The first time I saw Andy Kline perform was while I was taking the stage for the second time ever at Wise-Acres back in 2002. To give you a sense of where I was in the development of my craft, I wore a Hawaiian shirt because I thought it felt more like, "Hey I'm a comedian!". I had no idea what I was doing. Kline on the other hand, knows exactly what he's doing. My first impression of Kline was that I immediately envied his voice and attitude, everything was said with authority and most of it, if not all of it was honest. He is one of those comics that I really want to listen to when he takes the stage, a rare talent in the area, someone that writes jokes as well as he packages and delivers them.
You have been doing stand-up over ten years? When and where did you first start? What was the experience like?
I grew up in Leesburg, VA back when it was still considered a small town, and have lived in Northern Virginia most of my life. I moved to NYC for four years (2004 to 2008), but wound up getting sick of living there. Hence, my return to VA.
I really have two "start dates" with comedy. The first was March 1994. I did the Wednesday open-mic at the now-defunct Comedy Cafe on K street in DC (It became a Fast Eddie's...there was no public outcry). I had always been somewhat interested in comedy, and I felt like I was funny, but I was also incredibly shy. I was so shy, the mere act of calling the club to ask about the sign up process was painful. Despite the nerves, my first time on stage actually went okay. Not great, but I got a few laughs. My second time, I destroyed. Third time, I bombed horribly, but some of the comics laughed. From that point on, I became sort of a darling on the local open-mic scene. My act was incredibly dirty (this was before "Def Jam" was an insult), but crossed with a shy, deadpan delivery. Picture Steven Wright talking about bodily functions. Plus, I was 19 and looked 15. I stood out. Most of the comics who ran their own shows liked me and gave me spots. But, I quickly found out I was what I call "open-mic funny." I wasn't really "weekend funny," and had no idea how to get to that point. I treated comedy like a hobby for a couple years until all the local rooms started closing. Then, I drifted away from it for a while.
My second start date was spring 1998. I went to a new open-mic at Wiseacres on a Wednesday, did a set (the old bits), and met a few first-time comics. Over the next couple weeks, I met a few more comics who were just starting out. We all became close friends immediately. Probably nine of us. We hung out and talked comedy constantly - literally every available moment. And every person in that group had a ton of talent and potential. I was the only one with comedy experience, so I knew how rare it was for that much talent to just show up and start comedy at the same time. We would actually say things like, "This is like the Seattle music scene in the early 90's, but for comedy." Self importance is only silly in retrospect.
That whole summer was an awakening for me. It's when I really became a comedian. Thanks to my new clique, I quickly found my voice and learned how to articulate my opinions in a funny way. To this day, when I write a bit, I'm trying to impress those guys. I still feel like if you put us all in a room together right now, I'd be at my funniest. No group of comics I've hung out with since has had that kind of chemistry or affect on me.
I have a feeling I sort of know what you are getting at, could you elaborate on "open-mic funny" vs. "weekend funny"?
At an open-mic, you have a very short set and the crowd has probably seen a bunch of comics already. Since the crowd is already somewhat jaded, the context of your set is different. You can make fun of the previous comics. You can say something extremely shocking or dirty and get laughs because of how ridiculous it is. You can get away with rape and abortion jokes. You can also throw out a half-written premise that only has one punchline. It might get a huge laugh, but instead of finishing the bit, you can say, "Come back next week. I'll actually write that one," and get a laugh from that. You can take a prolonged look at your notes, then blurt out an absurd observation. The odd timing alone will bring laughs.
On weekend shows ("real" shows), the crowd probably isn't going to follow you into edgier/dirtier stuff unless you've earned their trust first (or you're famous). They also won't tolerate too many half-written bits before losing interest. They get restless if you thumb through your notes on stage. On the weekend, you need a polished act that flows together. Within that, you can take some liberties and go off on tangents, but the crowd has paid money to laugh, so they need to believe you can bring it. I've spoken to lots of people after paid shows who've said, "I can't believe that guy was looking at notes on stage," or "That guy seemed drunk. That's unprofessional." Obviously, a lot of those people are full of shit, but that's where they're coming from.
At a real show, the crowd has expectations that you need to fulfill. At an open-mic, their lack of expectations are enough to get you a few big laughs. It's just a different set of buttons that you need to push.
That's really cool to hear you talk about a group of comics that supported each other, so often I think people assume and can make, stand-up a strictly solo endeavor. Sounds like a group that spawned confidence but with the necessary feedback?
The feedback was the key. We were brutally honest with each other. It wasn't the stereotypical support group mentality. You could go on stage and absolutely destroy, then have three people in the back telling you what you did wrong. We were rarely satisfied with just doing well. Of course, part of that was due to the lack of open-mic's. For a long time, Wiseacres was the only place to get a spot, and that was only once a week. Between sets, we had a week to micromanage every little aspect of our bits before returning to the stage. When Wednesday came around, the stage time was extremely valuable. We didn't have the luxury of saying, "I'm just going to phone it in tonight. I'm getting on three more times this week anyway." The people who did that; the ones who, a minute into a set, shrugged their shoulders and said, "I don't care...I'm just fucking around" - they remained mediocre.
