your period!”

(No, I didn’t say
that, didn’t even think of it until a female comic made that comment
afterwards. I knew there was no point in
arguing with her, especially while there was a show going on, so I just kept my
mouth shut.)

“… and I should throw
that beer in your face!”
“Could you? It will make this story better.”

(No, didn’t say that, either.)

“Don’t ever do
that again!”
“You’re upset, I’m not
going to argue with you. I’m sorry you
were offended.” She walked out.

So I ended it with a
non-apology, rather than point out that everyone else in the room, especially
her friends and boyfriend, all enjoyed it.
Not that I think it’s worth it, making her pay the price for everyone
else to have a good time, but more because it would’ve been fun to deflect some
of her rage at other people. With any
luck her boyfriend slept on the couch that night.

It did shake me a
little, though. I had no intention of getting
rid of Personal Question, but Women Rant’s time had come. Certainly done to death, plus I couldn’t be
sure crowds really understood the point I was trying to make. So the next two shows I did, I considered
Women Rant’s Farewell Tour, in English.
I did the routine without any special note, then told the story about
the angry woman at Maffia. During both
shows, people applauded during and after the routine. I’ll miss it.

* The list may have
been altered for comedic purposes **

** The list was altered for comedic purposes. My blog, my truth.

In the weeks leading
to the premiere of Crossfire Comedy Club, although I knew I wanted to do
something special with it, something to make it different from any of the other
open mics in town, I still didn’t know what that would be. At Taboo Comedy Club, my former partner and I
discussed having special theme nights but never did any of them; since then,
other clubs have run with that ball, so I didn’t want to do the same. (Carlin once said, “I’m ahead of my time.
Trouble is, I’m only about an hour and a half ahead.”)

I went to a comedy
awards show and felt it was a very small group handing out awards to a slightly
larger group of comics. Since the comedy
scene in Stockholm is enormous, I thought how nice it would be to recognize
more people. Then I thought, why not
have an awards show at the end of Crossfire’s season? Then thought of having a competition at the
end, then decided to make the competition last the whole season. I had my idea and it would have other
benefits, which I’ll mention later.

Competitions are
pretty common in other places, but not so much in Stockholm. I started here in a rookie competition that’s
sadly discontinued and another club had a season-long competition but closed
after one season. It’s a tough thing to
judge but I do believe it’s mostly positive because it gives comics a reason to
try a bit harder in a friendly environment.

The setup was simple-
five competitors a night, the audience would vote by applauding at the end and whomever
got the loudest response would win.
Towards the end of the season I even got an app for my phone to measure
it with more accuracy. From the start I
made no secret of the fact that comics who packed the room with friends would
have an obvious advantage. By the end of
the season we had twenty comics over two nights of semifinals that had two
weeks to come up with up to five all-new minutes each, and the crowd decided
which four should go on the final. At
the final, the crowd had a vote but there were three judges as well, each with
the same amount of say as the crowd, which made the crowd vote more or less symbolic,
at best. That was intentional.

There were a few
grumbles during the season that the setup was a bit unfair, but not too much,
at least not until after the second semifinal.
Then I heard much more complaints, that having the crowd vote at the end
wasn’t a fair assessment of talent, that even the comics themselves could
scream for a high score (though that didn’t happen, not once), that I should’ve
been counting laughs during the performances, etc etc etc.

To be honest, there
were a few cases when a comic advanced almost entirely thanks to supporters in
the room. But, as I made clear to all, it
was something everyone had an equal opportunity to take advantage of. In theory, one comic’s supporters could
refuse to laugh at the other comics and sit on their hands during the voting,
but that never happened either. The
reason I had judges at the end was to have a real evaluation of talent.

