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![]() Click for stage events The Depths of Humor A journey into Chicago's emerging comedy underground
It's Friday night, and comedian Tony Sam stands outside the Lincoln
Restaurant in a turkey suit. He's got a mic in his hand and a guy with
a camera is filming him for a "Man on the Street" bit. The cord from
the camera runs back to a screen in front of a live audience inside the
restaurant's back room. Sam yells at taxis as they go by, trying to get
someone--anyone--to talk to him.
Nobody does. A pair of guys with foreign accents walk by, but even as
Sam tries to engage them in conversation, they chuckle and walk past
him. The turkey suit, it seems, is only for comedic value. Finally, in
an air of desperation--Sam has one of those Jerry Lewis comedian's
voices that pitches into almost a whine--he turns around to the
windowsill, where he's placed what looks like a small whiteboard. On
the board is a map of--Chicago? "Now," he says into the mic, "it's
time for the weather report," and you can see there are a few numbers
on the tiny hand-drawn map. "Ooh, the high is fifty-eight--that's
nice," Sam continues. "And down here, we have a new record low." He
says what he's illegibly written on the board as he turns up to look
in
the camera. "Shitting in the cat's litter box."
The joke plays perfectly inside the back room. Laughter fills the
small space, and Sam hears it, even from outside the restaurant, and
slightly grins. "I just had to go," he hams. "It's OK, I just
scooped it out."
Tony Sam is a stand-up comedian. He loves performing, and it shows.
But he's from Chicago. And Chicago, as Sam will tell you, is not a
stand-up town. And yet they still perform. You could see stand-up in Chicago every
single night of the week. In the back rooms of bars and the side rooms
of restaurants, comedians are getting up on stage with just a
microphone
and telling jokes that make people laugh. And just recently, within the
last year, stand-up is modestly flourishing again in Chicago. A glance
at the event listings in the newspaper shows dozens of open mics around
town, sometimes as many as five a night. New showcases are popping up
like mushrooms as comics who've honed their craft underground for
years
are making a name for themselves. And while the best comics are still
often forced to leave town to be successful, Chicago stand-up comedy is
finally returning to the spotlight. As Tony Sam says, "it's slowly
becoming cool again." According to Sam, his comedians' work is "offbeat, and smart and
edgy," and that they are "going to do the unexpected. That's what
the
Underground's based on. It's based on breaking away from the
traditional mold of stand-up comedy. You're supposed to go there and
expect the unexpected. It's all about turning stand-up on its ear and
maybe it's not a traditional formatted joke, like premise, setup,
punchline. Maybe it's a short story, maybe it's a song, maybe it's
just some letter you got in the mail and you want to comment about
it."
One of Sam's jokes on a Tuesday night consisted of a dramatic reading
of an invitation he'd gotten to attend Trump University--his ticket to
a workshop of fame and fortune.
Mark Geary runs the other big showcase in town, the Lincoln Lodge,
which has been in existence for over half a decade now (which easily
makes it the oldest underground room around). Geary is from England,
came to America about ten years ago, and started doing stand-up after
he
saw a how-to book about it in Borders. But when he started doing open
mics, he was amazed at how poorly run they were, and decided to produce
them instead. "They were all horrendous. Now, open mics tend to be
horrendous by definition, but they were more horrendous by the fact
that
they were run so badly, so amateurishly, so slapdash, that after a
while
my natural arrogance kicked in and I was like, `There's got to be a
way
to run these things where at least they run correctly.'"
After a few iterations on his own, he teamed up with promoter Thomas
Lawler, and installed the Lincoln Lodge in the back room of the Lincoln
Restaurant every weekend from September to May. (It's so much work
for
them to put together, says another comedian, that the break is
"needed.") Geary agrees with Sam in saying that Chicago stand-up is
more experimental, but he points out that it's not necessarily by
choice. "Most people get into stand-up to get out of stand-up," he
says. "If you're in L.A. or New York doing stand-up, you're being
seen by TV people and film people all the time. There's this constant
thing that, `Hey, someone in this room right now could get me a
million-dollar contract.'" But in Chicago, without film and TV to
snap
up talent, comics don't focus as much on the business side of things.
