Well, it looks like Round 2 has been post-poned for the moment. Mother Nature chose 1/11/11 to finally turn Winter into high gear, and a nice little snow storm halted travel plans for me as well as pretty much everyone else who was planning on attending the show. (No hard feelings, by the way, for those of you who had to cancel. Completely understandable. As much as I love comedy it's not worth wrapping your car around a telephone pole.)
But now I'm feeling a sudden sense of withdrawl. I worked for weeks on new material, mapped a routine out in my head, rehearsed it in front of the mirror, timed it with a stopwatch, and even tuned up a last minute bombshell that, I think, would have really gotten big laughs. You'd be surprised how much preparation and planning goes into a typical routine. Even a mediocre, clumsily performed set usually has lots of hours of practice behind it.
I have to admit though, even during the worst performances there's a certain catharsis (for me, at least) in just getting on stage and actually performing. Even when I'm bombing one of the things that gets me through it is simply the internal notion that says, "Hey, at least you got the chance to try." I guess that's why it's so frustrating to be, in essence, "cock-blocked" by Jack Frost. But hey, Mother Nature's plans are always going to take precedence over your own. So it goes.
So, in lieu of an actual performance I figured I'd blog about a topic that I've been contemplating for the last few weeks; something that every comedian has to deal with (especially in the beginning).
Stage Fright.
There isn't a single entertainer or public figure on the planet that hasn't had to deal with it. Hell, there isn't a single
person on the planet who hasn't had to deal with it in one way or another. It's fucking scary having to stand in front of a group of your peers (whether they're friends, strangers or mixed company) and be the complete, absolute focal point of attention. There's always the looming threat of messing something up or saying the wrong thing or giving off the wrong vibe. And even if you do give a flawless, according-to-plan performance (which never
actually happens, by the way), what's to say that the audience just plain won't like you? Who the hell are you to demand their attention? What makes you so great? Why should I care what you have to say?
It's a lot to think about when hundreds of eyes are staring in your direction.
But it doesn't mean you can't put on a good show. It's just one more little obstacle to overcome. In fact, it's possible to even use stage fright to your advantage. Take Mitch Hedberg. Here's an excerpt from his Wikipedia page:
"Because he suffered from stage fright, Hedberg often performed wearing sunglasses, with his head down, with his hair in his face or with his eyes closed in order to avoid eye contact with the audience. He would often stand upstage or perform with his back to the audience. He would also constantly move in one spot and, when holding the microphone in some skits, his nervousness would cause him to shake it uncontrollably."Hedberg was a scared puppy onstage, and when you look over his material it
really shows. But being so open and honest about his anxiety was one of the features that made the "character" of Hedberg so endearing. He was superb at using his very real fear as an instrument to get the audience on his side. It became a pivotal part of his comedic voice and a fundamental characteristic to his persona. People liked that Mitch was nervy. He was a meek and hilarious reflection of their own nerviness and insecurities.
Johnny Carson was another great example of grace under pressure. Some would argue that Johnny was actually at his most clever when he was trying to recover from a bad bit. YouTube some of his "misses" sometime and you'll see what I mean. Johnny had this uncanny ability to take a rotten, corny joke that would fall flat on it's face and, by flawlessly following through with the crowds reaction, twist it into something else entirely. More often than not, he would instantly win the crowd back in the process.
It takes a hell of a talent to take an audience from "Ugh" to "Haha" within the span of a second.
All it really equates to, though, is just having the ability to
use your fear and your mistakes to your advantage. Blending your missteps into the Tango so that your dance-partner doesn't even notice or mind that you made them. It's not a "sin" to make a bad joke. In fact, it's almost guarenteed to happen. The only real "sin" is losing the audience as a result of it.
Like a lot of things in life, it's all about confidence. We all struggle with it. We all feel embarassed when we fuck up. Confidence is simply having the ability to wash over your fuck-ups rather than have your fuck-ups wash over you. In researching this post I found a great piece of advice floating around in the ether:
"Many people feel like guests in another person's home when they show up for a gig. An outsider, trying to connect with the "local natives" as the "stranger from afar".
