The Time I Bombed Trying to Open for Peter Frampton
“What happens if nobody laughs?” people ask.
“Nothing,” I tell them. “Literally, nothing happens.” No one is laughing or doing much of anything. Maybe self-loathing personified decides to occasionally kick the weak when he’s down in the form of a heckle or boo, but other than that nothing happens.
Internally, everything is happening. Thoughts race, feelings emerge, issues of anger and/or insecurity come to the forefront or recede deeper into our subconscious, per our choice of response to each varying degree of disappointment. Our feelings likely run the same gamut as those of all human beings off stage in any realization of failure on display. It’s the worst.
Call it what you will: Sucking, tanking, going down in flames, it all means the same thing. Eating my dick, seems to be the latest contemporary slang for a failed set, which I can only speculate refers to its being an awfully pathetic act of self-abuse that each of us least wants to do. Most universally it is known as bombing, another etymology I can only speculate as suggestive of the unanimous death in the room resembling that of a small village after being hit with a bomb. The crowd is “dead” - not in the good way; but devoid of energy, and their lack of joy has returned the favor to the comedian, his ego and confidence. Everyone is checked out and gone, said void filled either with judgment, sympathy or disgust.
Everyone bombs. Every comic you’ve ever seen, as well as just about every bit you’ve ever busted a gut laughing at, has bombed at some point en route to the marriage of its perfection meeting the crowd primed to appreciate it. The construction of a bit, whether long and ranty or a short one liner, is like the evolution of a barber’s haircut drawn out over weeks, months or years in a barber’s chair set on a city sidewalk for people from all walks of life and mentalities to walk by at all different times throughout its development to voice their opinion, as if it were finished. Of course, we’ve all had our hair cut hundreds of times, and thus all are aware that if we see the man with the clippers still looming over a funny looking “do,” there is still work to be done; whereas comics don’t get such a pass. Every audience assumes and expects, understandably, that they are receiving a finished product. I paid to see a show.Give me “your show.” Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Wedo not work like that. It’d be nice if we could – trust that we wish as much as you do for our bits to be completed fresh off the notebook. But a bit is not a bit until it’s been worked out many times in experimentation of how it impacts others. Like skateboarders have to try new and increasingly difficult tricks to become great, we must constantly work out new material, often crashing and burning, breaking our pride, dislocating our energies, getting bruised in the process. So while all art forms are attempting to connect and create a dynamic with its recipients, ours is one where immediate connection wholly defines it. We have to see and feel how it is received, and then based on the quantity and quality of the people in that room we can begin to determine how we can improve. It is a long term, polygamous relationship in which you probably only get to fuck us once. Sorry. We’re whores; whores who are required to be always adding to our repertoire if we wish to grow.
For all intents and purposes, each crowd as they exist takes on the mindset of one individual. A blind date, if you will. Some start awkwardly, but turn great once the ice is broken. Others start wonderfully but hit a mutual wall of disappointment that leaves both parties considering removing their online dating profiles as soon as they get home. Some dates are downright awful the whole time, some are so good they lead to the bedroom that night, and/or to the altar eventually.
For a new/young comic, bombs feel pretty similar to what laypeople might imagine them to (this is logical, as the brand new comic is still very much a layperson). It’s humiliating, with every joke being thrown out more desperately from their heels like Apollo Creed going inevitably down in flames against the Russian. Like a rookie baseball player in the first week of the season who is so far 1/10, his sample size is still minute. He boasts an embarrassing .100 average, which over a full year would get anyone sent down to the minors. What’s important to keep in mind is there are still 25 weeks left in the season.
The veteran comic, by contrast, has had between 5-10,000 at bats. Sure, he’s struck out, popped out, and hit into double plays nearly 2,000 times, but he’s batting .800 career, for Christ’s sake. He’s good. He knows he’s good, and everyone in “the league” who’s been around for any respectable amount of time knows he is never in danger of being sent down to the minors. He is mostly unfazed by your silence, comfortable in taking his time to think how best to respond to your heckles. Laughter need not come tonight, as it has already come countless times before, and is sure to come again tomorrow or the next night. So, although bad sets still exist as disappointing missed opportunities to connect and enjoy, they eventually taste, digest, and come out the other side much differently through a vessel of greater information, confidence and awareness. Blame, if it exists at all, turns more outward than inward, and the significance of each set diminishes as it becomes a smaller mathematical part of his lifetime batting average.
We never saw Jerry have a great set on Seinfeld. We heard about great sets and could assume they made up the majority of his track record, as his character was a professional comedian who’d appeared on The Tonight Show. Surely this was no amateur; but he and Larry David both knew that if a live set was to appear in an episode it had to go poorly, because failure is funny.