Your experience in New York, beneficial? What did you get sick of? I'm a better comic now than I was before I moved, but I don't think New York had much to do with it. I think it's just the natural growth that comes with time. You can get on stage a lot in NYC, but much of that stage time is in front of empty chairs or jaded comics. Unless you're passed at a few rooms that actually give you quality spots, you're not going to develop much. Either that or you'll develop a really narrow, specific persona that isn't broad enough to command a crowd for more than fifteen minutes. You have to get out of the city and stretch out a bit.
The real goal of moving to New York is to get noticed by the industry. I've always done well with crowds, and other comics generally like me a lot. But, the industry barely knows I exist. I've never drawn the attention of any noteworthy managers or agents. In that sense, New York was a total failure for me. Part of that was my fault. NYC is a city for hustlers and I'm no Rick Ross. I'm terrible at networking.
There's also a randomness in NYC that makes you want to claw your eyes out. Have you ever been in line at the bank for a half hour, then when you get to the front, the teller says, "actually, you need to be in
that line," and points to a longer line? That's what it's like. You can work your ass off for months to make something happen only to have it completely fall apart in a day. There are tons of comics in NYC who have the same story. "I spent eight months trying to get in with that club...the guy really liked me...then one day, he stopped returning my calls. That was two years ago." You can get lucky and make good connections, but it's rarely a meritocracy. There's always someone higher than you who has half the talent. And nobody knows how it happened. Also, when a booker says, "You're funny, but we've already got funny white guys," you can't help but to feel like cattle. Things like that killed my motivation in New York.
As far as living there, I liked a couple things about the city, but I much prefer Virginia. I miss the pizza. I don't miss the piss.
Do you still feel like you're growing/evolving in your own comedy? The growth is a lot more subtle now. In the early days, I could look at a tape of myself from a year ago and see obvious changes. Now, last years tape looks pretty much like this years. I used to be more self aware about my growth, especially as a performer. I would go onstage and intentionally try to sound angrier. The next week, I would say it more with a smile. Then, maybe slow it down or speed it up. From each one of those lessons, I could piece together elements of performance that worked better for me; things I would have never thought to try unless I forced them.
At this point, I don't think I've grown too much as a performer in a long time. I know what my strengths and weaknesses are and I play to them. I'm probably looser now, and more willing to improvise, but not in any obvious way. Any notable growth that takes place now is in my writing. I go through stretches where I try to get more ambitious and make larger points in my bits. Sometimes it works, often it fails. But that's where I push myself now.
As a writer, it's easy to test yourself. When you write a new bit, ask yourself if you could have written that bit a year ago. Be honest. When you're first starting out, the answer is probably no. As you gain experience, it's harder to draw the same conclusion. You have peaks and valleys, and you often plateau. Right now, I feel like I've plateaued a little bit. I haven't written anything in a while that makes me fell like I've taken a big step forward. But, I've been thinking a lot bigger lately, so it's only a matter of time before that seeps into my act. Early on, the stagnation can freak you out. After a while though, you realize it's just part of the growing pains and it'll pass. I don't think about it consciously anymore. Every now and then, I just realize I've grown a little.
As far as growth, do you still feel like you learn watching other "A" room comics? Or has the veil been revealed far too often and for too long? Anybody that comes through that you say to yourself, "I can't miss his/her set".
First off, it's just as important to know what you hate as it is to know what you like. Watching bad comedy can be as enlightening as watching your favorites. I still watch A room headliners with a critical eye. I mostly look at how they initially take the stage and how they introduce new topics. Segue's are often forgettable. Once you're into a bit, the crowd doesn't even remember how you got there. When a segue stands out, it's usually because it was clumsy. With the best comics, transitions are generally seamless, so you have to make a real effort to spot them. I look at little things like that.
I also check out the way comics use their voices and bodies. For example, a comic who moves around a lot will usually stop moving on the punchline. They'll lean forward slightly, too. Also, if you watch a show at an A club, you'll often notice that the feature talks louder than the host, and the headliner talks louder than the feature. The more polished you are, the more authority you have over the crowd. Not that headliners are shouting or anything, they just have a more commanding presence. I also love watching the top comedians handle hecklers. I'm particularly fascinated by that.
You should never take another comics jokes, but you can sometimes take a piece of their mannerisms or vocal rhythms. Just not in an obvious way. Right now, the must-see comics for me are Bill Burr, Marc Maron, and Louis CK (though it's hard to see him in a club these days). I wish I could see more of Dave Attell and Patrice O'Neal, but I never seem to catch them. Also, I never miss anything from Chris Rock or Dave Chappelle.
(Part 2 coming soon...)
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Every time I pass by the movie "Groundhog Day" on cable, if I can, I wait for this part: (9:15 minute mark) Bill Murry well into the monotony of his curse and about to move out of denial and into anger, has been boozing down with two Puxtawney bowling-alley regulars and laments, "What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same and nothing that you did mattered?" To which Rick Overton's character gives the lone reply of, "That about sums it up for me". Overton's reply resonates, especially for comedians, who have ventured out onto the stage in search of validation and the approbation that their voice is relevant and what they do matters.
