‘If it started to go wrong, he would just lean into it’
Comic recalls early days performing with, and chauffeuring, Macdonald
It would be disingenuous, and unfair to those who were truly close to him, to suggest Norm Macdonald and I were friends. We were, however, friendly — due, largely, to an inexorable bond born of starting our standup careers at the same time in Ottawa more than 30 years ago. (One of us went on to considerably bigger success, admittedly.)
Howard Wagman, the Yuk Yuk’s Ottawa impresario who played no small role in recognizing and nurturing Norm’s early off-the-charts talent, aptly describes that era — which also launched the careers of Jeremy Hotz, Chris Finn, Angelo Tsarouchas and Lisa-Gay Tremblay, to name but a few — as “the Liverpool of comedy.”
And I was, at best, an aspiring Pete Best: an insecure, unpolished amateur comic and observer, surrounded by what would be greatness. But none greater than Norm.
Yes, just “Norm.” It wasn’t long before that simple, short form moniker was all we needed when referring to yet another unique and funny Norm bit, which we did a lot. Not just in Ottawa, either. Comics across the country (pre-internet remember) were soon all familiar with the lore of this “Norm” fella, who died Tuesday at age 61.
In Ottawa, the rest of us were happy to hitch ourselves to his fast-moving wagon, embroidering the magnitude of our connection to him. But here’s the thing: Norm made that easy. Despite his leapfrogging so far ahead of us on the comic food chain — from open mic to headliner in less than two years (“unheard of,” says Wagman) — Norm never smugly lorded that over us, the way so many of our peers would. On several occasions when I opened for him on road gigs and bombed he would console and comfort, but without condescension.
Possibly, it was because he, too, was no stranger to bombing. But while most stand-ups profess to never blame the audience for a bomb, Norm earned a notwithstanding clause. When he bombed, it was the audience’s fault. “Because the crowd wasn’t as smart as him,” explains Tim Steeves, a Toronto-based writer/producer who started in standup in the mid-80s.
“One of his greatest gifts, ironically, was his ability to die onstage,” continues Steeves. “Most (comedians) don’t know how to go down with the ship.” Indeed, most of us panic and scramble to find something, anything, to win back an audience, even stooping to standards we wouldn’t otherwise. “But for Norm,” says Steeves, “if it started to go wrong, he would just lean into it. He wouldn’t care about finding a way to get them back.”
And while we all tried to emulate that conviction (and so many stand-ups “borrowed” his unique delivery, cadence and bewildered-but-articulate stage persona), we could never match his comic intellect. Judy Croon describes him as “almost savant-like. Always talking about the craft of comedy. ” With a laugh, she adds, “Of course since I was a comic with a car, I spent a lot of time driving to (gigs) with him.”
Ah, yes. The car thing. Norm didn’t drive, leading some of us to wonder if even the casual friendship he offered was relative to our eagerness to serve as his chauffeur. It did, however, expose me to his genuine genius on a drive from Toronto to Ottawa in February of 1991.
“Hey, ya wanna hear a poem I wrote when I was in high school?” Norm asked, a blanket covering his legs to keep warm in my Suzuki 4X4 with suspect heating. He then spent the next 15 minutes reciting, from memory, a smart, socially relevant story that I vaguely remember involved a drug dealer — but clearly remember being in awe of. It was true art, even if he also asserted that he was really a craftsman.
On another occasion, while I was interviewing him for a small magazine feature, he accidentally let it slip that he’d graduated high school at 15, then did his best to dodge the topic. “Just want to talk about comedy,” he said. “Not about me.”
Wagman, who knew him on a much more personal level than most, says, “He always played his cards close to the vest. Nobody got to know the real him. He felt at an advantage if he was aloof. And he was good at that.” But, he stresses, “without being rude.”
And while Norm wasn’t without his detractors and personal demons — he spoke openly to podcaster Marc Maron about his unhealthy gambling compulsion — he certainly wasn’t beyond displays of genuine kindness.
About 10 years ago when I learned he’d be performing at the theatre near my home, I sent him a note to tell him my wife and I had purchased tickets and wondered if he’d remember me. He did and responded by asking me to open for him, certainly not because the show needed me. But because, I fervently believe, he wanted to connect, even briefly, with someone from his past and he recognized what it would mean to me to share the stage with someone of his pedigree, even if he would never admit to the latter.
Much of his legacy among us will be his lasting relevance.
“I learned how to structure a joke by watching him,” admits Steeves. “Most of the people who were around him are still using his tricks to this day.”
And then there are those comedians who weren’t around back them but still revel at his genius.
“Easily my favourite standup,” professes Ottawa comic Aaron Power, who was an infant when Norm anchored his “Fake News” (yes, Norm was the first to coin that phrase) on “Saturday Night Live.”
“A groundbreaker who’ll never be forgotten,” adds Wagman. “When you break down the art form, maybe the best pure comedian. Ever.”