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A veteran comic I was working with two weekends ago was kind enough to give me some of his thoughts on my act and on comedy in general and one thing in particular really struck me.

He had a theory that, mathematically, it made sense to always aim for the higher half of the room. If a room is half dumb and half smart, should you do dumb humor, smart humor, or some combination of both? The comic’s insight was this: smart people will generally only laugh at smart jokes, while dumb people laugh at almost everything (especially if all the smart people are already laughing). Thus, it makes sense to stick with the smart jokes (i.e. play to the higher half of the room). It was the most mathematically-sound way to get as much of the audience laughing as possible.

In another example, he spoke about half the audience being up for anything in terms of language and the other half bing a little more sensitive. According to his theory, you should cut the coarser language from your set: jokes with dirty words will win over the half of the crowd that is okay with all language, but clean jokes will win over 100% of the crowd.

(By the way, I do admit that calling the more politically-correct half of the room “the higher half” is a little bit problematic, as I would generally consider the people “up for anything” to be perhaps the more enligthened half. That being said, in terms of this comedian’s theory, the audience members who have “higher tastes” - preferring more polite language - get to be considered the “higher half” in terms of applying his principle.)

(There is, of course, a major caveat: Obviously, you shouldn’t always let the audience dictate what material you do and/or how you perform that material. If you’re a dirty comic, you should go clean for the sake of appeasing a larger proportion of the audience. Above all, you should be true to your voice and your persona.)

This comic’s insight (gleaned from over 25 years of experience) dovetails nicely with my view (which I continue to believe more and more strongly in) that a comic should always aim to the top of the room. Don’t go down to the average intelligence of the room; instead, bring the audience up to your level.

(One caveat in regards to the last statement: It is definitely possible to go over the heads of your audience, thereby reducing their enjoyment. If you’re going to use high level stuff, it doesn’t hurt to provide context and smooth the way for every single person to be on the same page. In other words, feel free to do that joke about the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, but consider explaining what it is within the context of the joke first before moving on towards the punchline. The same goes for vocabulary: I don’t think using huge words where small words will do equally as well is a good plan. This, perhaps, has as much to do with the compression principle of comedy as it does with the discussion about playing to the higher half of the room.)

I’ve been in a rut lately, but there’s been two analogies for show business that have helped buoy my spirits a bit. I figure I should share both, with the hopes that other people can glean as much positivity from them as I have.

The first analogy is from Sir Ian McKellan. He noted that success in the entertainment business relies on both luck and talent, which is frustrating because you only have control over the latter. He pictured entertainment as a series of closed doors that could open at any time. You don’t have control over when or how the door will open, but it’s your job to be ready when it does. That’s what you DO have control over. Will the door open for me tomorrow, in a year, or in a decade? I have no idea. But I do know that I’m going to work as hard as humanly possible so that when it does, I’m going to storm it.

The second quote was from Andy Kaufman and was related to me by his brother, Michael Kaufman. Andy likened being a comedian to being on a train in a tunnel so long you can’t see the light at the end of it. That’s the job of the comedian - to stay on the train, working as hard as you can, even if the light seems far away or non-existent. The train in a dark tunnel is a beautiful image I often reflect on. Careerwise, I can’t honestly say I see a glimmer of the light yet. But I have to believe that it’s there. As a result, I keep pushing the train forward since that’s the only way to reach it.

Apropos to my previous blog post, “Stepwise,” which included a discussion of the role of silence in a comedian’s development, I coincidentally found the following post tonight on Brain Pickings (a site well worth bookmarking and visiting regularly):

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/04/04/in-pursuit-of-silence/

I believe, in comedy, it’s when silence is no longer thought of as a signifier of “interrupted action” but as an action itself that the comedian begins to recognize silence’s importance as a tool (and learns to grow okay with it).

I’ve noticed that my development in comedy tends to be stepwise in shape; that is, I will hang out on a certain plateau or level for a while, focus on getting better as a writer and performer, and - usually at an unexpected time - find myself abruptly on a new higher level.  It’s not the smooth, rising line I expected.