Watch any sitcom, movie, or any comic on stage. Misfortune and disappointment are the integral themes of every joke, as everyone knows there is no humor in great wealth, good looks, a level-headed peace of mind, or getting the girl, performing immaculately in bed and manifesting the perfect marriage. The only thing funny about that is how apparently unrealistic it is for most. This calls back to the reality that there is nothing at all ironic about comedians’ ultimate embrace of misery or symptoms of depression. Spare us the praise for “finding the humor in bad situations,” as bad situations are the actually the only places to find humor, and there is also a part of us that loves to laugh at the suffering of others.
Unfortunately, my mother and cousin were present for one of the most explosive bombs of my career. I’d gotten booked for a $500 feature spot at a theater in Englewood, Jersey, an unheard of gig for such a young comic. What was the catch?
“The catch,” which was not intentional, was that I was opening for a nationally famous musician who I was apparently a jerk for having never heard of: Peter Frampton, a legend in many circles, one of which would surely fill the theater, a demographic of mostly blue-collared, middle-aged, white biker types from middle and southern New Jersey. Guys whose middle school manifestations hated mine for being an honors class pussy with parents who loved him. Guys whose adult manifestations hated mine for being a hip hop, wanna-be, dumb “wigger.” It was quite possible I was not the right man for this job.
I researched Frampton before the show and became acutely aware that I couldn’t do the same jokes I’d been doing in the Bronx. Still in only my embryonic stage of development, I felt a bit dishonest telling the booker that 20 minutes would be “no problem.” I figured it might be a stretch and/or problem, but my 26-year old brain existed mostly between an admirable confidence and delusional arrogance that I could do anything, at least on one given night. Any given Sunday, as they say,not to mention that no comedian is ever going to turn down a challenge or money, let alone a coincidence of the two. And it wasa Sunday! As Mom and cousin were coming from opposite directions than I from the city, the plan was to meet after my set and go out for dinner to celebrate (mourn).
I waited alone backstage, Frampton nowhere in sight. I wore the only outfit I owned that didn’t obviously scream Hip Hop. A removal of my crooked baseball cap, slightly less baggy jeans, and a sweater instead of a hoody, although it was still Polo, with sleeves longer than my arms, much baggier than anything anyone in the building had ever owned in their life, truly a pathetic attempt. I looked like a white guy trying to look black trying to look white.
A disturbing calm came over me just before preparing to go on stage. While excessive nerves should be tamed with positive thought, breathing or whatever works for you, a complete absence of nerves is never a good sign either. A healthy amount of adrenaline beforehand is more than just normal, but almost necessary to do well. Personally, I’ve never had a good set drunk, as alcohol induces a very organic physiological apathy, which in spite of wanting to care very much, makes it impossible to connect with one’s listeners. On the other hand, the experience of nerves mean you care enough to calculate, think on your toes, and ironically, that you believe you can do it. In hindsight of my Frampton experience, I may have been intuitively precognitive that this was all wrong, and beyond some unforeseeable miracle there was no way it could go well.
The external situation was poorly set to boot. The crowd filling the venue was not made aware of any opening comedian. Stand-up is a relationship, and like any good relationship requires active listening, a different frequency and demand than music, which can be more passive and discontinuous. Inexperienced show producers classically make this mistake. They want to mesh two of their favorite things, comedy and music, in hopes of the result being greater than the sum of its parts. Sadly, this usually works about as well as George Costanza’s attempt to combine sex with watching sports and eating his favorite sandwich. Add to that the fact that the crowd was geared up for one of their very faves of all time, and Unknown Joke-teller is given a steep hill to climb.
As I stood behind the curtains with the stage director dividing his time and manic energy between whoever was giving direction into his headphones and tending to me, coordination seemed disheveled. I knew I’d be going on soon, but figured it would be after some kind of introduction to a dark room of seated people.
The house lights were still on. People were filing into their seats and there was no host or announcement over any speaker, when suddenly the stage director nudged my shoulder: “Go, go, you gotta go!”
“Right now? Just go and… What?”
“Yes!” he panicked. “We gotta get you off by 8:20, go!”
Little did he know this set wouldn’t make it anywhere close to 8:20.
I felt as naked and alone on the stage as laypeople imagine we feel.
“Hey, hey,” I weakly greeted them with the assertiveness of the guy who knows he has no chance with the girl.
“Take your seats, everyone.” I felt compelled to instruct them to where I desperately wished they already were.
God, the room was bright, and I could see them all. As nobody knew as much, and I didn’t know any better creatively, I dutifully informed them: “I am… a comedian – just here to tell you some… jokes, before the great, Peter Frampton comes out.”
A lone cheer in the distance for Frampton… people were still filing in. It’s never a good sign when you feel the need to practically apologize for your presence on stage or explain what you’ll be doing.“
“Take your seats, take your seats,”I continued.