This is a position of weakness and should be abandoned immediately.
Here's how I approach it: As soon as I am introduced, the stage is mine. The building is mine. The entire property is MINE until I relinquish the microphone. The seats that the audience is sitting in are mine. That means that when I step onto the stage the people in the audience are guests in MY house, are in MY space and are on MY time. I'm not the guest. They are. I am at home, in my element and it's my turn to talk..." I'm not sure who wrote this, but he/she makes a damn good point: When you're onstage that's
YOUR time. I often struggle with this in my comedy. When something falls flat, you can sometimes almost feel like you owe the audience some kind of apology. You know... for wasting their time. For not giving them the bang for their buck. For committing the
heresy of telling a bad joke.
But you know what... that's what you're there to do. You can't control an audience's reaction or even their perception of you. All you can do is control your own reactions and give them the best damn show you're able to give. If you've done that much you have nothing to be ashamed of.
That's your time. Your 6 minutes. You aren't imposing on them, even if you do give a lousy set. The club gave you that time on stage. If they hadn't, you wouldn't be up there. Take your time and take it all. As soon as it's over you can give it right back, but when you're on stage you're the boss. If someone heckles you, you aren't imposing on them. They're not onstage. They're imposing on you.
I'm odd when it comes to stage fright, though. I think I feel it a little bit differently than most. With me, I don't usually get too nervous until I'm actually on the stage and I've felt my first joke fall flat.
Before the show: I'm usually okay. In fact, I'm often pretty psyched up.
During the show: As long as the audience is laughing I'm in my element. I feel great.
Once something misses: ...Uh oh... time to panic!
As long as I establish my flow and keep the audience in tune with my rhythm I usually don't feel too much fear. In fact, I'd say it feels pretty natural. I don't tend to lose it until I lose the audience. Right at that first sign of crickets do I feel that old, familiar fright; that painful little twinge that crawls up your spine and nestles into the back of your head.
"Shit! I'm losing them!"
For me, I feel like I need to continue working on my rebound. A perfect game is always a great achievement, but realistically, how many ball-players are going to bat 1.000 everytime they step up to the plate?
Zero.
A truly skilled ball-player can make up for a few balls and strikes by slamming a good, solid hit on the next pitch. These open mic crowds expect the comedy to be pretty dreadful, and they aren't going to crucify you if you make a mistake. In these kind of situations, the only person that can really psyche you out is yourself.
Flub a line? Big deal, move on.
Two in a row? Whatever. Jump onto another topic.
Somebody groan? Fuck that guy, it's not his time. It's yours.
I don't think anyone who has watched me bomb feels one-fourth as badly about my performance as I do. So why beat yourself up?
Seriously. Think about all the bad comedy you've ever seen. I mean the
really awful shit. All the Carrot-Tops, Gallaghers, and Christian Comedians you've ever had to awkwardly sit through. (I'm kidding about the Christian Comedians. A few of them are actually quite insightful.) What was the worst possible thing that ever happened to you while watching their act? What happened to YOU as a result of their bad comedy?
Seriously mull it over in your head.
Have an answer yet? I think I know what it might be...
You were bored.
That's all. You yawned. You rolled your eyes. Even if you were "offended" by something a comic said, your worst reaction (if you're a sensible person) was probably nothing more than a facepalm and shake of your head.
The only "crime" in committing bad comedy is boring an audience. And you've probably bored people to death with your stories a million times in your life before you turned twelve. So who cares?
Yeah, it's nerve racking to be watched on a stage. Judged by dozens of eyes. Laying yourself on the altar of their criticisms. But when you think about it, what do you really have to lose.
Maybe your pride, but you knew you would have to sacrifice that anyway.
You might be ashamed of producing bad art, but every artist has done that. Hemmingway wrote some shit. Picasso painted some shit. The Beatles have some shitty songs (Revolution 9, anyone?).
Never be ashamed of making shitty art. You'll be in good company.
Feeling stage-fright? Good. It means you're human. Which means you're sensitive. Which means you have the ability to connect to other people. Which means you have the potential to make them laugh.
The audience is all yours. All you have to do take them.