What’s interesting is tracking what each step or level has represented.  There’s a step, early on, where you’ve figured out joke structure but haven’t nailed down your voice, meaning you’re funny but not necessarily unique or yourself.  There’s a step where you have both the writing down and the essence of your voice, but you’re so polished that the vulnerability that initially propelled you is obscured.  Each step has interesting characteristics that are sometimes hard to recognize until you’ve gotten to the step right after it.

There are a lot of different dimensions to each of these steps.  Perhaps the abrupt changes I feel are actually the alignment of the upward steps of many different dimensions happening simultaneously.

The dimension I’d like to reflect on, however, is that of the comic’s hunger for laughter. As comics, we seek laughter.  It is our stock and trade.  It is the manna that allows us to grow both artistically and commercially.  I can’t define all the steps, but I think comics start out desperate for laughs without the tools or means for getting them.  Then they slowly build the skill set and, with that, the ability to get laughs - but without the means to fully control when and how they happen.  From that step, the comic slowly accretes control - they’re able to get laughs, but only by exerting all of their effort.  This is the step of laughter without communication of ideas - the comic is getting consistent laughter but hasn’t yet developed the ability to marry the laughter-generation with the communication of the important ideas that make him who he is.  The laughter is leading the direction of the comedy and not the other way around.

The comic at this level fears silence - he doesn’t have the confidence to allow silence to build because he’s not 100% sure that there’s a laugh at the end, and without a laugh, he feels he has nothing.  It is only in the appreciation and understanding of this silence that the comic reaches the next step, in which laughter ceases to be the entirety of the artistic goal.  Laughter must be the primary motivator, but communicating one’s perspectives and ideas in a way that illuminates the bigger picture for an audience (the goal of art) needs to be a part of the process as well.  The comic at this level also has a confidence that the laugh will eventually come, so he allows silences.  He is okay with there not being laughter for a short amount of time in order to build to a bigger point.  He’s not longer a machine gun, but a cannon, each shot taking time to prepare but exploding everything around it when it hits.

Is there a step after this?  I’ll be sure to tell you if and when I reach it.

I have got to start blogging more.  That is something I’ve heard from everyone - other comics, industry, fans - but, most loudly, from myself.  So here I am.  I’ll try to write at least once a week - maybe more!  (gasp!) - continuing the academic talk of comedy I’ve started, but also focusing, too, on shorter pieces about life as a comic, as well as random musings.

If there’s something you’d like me to write about, leave a comment here and I’ll do my best to get to it!  Thanks for reading!

The Fundamental Attribution Error Or, How to Improve an Audience Without Changing Them

One of the first things every Psych student learns about is the fundamental attribution error.  Since it’s perhaps the most common error people make, it’s relatively easy to illustrate:

Imagine reading the following letter from a man you don’t know: “I hate my children.  They’re the worst.  I don’t ever want to talk to them again.”  What can you assume about the person writing it?

Well, it’s not too hard to surmise, for example, the letter writer doesn’t like his children nor is he a good father.

But now you’ve already made a fundamental mistake.  Scratch that - the fundamental mistake.  You see, what I’ve left out is the fact that the man has a gun to his head and is being told that he and all of his children will be murdered if he doesn’t write this letter.  Now what do you think about the person writing it?

Is that an extreme example?  Perhaps.  But it illustrates the idea that human beings are quick to blame the dispositional (i.e. people-caused) and ignore the situational (i.e. environment-caused).  It’s easier that way.  To not make an error in the previous example, you would have had to stop and say: Hey, I don’t know anything about this man or where he is.  I can’t really know much about who this person is until I know that.  The correct answer to the “letter question” is: Unless I know this man’s environment, I can’t really make an accurate assessment.  Instead, we made assumptions based solely on the man and not on his situation (which turns out, in this case - as in most cases - to be fundamentally important).

The fundamental attribution error we make is that we tend to overestimate the effect a person has on his/her own actions and underestime the effect the situation or environment has on a person’s actions.

