"Did I F*cking Ask?" Unsolicited Advice on the Amateur Circuit
After three years on the amateur circuit (with a good number of paid spots to my name), the post-gig highs are not quite as potent as they used to be, but I nonetheless leave shows with great pride at what is regularly a job well done.
This is often down to having perfected a new tight five (roll credits), or sometimes even one new joke in an aged routine that has landed with aplomb - my journey home is relaxed and mellow.
That is, of course, if I haven’t been slide-tackled on my way out the door and force-fed a compliment sandwich so fat that my following week's meals consist solely of Rennies and turmeric tea, as was the case leaving a club recently.
Granted, normally these generous servings of unsolicited feedback lack any positive spin at all, so this most recent occasion stood out for its attempt to lull me into self-satisfaction before making me feel like Lennie at the end of Of Mice and Men -
Lacking rabbits, I get to tend mine own raging temper. The cue?
"I'm going to give you some advice."
Not "May I impart some wisdom?" or, "Care to take a moment to talk about our Lord, My Opinions?"
This promoter's attitude was very much, "Stand still and listen, for you clearly know nothing about comedy." What followed was the 225th time I've had to defend the comedy style I've spent my entire career so far meticulously curating - the fine art of storytelling.
Allow me an X-rated analogy:
Think back on all the most mind-blowing orgasms you’ve ever experienced - were they achieved by hastily rubbing one out in a corner, like you’re sandpapering a doorframe?
Or were they teased, promised, given enough stimulation to be captivating, but not too much too fast so as to ruin the main event? Edging ever closer to an overwhelming, well-earned climax is how I’d define mine and many others' style.
Take Mae Martin, who I'd define as a fellow rambler, but not without the crosshairs exactly in their sight. When you suspect they may be veering waaayy off topic (anyone know the Ian Peach anecdote? I'll leave it below for your perusal), they snap us sharply back to what transpires as an incredibly thoughtful punchline.
Key to what makes this work so well is trusting the process - they know their material, and, by agreeing to watch the routine, I've agreed to forfeit the wheel of this particular vehicle. After all, it's not mine to steer.
So, when Mr. I-Know-Better kept me back after class, you can imagine my visceral rage at a conversation that went thusly:
Him, scattering linguistic seeds: "Sophie, I love your energy! You're such a unique stage presence!"
Me, pecking up the compliment like a city centre pigeon: "Aw, so nice of you to say; squawk thanks."
Him, choking the feed bag shut with a clenched fist: "But..."
My eyes, narrowing
Him, cont.: "You take too long getting to the point. What promoters like me look for when we're booking is laughs per minute; if you're not reaching 10, you're going to struggle getting booked."
Cue Montage: me at a comedy fundraiser in Northern Ireland, for which I was paid handsomely; me on a plane to Frankfurt, on my way to another highly-paid, long-established, female-run comedy showcase; me speaking at an online panel of up-and-coming comedians on how to inject personality into a routine.
End montage.
Him: “You need to throw a couple more lines in.”
What I said next is a script I didn't ever want to write, but have long had in my back pocket for moments just. like. this.
Me: That's just not my style. Where I get that "unique energy" from is in those build-ups, it's in the tension - nothing ruins pace quite like constantly interrupting yourself.
Do I want to be a talking head with no personality, or do I want my audience to relate to me? I create the comedy I want to see - being a people person, I am drawn to the uniqueness of an individual and only really start listening if I feel we have a shared experience. As an audience member, I desperately wait for someone to say - “This is me, and it’s absurd and painful and ridiculous, but wholly ordinary; let’s have a giggle about it.”
I’m not going to achieve that connection if I stand stoic on stage and tell one “Walks into a Bar” joke after another."
Unsurprisingly, he seemed very put out that I didn't immediately go, "Oh my god, you're right! How could I ever have called myself a comedian before today?! Cancel your plans and help me rewrite my jokes!"
I had actually left the building having said a polite, but obviously terse and atmosphere-sucking "Thanks, anyway." (You might already have guessed, I could have thanked someone for toasting my sandwich by lighting a fart on fire and mean it a smidgen more than I meant that).
Despite the condescending nature of that particular conversation, I walked away almost beating myself up about it...because I allowed it to happen, and I cannot stress this enough, agaiiinnn.
I always think, "I’ll tolerate this if they’re going to tell me where the treasure’s buried, or tell me my haircut is silly," (which, this week, it is), but this advice has consistently ranged from suggesting I change the vocabulary I use in a joke to something that has always been much worse and far less impactful, to the fact that I spend too long getting to the point, or not enough time getting to the point; the vast majority of this unsolicited advice always circles back to my sleep paralysis demon - laughs per fucking minute. It seems that if you’re not filling every available second with noise - be it quips/asides, laughter, clapping, audience interaction - you’re somehow less than.
But, that leaves no room for the audience to properly connect with, and respond to, what you’re saying and who you are. In my ideal world, we’d collectively take Cynthia Enrivo by the index finger and “hold space" with profound, philosophical jokes, and yet stage time can be severely limited. Therefore, when you do only have 5 minutes, scatter-gun jokes can be seen as the better approach. However, that does not mean people get to tell you how to do your job. Find your style and defend it to the bitter end because, in this over-saturated industry, sometimes that's all we have.
P.S. Three days after this happened, the same 5 minutes ate absolute horseshit, for those wondering whether I’d bombed that first time and was sour enough to write a whole article about it. If you know, you know - people don’t even look at you when you’ve eaten arse, let alone advise you.
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