"In Chicago, there is no industry there, so that commitment level and
that willingness to stay sharp all the time and constantly be on your
game isn't so much there. That's a big weakness, but on the other
hand, it's also a big strength in Chicago because no one's
bullshitting for a TV executive. They're all experimenting."
One of those experimenting comics is Buscemi. One of his best jokes
is about penguins, and how they don't seem to have "innards":
"Doesn't it seem like you go in there and it's just more penguin?
Like an eraser, really." He agrees that the comedy scene in Chicago
actually benefits because it is so underground. "The underground scene
in Chicago, it builds on mistakes and risk and ugliness." The fact
that
Chicago's stand-up is so unseen makes it better. It's "ugly, daring.
That's what I like. Because I've seen greatness come out of that." More traditional comedy clubs, Buscemi says, "want an elm tree, to
look at it in a certain way. I'm willing to watch forty plants,
nineteen and a half of which freakin' die. And you know, I'm a plant
in the middle of its growth with an uncertain future, so I just relate
to the guy at the bottom."
But there's a flip side to being in an out-of-the-way scene, and
it's that to really succeed, you've got to leave it. Chicago has
famous comedians coming up, but they're not getting famous in
Chicago--they're getting famous in L.A. and New York. Josh Cheney is a
very funny comedian who is originally from Chicago and has been at it
since 2001, and in July, he's moving to Los Angeles to look for work
as
a writer. "Chicago is definitely a stepping stone," he says. "Nobody
stays here unless they're a working road comic and this is just where
they're based. There aren't enough comedy clubs, there's not enough
work in this city that you can do it nearly as often as you can do it
in
L.A. or New York."
Tony Sam has already had a few of his Underground comedians leave
town for greener pastures, and as a Chicago native himself, he's
already wrestling with the fact that he may have to leave home to do
what he loves professionally. "I'm proud and I feel fortunate to be
able to say that, `Yeah, I'm from Chicago,' and I'm what I consider
to
be successful and talented and I'm proud to be able to perform here
and
with what we've done with the Underground especially being here." And
in the next sentence he stutters a little bit on the word "home":
"But I realize that if I want to take the next step I have to leave,
and that's upsetting, because this is my home." Bert Haas is the executive vice president there (he worked his way up
from starting as a waiter many years ago). If, at almost ten years old,
the Lincoln Lodge is the old man of stand-up in Chicago, then Zanies
is
the grandfather. They've been putting comedy on stage in Old Town
since
1979. Haas brags that they are "the third oldest club in the country
in
the same location." Zanies has seen all the other big rooms in
downtown--the Improv on Wells, the Elevated, the Lyons Den--come and
go.
Haas says the secret to Zanies success is that they take people's
money, and then, quite simply, make them laugh. "Zanies is a comedy
club in this sense: it doesn't matter who you see, you will see a
great
show." Where Chicago's underground stand-up scene builds itself up on
being different, Zanies succeeds because it's all the same. "People
don't go to Zanies to see a specific act, they go to Zanies to see
comedy. What we're selling is not a particular act or named
performer--what we're selling and what you're buying is ninety
minutes
of laughter. And that is really how we survived and what differentiates
us from some of the other rooms in this market."
You can't argue with Haas. He might not be interested in
experimenting, but he's the one making money while experimental comics
like Sam are working day jobs and hitting five open mics a week.
"They're just playing a different game," Buscemi says. Like all of
the underground comics, he makes it absolutely clear that he has
nothing
against Zanies at all--in fact, he's performed there (at a few open
mics and "alternative comedy nights"), and Haas often will let him
into the club for free just to see the acts coming through. But
there's
a divide, and the reason for it, according to both men, is that Buscemi
and the underground comics want to be different. "He said to me,"
says
Buscemi of Haas, "`I can't really have you MCing because you're just
such an unusual act. Keep after me, because to feature you I would
want
you in a particular kind of show, but keep after me, we'll see what
we
can do.' He said that. And that is very frank, and it shows a very
profound understanding of his own market needs and his concerns for my
development, because that's a pretty damn accurate assessment of me as
a comedian. It is. I do have a narrower tightrope to walk then those
people."
And then he stops, again, and a realization comes over him. "I love
this city. I love it. There's that fear of leaving. But there's a
naive part of me that thinks that I can stay and make stand-up a real
force here in Chicago."
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