Once you’ve become aware of this problem, your life actually becomes a lot less stressful.  When someone yells at you, there’s should now be a little voice in your head that reminds you to look for the environmental causes first before just assuming the yeller is an angry, awful person.  (If you’ve ever been stressed out and running on no sleep, you’d appreciate the person who shows an understanding of your situation rather than respond in kind with anger and escalate the problem.)

So what the hell does this have to do with comedy?

A lot actually.  Where an audience is and how they are arranged is sometimes more important than who an audience is made up of.  When an audience is “tight” (comedy parlance for “not very responsive”), comics tend to blame the audience themselves, which means they are guilty of the fundamental attribution error.  At that point, the comedian is helpless.  He’s going up on stage soon and he can’t just dump this audience and get a new one.  He can, however, improve the environment the audience is in, both before and during the show.

Here are situational ways to make an audience more responsive:

* Shrink the room.  You would think an audience of 30 people would react to jokes the same regardless of where they were.  You’d be wrong.  30 people in a room that fits 300 feels empty, whereas 30 people in a room that fits 15 feels oversold.  A room that appears “oversold” gets more laughs because it gives the comedy more psychological value (“Hey, this show must be good - so many people are trying to see it there aren’t any seats left!  I’m so lucky I got one of the seats that are so in demand!”).  If your room is too large for the audience you expect, change it!  Carolines on Broadway has three tiers, each with a curtain behind it - that way, no matter how many people they have, they can close a curtain and make it seem full.  Other clubs use movable walls.  Or just add tables: a room that holds 75 neatly lined up seats might only hold 35 seats surrounding large tables for drinks.  We “edit out” those tables when we view the room, so we just see a room where there are no extra seats - a sell-out! - which in turn makes for a better show.

* Make the room dark.  People feel self-conscious about laughing, so make them feel less so by making them anonymous.  In the dark, people are more willing to laugh - they don’t have to worry about “the wrong person” seeing them!  Keeping an audience from feeling self-conscious also means covering up any mirrors that might be behind a performer.

(Anecdote: I was performing at a private event in a temple’s ball room.  The laughs were hitting very weirdly.  About 5 minutes into my show, I realized I had my back to a mirror - which meant that the audience was not just watching me but themselves!  Talk about making an audience feel self-conscious!  As soon as I realized it, I subtly took five or six steps and rotated a bit so that my backdrop was the solid wall perpendicular to it.  I’m not exaggerating when I see the laughs audibly increased within a minute or two as a result of that tiny change.)

* Make the room a comedy room.  I’m often in clubs or venues that don’t “feel” like they were designed for comedy.  I’m not even talking about their stage or A/V set-up - I mean, their logo and color scheme, how their room actually looks.  A room that suggests comedy will put people in the “comedy” mind set.  There’s a reason some comedy clubs have fake brick walls behind a stage: it evokes a certain comedy aesthetic.  If you’re producing a show in a bar or a ballroom, consider hanging banners or even comedy LPs: anything that tells the audience, “Hey, comedy happens here!”  (Obviously, don’t overdo it, as that would backfire.)  In addition, making a venue appear professional also helps: investing a few bucks into curtains, a nicer mike stand, a backdrop, etc., really goes a long way to helping the show.

* Make the show important.  Why do you think comedians kill on TV?  First, if we’re at a taping, we assume a comedian must be good if he or she has been chosen to appear on TV, so we give them the benefit of the doubt.  Second, it’s exciting!  We’re in a situation where us laughing might get us on TV!  Part of the TV warm-up comic’s job is to instruct the audience to laugh at every available moment; basically, if they get too wrapped up in the situation (which they will), they’re default mode should be to laugh.  Telling an audience that the show is being taped - even for an online show or a comedy album - helps create a situation in which laughter comes easier.  This is also why so many clubs hang up pictures of famous comedians who have performed there: it helps remind and assure people that they’re at an “important” place where the stars perform.  Seinfeld might not be on stage, but knowing that Seinfeld was at one point makes an audience think, “Hey!  The comics I’m seeing tonight must also be good if they’re on the same stage Seinfeld still uses!”  Setting up an exciting, important situation causes the audience to react in kind, creating a much more conducive atmosphere for enjoyment.

