Thursday, November 30, 2006
The feeling I get just before the compere calls my name
...is exactly the same feeling I get when the executioner calls my name just before I step onto the guillotine platform in a public square in 18th Century revolutionary France. The difference is that my impassioned speech in favour of the royal family and the natural heirarchy of some men over others wins me my freedom in the first scenario and doesnt in the second. It's the number one reason I chose comedian over 18th century french aristocrat in my career, even though I look great in a silly wig. So the real reward of comedy for me is the permission to live, truly. It's a mild ecstasy of relief as you release (EDIT: im leaving that in as an example of a freudian typo) you don't have to die. Last night was a classic case in point: as I realise it's my turn next, my heart starts thumping, my vision narrows and all humour drains from my body. I remind myself that this is not only natural but helpful to get a bit nervous and whats more, I've proved to myself that it doesn't matter: I can still perform and make it a memorable night. (Careful readers may notice I will be using this precise sentence in slightly different context in the next topic). The weird thing is that just as it becomes obvious that you're about to be introduced, it all falls away because your body has gone into a new mode of being - Resigned Terror and the genuine desire to show off like the class clown you always were. Personally, my problem has never been being funny per se, it's overwhelmingly about letting it out. Even to myself. At my core is this continuous stream of whispering commentary on whatever I think im seeing around me but it's buried under so many layers of shite that I find it hard to access most of the time. Rather, it bubbles up naturally and I have to either be lucky or fake it. Increasingly, it comes out for a few seconds or more when Im performing. When I can get to the stage where it comes out and stays out, then I'll call myself a proper comedian and then i'll know whether I'm really any good or not. I like that, with the exception of Dane Cook, comedians go far because they're really really good at their job. It's often the precise opposite in other professions.
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...is exactly the same feeling I get when the executioner calls my name just before I step onto the guillotine platform in a public square in 18th Century revolutionary France. The difference is that my impassioned speech in favour of the royal family and the natural heirarchy of some men over others wins me my freedom in the first scenario and doesnt in the second. It's the number one reason I chose comedian over 18th century french aristocrat in my career, even though I look great in a silly wig. So the real reward of comedy for me is the permission to live, truly. It's a mild ecstasy of relief as you release (EDIT: im leaving that in as an example of a freudian typo) you don't have to die. Last night was a classic case in point: as I realise it's my turn next, my heart starts thumping, my vision narrows and all humour drains from my body. I remind myself that this is not only natural but helpful to get a bit nervous and whats more, I've proved to myself that it doesn't matter: I can still perform and make it a memorable night. (Careful readers may notice I will be using this precise sentence in slightly different context in the next topic). The weird thing is that just as it becomes obvious that you're about to be introduced, it all falls away because your body has gone into a new mode of being - Resigned Terror and the genuine desire to show off like the class clown you always were. Personally, my problem has never been being funny per se, it's overwhelmingly about letting it out. Even to myself. At my core is this continuous stream of whispering commentary on whatever I think im seeing around me but it's buried under so many layers of shite that I find it hard to access most of the time. Rather, it bubbles up naturally and I have to either be lucky or fake it. Increasingly, it comes out for a few seconds or more when Im performing. When I can get to the stage where it comes out and stays out, then I'll call myself a proper comedian and then i'll know whether I'm really any good or not. I like that, with the exception of Dane Cook, comedians go far because they're really really good at their job. It's often the precise opposite in other professions.
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