Here’s the thing-
besides wanting to motivate the comics to do their absolute best, I also wanted
to motivate them to bring people to the show.
I wasn’t paid to run the club, it was free entry, I had no budget to
speak of, no way to market the events or pay comics to perform. The only way I could get comics there is to
have place I hope they like and feel welcome.
The only marketing I can do is on Facebook, Twitter, and word of
mouth. I’m very happy to say that we
managed to get a few regulars even during the first season, people that shared
events on Facebook and brought others to the show. As comics, we’re pretty spoiled for stage
time in Stockholm, and many do very little to tell others about the clubs. It can be a challenge just to get scheduled
comics to even click “coming” on an event they’re scheduled for, much less take
two seconds to share it.

It takes some of the
fun out of running a club, but I get it, no one wants to annoy others with
constant advertising and spamming. I
understand that because that’s what I need to do to have a club. A crowd means the venue wants to keep the
club going, a crowd means the comics will have a good show. At Taboo, it was rare that a comic brought a
group to see them, so I knew having this sort of competition would be more
successful than me just asking the comics to push the events.

Overall, it wasn’t the
deciding factor for the vast majority of the twenty that got into the semis;
most advanced thanks to love from complete strangers. Bringing supporters didn’t always translate
into a win anyway- one comic brought a huge group, most of whom left after
their performance, apparently missing the memo about voting at the end. Another filled a table near the stage, a
table I had to remind, repeatedly, to pay attention during the show, and a
table that gave a pretty lackluster response during voting.

(I can relate. I once brought an enormous group to watch me
compete during a similar competition in Dublin, and even the host thought me
winning was a foregone conclusion. When
it came time to vote at the end they didn’t do a thing. People suck.
In my defense, English wasn’t their first language.)

I am happy to say,
however, that the feedback I’ve received from comics has been overwhelmingly
positive, about the competition in general and also for making everyone do five
new minutes during the semis. At this
point I’m hoping to start a second season there in February and I’ll likely
keep that competition going. I don’t
intend to change the format.

The
average person starting in standup has no training, no experience on stage
whatsoever. Now and then someone starts
at a bit of an advantage; I’ve met several people in just the last year that
came from theater backgrounds, or even took courses in standup. Still, in nearly every case, we start with no
self-confidence, no feeling of security, a bit of awe and wonder about it all
and respect for the comics we meet that have been doing this for years.

Over
time, though, that awe and wonder, and even respect, fades away. We have too much confidence in ourselves and
feel like we deserve every gig we ask for, like club owners should be asking us
to perform instead of the other way around.
We grumble when other comics get the opportunities we don’t, when they
get more time on stage than us, even if they have significantly more experience
than us. Awe and wonder give way to
hubris and bitterness.

And all
of this happens in six months.

It
doesn’t happen to everyone, but it’s happened around me, and yes, even to me,
so many times in just my four years in standup that I’ve noticed the
trend. It surprises me every time and
not at all. It happens for a number of
reasons:

– We’re
HUNGRY. Whatever the reason that drives
us to the stage in the first place, once we start we want to perform
everywhere, for as long as possible.
Every club is a goal and every club we don’t get gnaws at us. When we’ve done open mics for awhile we want
a place with a little more prestige, whether or not we’re actually ready for it.

– Why
not me?! I love our community and there
is a lot of support to be found amongst comics, but we’re competitive,
too. We often smile when a peer gets a
great chance that we haven’t earned yet, but we don’t smile with our eyes. We can name several reasons why that comic
succeeded where we didn’t, but, “That person is more talented than I am,” never
makes the list.

– We’re
not as good as we let on. Or, rather, we
aren’t as confident in our abilities as we express to others. We don’t ever
say, “That person is funnier than me,” but we worry, “Do people think that
person is funnier than me?”

The
only thing, besides blind luck, that opens doors everywhere is experience,
performing in as many places as possible, as often as possible. I thought that was universally accepted, but
I was disappointed recently when a high-profile comic publicly announced that
this is a myth created by white men, since only white men get that many
opportunities. I thought this was
insulting, not only to comics as a whole, but especially to the women I see
hunting and working and struggling and being rewarded for their efforts.