(Another anecdote: I’ve been co-producing Sage Stand-Up for four years.  We started at the Sage Theater, a beautiful 100-seat theater in Times Square.  When the theater shut down, we moved temporarily to Hurley’s, which has an open 3rd floor.  Even though we attracted the same audience - we had, and continue to have, many repeat customers - the laughter was noticeably different.  A large part of that, I think, is that the theatrical setting really lent our show a lot of import.  When you’re sitting in a theater, you’re much more respectful and open to entertainment than when you’re in a bar.  Now we’re at Bar 82 - quick plug! sagestandup.com! - which features a theater-like setting in the back and our laughs are back where they used to be.)

So, the bottom line: sometimes you might not be able to change the make-up of the audience you have in front of you, but you can try to adjust the environment you’re in.  (For example, how hard is it to have a curtain closed behind you at a theater with a bare stage or the room lights darkened?  Those both make big differences.)  By exploring environmental or situational aspects of the comedy experience instead of blaming dispositional ones, we avoid the fundamental attribution error and can have much better shows!

P.S.  Matt Ruby has an interesting list of other attributes that can affect a room here: http://www.sandpapersuit.com/2008/01/comedy-feng-shui-10-things-that-ruin.html.  Most of the things on his list either reduce a room’s “comedy-ness” or “importance” and would fit under my rubric in those two categories, but his specifics are still worth taking a look at if you’re producing a show.

Why We Laugh Or, Joke Resonance and Universal Truths

resonance
a : the intensification and enriching of a musical tone by supplementary vibration
b : a quality imparted to voiced sounds by vibration in anatomical resonating chambers or cavities
c : a quality of richness or variety
d : a quality of evoking response
(Source: Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

My last blog post was about Necktie Theory, which says that all jokes at their most fundamental, basic level are about the subjective nature of something perceived or believed to be objectively true.  This theory refers to joke content (i.e. what a joke is about) rather than joke technique (i.e. how a joke is written).  Before I get to joke technique in later posts, I’d like to build upon Necktie Theory and talk about a concept I call resonance, which I think help explains why audiences not only seek comedy but are able to grow and be inspired by it.

As I mentioned while explaining Necktie Theory, the way something becomes part of our subjective reality is through our mutual agreement as a society.  To go back to the example that begat Necktie Theory, neckties only mean “male” and “formal” if we all agree that they do.  Thus, a joke about subjective reality must necessarily tap into that mutual agreement, which, by definition, we are all a part of.  In other words, a good joke always connects with universal truth, the truth that we are all inextricably linked to through our mutual agreements about subjective reality and our mutual existence in objective reality.  Resonance is achieved when the comic and audience are vibrating at the same frequency - that is, are recognizing that the truth being discussed is part of the subjective and objective reality we all share.

Discovering resonance is a singular joy for a comedian (at least in my opinion).  When a comedian is trying new jokes, he or she is trying to find what does and doesn’t resonate with an audience.  When a joke hits hard, the large response from the audience is a good indicator that the joke is tapping into something universally felt - in other words, something that deeply resonates.

I think that there are three different kinds of resonance and that comedians differ in their preference for which kinds they use most frequently.  The three types are:

(1) Resonance of nostalgia - This is a resonance of memory.  The audience experiencing this kind of resonance might react: “Oh, I remember that!  We did used to do that!”  It’s about showing how we all had similar experiences in our past, about showing how we all go through many of the same trials and tribulations going through life.

(2) Resonance of emotion - This is a resonance of feeling.  The audience experiencing this kind of resonance might react: “I feel that way, too!  That does also make me feel angry/happy/sad/etc.”  It’s about recognizing that emotions we privately experience are something other people experience, too.

