INSIDE THE BRUTAL WORLD OF COMEDY OPEN MIKES
Life isn’t always a barrel of laughs for comedians in New York’s basements and back rooms
It takes a special kind of masochist to willingly endure the horrors of performing stand-up at New York City open mikes. And yet, because it is New York City, it isn’t surprising that there is no shortage of exactly this type of person: someone with a high tolerance for awkwardness, embarrassment and insecurity, combined with a tenacious craving to make people laugh and hopefully, if the chips fall exactly right, to do this for a living.
On any given night, there are dozens of open mikes in the five boroughs. They are often in basements and back rooms, tucked out of sight, and there is no compensation. Many times, the comics — most of them male — must pay a small price to get a few minutes — “a tight five”.
These sets serve as the birthplace of jokes that will someday make paying crowds guffaw and as the graveyard of those that don’t. The open mikes draw comedians of all experience levels, and many do more than one per night, testing whether a joke should be nurtured or laid to rest.
The material features a wide collection of topics: heartbreak, the mundane, race, gender, heartbreak, religion, more heartbreak. At a time when most late-night comedy shows and stand-up professionals are focusing on President Donald Trump, these open mikes can be a refuge from politics — a reminder that modern American humorists have not been entirely consumed by the 24/7 news cycle.
The crowds are brutal, making it tougher for comedians to test their material. The audiences are made up almost entirely of fellow comedians. They are often scribbling their own jokes and running through their own sets mentally rather than paying attention to the stage. Sometimes, they’re just not interested in laughing. They want to be the funniest guy in the room.
“A crowd of comedians is tough just because we’re kind of jaded,” said John Donovan, 26, who attends up to 15 shows a week. “I see comedy two or three times a day already. Most of it is at an open-mike level. So you’re not expecting it to be that good.”
We took a tour of some open mikes in Manhattan one evening in the same way some comics do every day, and found ourselves in a dark world of therapeutic passion, discomfort and, sometimes, unbridled joy.
In the East Village, the Klimat Lounge was empty — except for about 10 people who were milling about, waiting to head into the basement of the bar. It was the size of a small living room. In fact, it could be a living room, just with a microphone stand at the front. There were two couches on opposite ends and four small circular tables in the centre.
Eventually the group filed down to the dimly lit room and took seats, notepads and beers in hand. It had a distinct first-day-of-school feel. Some regulars were eagerly discussing, in hushed tones, a “loony” and “incisive” comic one of them had seen recently.
One of the hosts bounded onstage. Bursting with energy, she sternly laid out ground rules: Keep the sets to five minutes. Comics could look at their notes onstage but should not look at them when off — a rule that was broken frequently.
The jokes were often unpolished. Many were unprintable. The comedians would frequently read off notes or talk through premises. And regularly, the punch lines would land on silence or faint chuckles. Every comedian seemed to have a version of “Is this thing on?”
Mark Benjamin, 31, joked about coming out of the closet.
“The most difficult part about it wasn’t telling my dad that I’m gay,” Benjamin said. “It was telling him what household objects I experimented with.”
Then came a riff expressing bewilderment at realising he was gay. “I don’t have any jokes for that yet.”
Teresa Dagaetano, 34, a comic for seven years, was seating about a dozen comedians for the open mike she hosts in the basement of the Metropolitan Room, a cabaret and jazz club in the Flatiron district.
This space was even smaller than the one at Klimat Lounge. Next to the microphone stand, an upright piano collected dust. Behind a partition was the club’s kitchen, so while comedians performed, waiters wove in and out carrying plates to attendees of a jazz show upstairs. The comedians kept their volume down.
“You guys remember after the election all the New Yorkers wrote their feelings down on Post-it notes and stuck them in the subway?” said Mr Donovan, a technology auditor who started his pursuit of full-time comedy almost three years ago. “Since when did all New Yorkers become passive-aggressive roommates?”
A follow-up to this punch line didn’t quite work, prompting Mr Donovan to say: “Not a great tag. Can’t make that joke longer. I struck gold for two lines.”
That got the loudest laugh of all. When Corey Reppond, 36, took the microphone, he acknowledged a harsh truth. He has performed for eight years and was easily one of the most experienced in the room.
“Most of us don’t even want to be here,” Mr Reppond said.
After his set, Mr Reppond, a systems administrator, rushed to Beauty Bar on East 14th Street. He tries to do multiple sets every day.
“As you get a little bit further into it, you realise it’s very hard to make a living just doing stand-up comedy,” he said.
The comedians here didn’t need to go downstairs. They just had to walk to the back, past the manicures being given in the front to match the bar’s 1950s beauty-parlour decor. This brightly lit room was a rarity for open mikes. The comics could perform in front of a real audience. Curious patrons sauntered in to see if the comedians had anything funny to say.
Open mikes are often places where comedians touch on subjects they wouldn’t otherwise. Mr Reppond joked about receiving a spam email with the subject line: “Your friend raped me.”
“Which is genius,” he said. “Who is going to say, ‘I’m going to see what Groupon has for me first?’”
He had tried this joke earlier. It worked much better here. The crowd was friendlier. His delivery was crisper.
“If you think it’s funny, chances are it’s probably funny,” Mr Reppond said. “You just need to figure out a way to relay the thing that makes it funny.”