At
the same time, though, I can’t say I was surprised. This is a person who does very well by
performing exclusively for special events and niche clubs. It’s something I’ve noticed among other
rookies, myself included, that we can do very, very well when the crowd is
very, very good, but bomb when the crowd isn’t there for us, because we perform
the same way no matter the environment.
Maybe they just aren’t into our styles, or they don’t have much
experience going to clubs. Maybe the
venue itself isn’t the best for comedy.

The
comics I respect, I’ve seen them go into rooms where everything is wrong for
comedy, from the venue to the crowd, and turn it around. That’s a talent I respect and it comes only
with experience. When I can do that,
when I can adapt and at least survive whatever gets thrown at me, that’s when I’ll
stop referring to myself as a rookie.
Are you killing it only in special events and niche clubs? Welcome, fellow rookie! We are a wonderful community.

When it comes to counting gigs, some comics keep excellent
track, others haven’t the slightest clue how many they’ve done. I’ve seen enough updates on Facebook (“Tonight’s
my 50th gig!”) to get the feeling that more keep count than would
like to admit. I’ve met several that
kept counting for a while and then stopped.

I doubt anyone has ever been as anal at tracking their gigs
as I was. I can’t remember exactly why I
started, although I was tracking them from the first gig. Partly as a diary- I’d make a note if it was
my first time at that club, or if it went really well or very poorly. But mostly it was the number that I focused
on. Not only the total, but how many I
averaged each month. I even charted it in
Exel because, well, I could. Chasing a
high average pushed me and I was proud to see that I was doing five gigs a
month in 2011 and fifteen a month by 2013.

I think the main reason I kept such good accounting- besides
taking standup very seriously- was that I met a comic early on who told me he’d
done 300 gigs in his first three years.
That number felt absurd to me, like there was no way I’d do that many in
my first three years, but I was determined to try.

It’s important for me to note at this point that I never
thought this would impress anyone; I kept counting for no one’s benefit other than
my own. Still, when I hit my 100th
gig a few months after my one-year anniversary, I made a big deal of it. Announced it in advance on Facebook, wore a
jacket and guyliner on stage, told the crowd it was my 100th gig,
and partied afterward. Less than a year
later, I hit 200. Didn’t make a big deal
of it at all, though I mentioned it on Facebook with a self-deprecating comment
of, “I guess I don’t have an excuse to not be funny anymore.” Which was an opportunity for a FB ‘friend’
who didn’t like me very much to write, “No, you don’t.”

Months before my 3rd anniversary, I hit 300. I didn’t mention it to anyone. Certainly I was proud of it, proud that I’d
been so active, had earned so many opportunities outside the Stockholm open mic
clubs, but it didn’t make me as happy as I’d once expected. Just a few months into my third year, I hit
400. By that point, even I didn’t think
it was especially interesting, and I wasn’t so quick to update the list or make
any notes about the gigs. By last summer
I wasn’t updating the list at all.

Now I’ve had some time on my hands, so for shits and giggles
I updated the list with the gigs I’ve done and those I’ve got in my calendar,
and I saw that I will hit 500 well before my four-year anniversary in March
2015. Again, I am proud of that, to a
certain extent, proud of all the places I’ve been in such a short time, that I’ve
found gigs in eight countries, and I’ve got interesting gigs on the horizon. I know I have over 90 minutes of material
that’s been worked out on stage, that works.
90 minutes in over three years may be nothing compared to Carlin or
Louis CK writing new 60 minutes every year, but I’m nothing compared to them as
well, so I’m satisfied.

Still, I know I have a lot to learn, and I’m not convinced I’ve
found my true voice on stage yet. I’ve
said before that I set a high standard for myself and I am the first to say
that, despite coming up on four years and 500 gigs, I am a rookie comic. I know someone who doesn’t feel they’re a
rookie because they have three years of experience; I know someone else who
referred to oneself as an established comic after six months. Years, gigs, they’re just arbitrary numbers
that mean nothing in and of themselves, it’s the meaning we give them that
matters.