(3) Resonance of agreement - This is a resonance of opinion or thought.  The audience experiencing this kind of resonance might react: “Yes, exactly!  I agree with you!  That does make sense!”  It’s about an argument resonating with an audience’s sensibilities, either because the audience members have made that argument before (“I felt the same way on that issue!”) or because they have been convinced by the argument being made (“That argument makes sense - now I feel that way about the argument, too!”).

You’ll notice that there is a common thread tying all three kinds of resonance together: the recognition that an experience, emotion, or opinion previously believed to have been only experienced by that particular person is revealed to be something shared by most (if not everyone) in the group.

We often think that we’re the only people in the world to have had a certain experience, emotion, or opinion about something.  That makes sense since the only mind we can truly know is our own.  If we’re not told about what other people’s experiences, emotions, or opinions are, it’s easy to feel like we’re all alone.  When we realize that we’re actually not alone - that many of these experiences, emotions, and opinions are universal - we experience deep resonance.

Laughter is very important to the process of achieving deep resonance.  When we start laughing, we are acknowledging a joke’s resonance to us specifically.  But the fact that other people are laughing re-affirms that resonance.  The initial spark of a laugh comes from an audience member resonating with something the comedian said, but the laugh continues and becomes deeper when all of the audience members realize that everyone around them are also resonating with the same thing.  By the end of the laugh, the comedian and audience are experiencing the resonance together.  As a result, laughter serves to both indicate and reaffirm an audience’s realization that the things believed to be separating us (these “individual” experiences, emotions, and opinions) actually bind us deeply together.  Resonance thus connects the universal fundamentality of all good jokes (Necktie Theory) to the audience’s deep experience of this universal fundamentality as laughter.


* Keep in mind that the skilled comic understands what subjective reality in particular is being shared by a particular audience, only tapping into that which is shared by most, if not everyone, he or she wishes to address.  Subjective reality differs from place to place and from culture to culture, so not every joke will tap into the truly universal - i.e., something that every single person from all times, places, and cultures will find funny - but will tap into what is universal for the audience the comedian is presently performing for.  (To use the necktie example once again, not all cultures recognize the necktie as “male” and “formal.”  As a result, a joke specifically about neckties will probably only get reactions when told in the context of a society that does hold these beliefs about neckties as subjective truths.)  That all being said, as much as the specifics of the joke might be steeped in a particular place or culture, at its core, I would still argue that every good joke has the truly universal theme that the seemingly objective is actually subjective.  As a result, it can be argued that even these “specifically subjective” jokes have an underlying universality to them.

** Source of image: http://thisquantumworld.com/ht/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=66&Itemid=45

The Secret of Comedy: Or, The Necktie Theory of Comedy

Little did I know when I first started performing comedy that the secret to writing jokes was hanging occasionally around my neck.

I have often searched for the secret to comedy, that elusive formulation that explains the fundamental basis of all jokes.  Who knew when I began that search that it would lead me to - of all things - the necktie.

Think about the necktie for a minute.  What’s the point of one?  When I was growing up, I certainly didn’t know: my parents never explained it to me - they just made me wear one.  I was a boy and boys wear ties.  They don’t always wear ties (thankfully), but if the event was really serious or formal, they’d have to if they didn’t want to be embarrassed.  I wasn’t quite sure what the point of a tie was at that point, but I did know that tie = male + formal.

But what about the tie itself - that is, a piece of specifically-shaped silk tied in a specific way - is inherently male or formal?  I knew what a tie meant, but I sure as heck didn’t know why a tie meant it.

I can tell you the why, but I might sound like my parents.  Alright, here goes: a tie means “male” and “formal” because I said so.  Actually, it’s not just me - it’s because we all said so.  If enough people agree - society - on something, it becomes part of our subjective reality.  If we all agree that tie means “male” and “formal,” then that’s what a tie means until we all agree otherwise.

Of course, subjective reality is not objective reality.  The law of gravity, for example, is objectively real; it exists whether we agree it exists or not.  It doesn’t matter how many people think I can fly - if I jump off a building, I will fall screaming towards the ground.  Our subjective reality, then, consists in large part of the values and significance we collectively choose to assign to our objective reality (one example: deciding that certain little green pieces of paper should be “money”).

