Guest blog from @rosamaphone
Comedy; it’s either funny or it’s not. Black and white, yes or no; you make me laugh Mr or Ms Comedy Person or I shall stare you down until I know you will cry later tonight, alone, in your room. I’m sure that’s how most people see comedy, whether with such vehemence or not, I’m not too sure, but it’s usually along those lines. Yet, whichever way you decide to watch comedy; with a drink (mines a bottle of red please) or without; laughing with or at the comedian and the morons (they have to be) who still get surprised when sat on the front row, you take the stance of Right, I’m here; entertain me. Simple. Easy. And it should be. But have you ever wondered what it’s like behind the scenes? Ok, who are we kidding, probably not – but for the benefit of this article the answer is a resounding YES! Many hours have you sat, head in hand staring out a window mulling over the age old conundrums; How do the comedians get such funny material? Surely their lives aren’t such a mess…Is it an international rule of comedy that you have to have a friend called Dave?
Now, don’t get too excited. I’m not about to go all Hello or Shout or whatever on people I’ve met and the things I’ve seen (you weren’t there man, you weren’t there!) because, well, I have a really bad memory and scruples, plus there weren’t many TV throwing situations…nor am I a comedian (as you will know) so I can’t give you any heartfelt accounts of near breakdowns or crying clowns in coffee shops with a moving yet, uplifting twist. Instead I am going to give you a slight insight into how I ran a comedy night, an unsuccessful comedy night albeit, but a comedy night none the less. Sure, it goes against the ideals of success and optimism, of breaking through the constraints and making it big with the support of your community and city. But sod it. It’s my story, its life and to be honest it’s how most things tend to turn out! So, let us begin…
*fade to wavy dream transition thingy*
…I was still working on the door for a successful comedy night after I graduated and got a “proper” job. Loved it. Not sure my work did when I rolled up at (about) 8am on Friday morning smelling of last night’s smokes and good times, but I digress. I must have done something right, what with my gunslinger-esque ticket selling, astounding money counting and general smooth talking charm as I got asked to take up running a new night at another pub across the other side of the park; new staging area, blank canvas – the line-up would be booked for me, we’d have amazing acts and all I had to do was get it off the ground and run the show each week. Brill! My time to shine!!! How long? Two weeks…ok…GREAT!
Now, this is where I use the brilliant imagery of the two masks; the age old symbols for comedy and tragedy. You see them there; driving directions and signs to the theatre, award ceremonies…erm…at the side of curtains…in theatres…well, whatever, you know what I mean. They basically spell out the two basis of theatre; comedy and tragedy. Well, sod that. Life is grey, life is about integration and blurriness and balance. Firstly, you have to stand your ground whilst knowing when to compromise. I found this very hard. The night was every Sunday whilst I still worked 5 days a week, on top of my hospital radio show on a Tuesday, the door at the other comedy night on a Thursday, my voluntary shift at the Hyde Park Picture House on a Saturday as well as, you know, having my own life and relationship. It was tough and I found myself struggling to take criticism on the chin, especially after hours hunched (potential glass of rouge teetering on a pile of papers) at the edge of the bed, sketching and drawing and making the best logo and name for the night only to then be told it wasn’t right. What happened to the artistic integrity I ask you? It rhymed with the name of the pub and everything. Well, what did they know?
So after hours of Photoshop mocking me and the design of the fliers ever increasingly looking like a 7 year old chav had gotten high off crack and created it in an 80’s version of Paint, I ran out of time and had to get the design to the printers. £100 and they weren’t even that good. I got reimbursed in the end, but it was bloody expensive at the time and for something that, even though I had put in the time I felt the end result was sub-par. But they did the trick. Next was the flyering or, if you will; Destruction of the Soul sans Mercy, that took place in the designated areas. That’s right; designated areas and those areas that seem to be solely inhabited by the ignorant, the haters of comedy (or those that just hate fliers being shoved in their face) and the damn right rude. Yet, after watching the hundredth person accept my optimistically proffered art, fold it in half without so much of a glance then “discretely” drop it on the floor about ten steps away from me before stamping on the remnants of the previously fallen, I still remained surprisingly upbeat. I still had dreams. I still had ideas. I had French Bistro infused with kitch independent cuteness; I had red checked table clothes, candles in wine glasses, popcorn on the tables, low lighting, independent and local films and animations projected onto the wall as people filed in, cakes for one and all as they entered…I was instead given four words: fire safety, pub budget. Damn. These things, these trivialities were not part of the deal when I signed up for this. Were they?
Well dear reader, they were. And most, as I am sure they have, would have known about these things in advance had they been in the situation of organising a night. But I didn’t. So on I went in naïve bliss, advertising through Leeds forums, up went the twitter account, facey b; posters in pubs and cafes in surrounding areas. I cracked on with the baking (every Sunday without fail) and told people to save the date. Next Sunday. Directions are on facebook…be there! Alun Cochrane was opening and the line-up was mint. So the manager and I set up the room, we whispered words of encouragement to each other and practised the introduction in silly voices. And man, we did all right. The problem was that all my friends couldn’t make it every Sunday. That left the rest of the public yet, as I soon found out, things take time to get established. But if you’re paying full whack for established acts then you need the cash in on the door and if you’re going to get cash on the door, you need to offer something more than the other nights do, because man they’re not lacking in and around Leeds.
Unfortunately as the weeks went on, the numbers dwindled and my panic rose. The acts were lovely; supportive, offering calm words of encouragement and complimenting the room, the potential and the “intimacy” it offered. I smiled, I baked and I wondered; what more can I do?! Then finally we hit the end of the trial run – four weeks straight of palpitations and comedy confusion. Let’s just say that I still have the remnants of said fliers in the spare room a year down the line (I just can’t let go. I must love that 7 year old crack addict chav that’s hiding within me too much). The dream was over and I was sad. I had failed. I had underachieved and merely highlighted the reason I rarely tried anything, let alone like this and on my own…I was a failure. Or was I? Well, officially – yes. But it’s OK.
I realise in retrospect that this would have been the perfect project for someone that had the time and the knowledge to do it justice. I put in my all, but it was misguided and not something I could do on my own. I needed a buddy to bounce ideas off and share the burdens with and to help deal with communication with other people; their wants and needs and expectations as well as my own. I also had it in my mind that it was my night. It wasn’t. It was one of those “too good to be true” deals in a way and I bit off a little more than I could chew, because, seriously – it’s hard bloody graft, especially when it doesn’t come naturally!
Strangely, I received a good few emails from comedians and stand ups that asked if they could have a slot in my gig. The acts were booked for this particular night by someone else, and they were bloody good acts, but wasted on a night that needed to establish itself first. I’ve toyed with doing something else but it would have to be very much DIY; free entry (or the bare minimum), acts that were free and acts that wanted to do the night; that would bring along some friends – make the place well known. Open mic and the like. You know – allow that essence of kitch and “it’ll be alright on the night” kind of feel. Where it’s not too polished just yet and where, even if 2 people turn up, it’s fun with no pressure of payment and funding.
Sooo basically, that’s it. It’s not advice and it’s not a blow by blow on how to run a night and find the next Russell Howard. It wasn’t even funny. But it’s been fun remembering back to the time and the work I put in. It may not have officially paid off, but so what. I have the experience and I know what I would do differently. I know to be confident. I know to be optimistic. I know to be the exact opposite to my natural self, but failing that, it’s good to remember that when in doubt; go down laughing.
About Rosie:
26, lived in Leeds for 8 years…I like things that involve film and music and drawings and photography and tend to make baking intrinsic to anything I organise – successfully or not. Got a degree…broadcasting…from Leeds University.
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