I had nothing. No segue, no idea of where to begin, not an ounce of confidence in my pubescent well of material or the experience to improvise through such unexplored terrain. It was unlike any setting I’d yet been thrust into, and as feared, I was unqualified for the job.
I tried a since retired mediocre joke and got nothing. I tried two or three more of the same and got even less. Most of my stronger bits were geared more to the Bronx and urban crowds, and I hadn’t yet really learned how to write more universal material. As the lights finally went out in the house, the proverbial lights were going out on my set. Three strikes on stage are usually enough to acknowledge that you’re out.
“Alright,” I acknowledged the elephant in the room: “you guys obviously weren’t feeling those jokes…”
It was awful. I was rapidly dying, and like that quick realization of being physically overmatched in a fight, I had no idea how to get out of the stranglehold. I’ve got nothing for these people.
Disdain is as contagious as laughter, and the sentiment in the room became quickly unanimous. I can’t recall whether the first boo or heckle came first, but one surely immediately followed the other. It is rare for most humans to mature much past mob mentality, so once the green light is given for any animalistic behavior, it tends to snowball. It couldn’t have been much past 8:10 when the theater-filled boo’s looked and sounded no different than the notoriously disapproving Apollo Theater. They grew louder and more expansive. Finally someone started the perfectly two-syllabled “Frampton” chant, and although I had not yet been given the official signal to exit, this Monty Python-esq tirade was clearly demanding my time was up.
I thought of the show bookers sitting in the crowd. I thought again of my mom and cousin, and wondered where in the crowd they were sitting. Might they have been seated next to one of the loudest, most vicious hecklers in the room? Might they have beenthe loudest, most vicious hecklers in the room?
“Frampton” chants poured down like rotten tomatoes, and finally I couldn’t help but laugh at the scenario (at least one of us could amuse the other). Although I don’t remember myself ever booing someone off stage, I surely have silently done so in my mind, and been “that guy” in the stadium at sports events and had a blast every time. I knew the show was a bad situation to begin with, and the blame wasn’t entirely mine. I felt okay. However, as soon as I decided to hopelessly join in the “Frampton” chant into the mic, I knew my time was up.
I exited just before 8:15. The stage manager offered me a pat on the shoulder and an apology, handing me the least deserved $500 I’ve ever been given in my life. In fairness, there would be literally thousands more instances I’d earn $20 or even $0 in exchange for performances worth at least $500. Like accidental squibbed base hits in baseball, the good luck balances out with how often we get shafted.
I went backstage and quickly grabbed my things. Frampton wasn’t there, thank God. I’ve never so badly wanted to avoid meeting a celebrity. Is he even here yet? Who cares…
I snuck out the backdoor, praying not to see anyone who’d been in the theater. I wished I could change back into Clark Kent (or backinto Superman). Suddenly, I was 17-years old again, attempting to dart stealthily away from a wall I’d just covered in graffiti. My walk transformed into a scamper to go meet my mommy.
I heard a voice in the quiet suburban distance, a man outside the theater on his cell phone: “No, yeah, he still hasn’t gone on yet. Some comedian...” A pause, then a chuckle: “Poor. Very, very poor.” Of course I believed him, and felt bad about myself.
I called Mom and told her to leave – that I would not meet them in the lobby per the original plan. She understood. We sat down in the restaurant and Mom looked at me: “Those people were horrible! So rude! I’ve never seen anything like that!”Moms are the best.
I never heard from the booking company again. I think they shortly thereafter folded tent on the showbiz pursuit, returning back to the more stable world of high finance, their original trade. Is it possible my brightly lit expiration drained all of their hopes for success or belief in ability to spot talent, and I’d single-handedly shut down an entire company in just 15 minutes of bad jokes?
Although I’d been “wrongly cast” and the situation was poor, it left an awfully sour taste in my mouth. In typical human fashion, I chose to transform my inner sadness around it into outward anger and labeled the experience as (all) white people prejudging me, which caused me to hate them in return. I made the decision that my humor was not for white crowds, as they could not appreciate or understand me, in spite of the fact that this was a very specific kind of white crowd and I’d still only boasted a microscopic sample size. Apparently I learned how easily one can become racist: No more than a pinch of experience and a dash of maturity with a huge helping of rejection, and the broad strokes flow in excess. The fact is I’d just been a newbie in way over my head, still without the tools or experience to handle the curve balls, obstacles, and bullshit that come to comedians on a regular basis. As we finished our Chinese food and drove from the suburbs of Englewood, New Jersey over the bridge into Washington Heights where I lived, I thought it to be symbolic. I was back home, back amongst “my people,” ironically I suppose. I was done with suburban, white shows. I just didn’t want to feel that way anymore.
Sorry, Pete.