The reason then that contemplating the meaning of neckties is so confusing is because there is nothing objectively masculine or formal about neckties - being masculine and formal are subjective associations we arbitrarily decided upon at some point in time.  This is not to say that these associations should be taken lightly - they are what culture and civilization are made of.

So what does all this have to do with comedy?

The key here is that people often confuse the subjective for the objective.  When I say someone is “beautiful,” I’m not making an objective statement - that person is not inherently beautiful, as beauty is defined by a set of arbitrary and culturally-determined set of standards.  But it is this confusion - believing that someone is beautiful objectively - that leads to conflict.  For example, imagine a beautiful supermodel from America visiting a remote African tribe.  If she forgets that she is only “beautiful” in the subjective, arbitrarily-defined sense, she will be extremely shocked when she is shunned by the tribe as a horrifically ugly monster.

This is the root of all comedy.  We so often take the subjective reality for granted that we begin to believe that it is objective.  It is the comedian’s job to remind us about how much our perceived reality is subjective.  He or she reminds us that we as people make completely arbitrary rules that shape this subjective reality.  It is when we forget this fact that we forget that it is entirely within our power to change those subjective rules and create a better reality.

For example, racism is the result of a subjective belief - that members of certain races were inferior to members of other races - being held by someone as objectively true.  Changing these kind of negative views requires the recognition that these views are subjective - that is, not based on objective (unchangeable) reality.

Now that we’ve established the “Necktie Theory of Comedy” (that is, that all jokes are based on the confusion of the subjective and objective), we can use this theory as a lens through which to examine humor and find the core or crux of any good joke.  Here’s a quick example:

“My mom said she learned how to swim when someone took her out in the lake and threw her off the boat.  I said, ‘Mom, they weren’t trying to teach you how to swim.’” - Paula Poundstone

The crux of this joke is the conflict between the mother’s subjective view of reality (“They’re trying to help me swim!”) and the objective reality (someone was trying to kill her).

See?  It’s so simple to find a joke’s foundation once you’ve recognized its “necktie.”  In writing new jokes, we should always seek to discover the “necktie” and to emphasize those elements of the joke that make clear how subjectivity and objectivity are being confused.  Once found, the task of clarifying and strengthening the funny parts of a joke becomes that much easier.  Writing humor is a difficult task (the reason succeeding at it is so rewarding!), but the Necktie Theory of Comedy can help as a useful and trusty tool in the comedy writer’s toolbox.

I’ve been reading Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers and thought the following was interesting, especially as it pertains to stand-up comedy:

“‘The emerging picture from such studies is that ten thousand hours of practice is required to achieve the level of mastery associated with being a world-class expert - in anything,’ writes the neurologist Daniel Levitin…’It seems that it takes the brain this long to assimilate all that it needs to know to achieve true mastery.”

A page later, Gladwell remakes this point:

“Ten thousand hours is the magic number of greatness.”

After reading this, I tried to calculate how long it would take the average comedian to accumulate 10,000 hours of stage time.  Let’s start with the assumption that a working comic is performing, on average, 2 shows a night, 7 days a week.  The average length of a set here is between 6-7 minutes and 20 minutes; we can lean towards the 20, however, as someone being booked 2 shows a night, every night, is probably good enough to be doing longer sets.  (This is a calculation based on professional comics working in New York.  If you’re headlining on the road, you might only do 5 shows a week - 2 Friday, 2 Saturday, and 1 Sunday - but are on stage for 45 minutes, for a total of 3.75 hours a week, which is very close to the 3.5 hours a week accumulated by doing 14 15-minute spots.)   At 3.5 hours a week, it would take this theoretical comedian 20,000 days to reach his* 10,000 hours of stage time.  That’s nearly 55 years.  If your average comedian starts at 20, he doesn’t become a master until 75.  This doesn’t seem right, though, because there are plenty of “master” comedians younger than 75.  There must be something missing.

Stage time is not the only means through which a comedian can practice - the comedian can go over his performance, can write and work on jokes offstage, and get feedback from other comedians - that’s all time we need to incorporate into our calcuations.  Let’s say the average comedian works diligently on the craft and dedicates between 1.5-2 hours of each day to working on his act (this isn’t a number taken out of thin air, but based on what I’ve realistically seen most comics, including myself, dedicate to these activities).  Now we have between 2 and 2.5 hours of “comedy time” each day, 7 days a week.  At that rate, the comedian reaches his 10,000 hours in 4000 to 5000 days, or sometime between 11 and 14 years.

Here’s the fun part.  Let’s look at famous comedians and see how long it took for them to become “masters.”  We’ll say they became “masters” when they released their first major album - that is, the first album that became popular or achieved mainstream success.  Let’s start with George Carlin.  He started in 1959, when he joined a comedy duo and began performing in California.  Although Carlin released a solo album in 1967, Take-Off and Put-Ons, it’s not even recognizable as Carlin (the album features Carlin in a suit and is devoid of any profanity).  In 1972, however, Carlin released two albums, FM & AM and Class Clown, both of which are still considered classics.  FM & AM was the first album Carlin released to receive a Grammy for Best Comedy Album;Class Clown contains the legendary and monumental routine, “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.”

Okay, let’s go to Richard Pryor, who also started in 1959 as an MC at a nightclub.  He, too, changed his style, from a more Bill Cosby-esque clean cut storyteller to the brash and startlingly honest comic we all revere him for being.  The first album he released to broad acclaim was That Nigger’s Crazy, Pryor’s first album to receive the Grammy for Best Comedy Album.  The record was released in 1974.

Steve Martin started performing comedy in nightclubs around 1967, while he was still in college.  His first album, Let’s Get Small, won a Grammy for Best Comedy Album, but his second album, A Wild and Crazy Guy, which also won the Grammy, is Martin’s most famous and well-known album.  (In terms of chart position, Let’s Get Small, reached 10th, while A Wild and Crazy Guy reached 2nd.  In terms of sales, Let’s Get Small went platinum while A Wild and Crazy Guy went a staggering double platinum.)

How about a more modern example?  Chris Rock started out in 1985.  His first album to go platinum was Roll With the New, which was released in 1997.  (His previous album reached gold status.)  This was also Rock’s first album to receive the Grammy for Best Comedy Album.

We had said that a comedian should reach mastery somewhere between 11 and 14 year, so now that we have the dates, let’s see if it confirms our calculations. 

Carlin: 1959 -> 1972  (13 years)

Pryor: 1959 -> 1974  (15 years)

Martin: 1967 -> 1978 (11 years)

Rock: 1985 -> 1997   (12 years)

All of these comics reached “masterdom” between 11 and 15 years after starting out as comics, closely reflecting our calculations that mastery can be achieved in 11-14 years!

It’s both a sobering and empowering piece of information.  For me personally, 11-14 years seems a long way away!  That being said, the only way to reach 11-14 years is to perform, practice, and write at least 2-2.5 hours each and every day - otherwise, it will take even longer!  So, if anything, knowing this information only inspires me to work even harder and to continue to put in these hours every day.  Not only that, but the 11-14 years is how long it takes to become a true master - for all of these comics, becoming “simply” great and successful came much sooner.  (In fact, for each of these four comics, their first “classic” album was their second or third release.)  Still, I know there’s a long journey ahead of me in the pursuit of mastery and am unbelievably excited and thrilled to be in the process of undertaking it!

* As with previous blog posts, I use the pronoun “he” in this essay instead of “he or she” only because “he or she” is a bit clumsy both in the writing and the reading.  This is not to say, however, that I believe all comics are or should be male; in fact, I believe just the opposite - females can be and are just as good at stand-up as men!  For future blog posts, I will continue to use use the singular pronoun - just know I don’t mean it as a statement about what gender a comedian can or should be!

“Life is like a box of chocolates - you never know what you’re gonna get.” - Forrest Gump

“Jokes are like the chocolates in a box of chocolates - all the good ones have gooey centers.” - Harrison Greenbaum

The Greek philosopher Aristotle believed that everything in the universe had a telos, or purpose for being.  It’s easy to see the telos in the functional objects humans have created: for example, the telos of a coffee mug is to hold coffee.  In other words, the coffee mug was created in order to fulfill the creator’s goal to have something to put one’s coffee in.  That is not to say that we can’t do other things with a coffee mug, like use it to hold pencils, but the reason the coffee mug was created in the first place - the coffee mug’s telos - was to hold coffee.  In fact, if the telos of a coffee mug was to hold pencils, it would not exist in the form it currently exists - the coffee mug would look like a pencil holder (wouldn’t need the handle, for example, and might be made of a better material).  Without “holding coffee” being its telos, a coffee mug would not be a coffee mug (that is, an object of particular shape, material, etc. we have come to know as a coffee mug).  Thus, the coffee mug exists in its particular shape and form because it was designed to hold coffee: the reason an object exists in the form that it does is  because of the object’s telos, or reason for being.  In regards to things not designed specifically by humans, however, determining whether something has a telos and what that telos is is a trickier proposition.  (Here’s a fun question to debate with friends: do humans have a telos?) 

I do believe that jokes - which (at least in the form we use them) were created by humans - have a telos.  In determining the telos of jokes, however, we should recognize that a joke’s reason for being cannot simply be to make someone laugh - if that was the case, the joke is not the only form that would work.  A pratfall, a pie to the face, or a silly voice all can make people laugh - all would be equally valid forms for a joke if creating laughs was a joke’s entire telos.  Thus, we need to find a telos that fully explains the form of the joke.  In order to do that, we need to look closely at what a joke is.

Just as ordinary mail contains two parts - the content being sent (the letter) and a means for getting it to the recipient (the stamped and addressed envelope) - a joke, too, is comprised both of the message and the means for delivering that message.  (In this sense, the comedian is letter writer and the medium - his stand-up performance - is the mailman.)  As many psychologists, sociologists, and anthropologists have found, humor is one of the most effective ways to impart a message - it is the sugar, in many respects, that makes the medicine go down.  The form of the joke, then, is a thought or idea enveloped in a delivery system characterized both by its speed and efficacy.  The telos of a joke - that is, the goal or purpose of a joke - is to deliver a thought or idea in a fast, effective, and generally enjoyable way (i.e., a way that elicits a humor response in the recipient).

If we continue to use the analogy of the joke as consisting of a letter and envelope, we can see that there are three kinds of jokes.  The first is a joke that consists only of the letter - that is, an idea or thought without the mechanisms of humor to deliver it.  In other words, a joke without its envelope is not a joke at all - it’s just a statement of fact.  The second is a joke that consists only of the envelope - that is, a joke that is all technique, with no real idea or thought at its center.  The third is a joke that consists of both - a joke that is both funny (thanks to the envelope) and thought-provoking (thanks to the letter).

It’s in comparing the second and third forms of the joke that knowing a joke’s telos is important.  We know the first form of a joke (only letter) is not a joke, but neither is the second form of a joke (only envelope).  A joke that doesn’t deliver an idea is a joke that doesn’t fulfill its telos, which, as we said before, is to deliver a thought or idea in a fast, effective, and generally enjoyable way: you can’t deliver a thought or idea without having a thought or idea in the first place.  True jokes must not only provoke laughter but provoke thought as well.  (Otherwise, why use the form of a joke in the first place?)

There are plenty of comedians, especially those starting out, whose jokes don’t contain real ideas or thoughts.  They’re frivolous, myopic, narrow, or some combination of the three.  They’re like the fast food of jokes - satisfying in the short-term but of no long-term nutritional value.  It’s not to say that they’re wrong, per se, but that they don’t fulfill the true potential (telos) of what a joke is supposed to be.  The jokes we as stand-up comedians should strive to write should have a gooey center - in other words, should contain a real thought or idea.  That’s what takes our jokes from transient fun to persistant art.  It’s our job, nay, our telos as stand-up comedians to make our audience laugh and think.