MY WORST UK GIG EVER

Published by Rick on Tagged Uncategorized

As I’ve said numerous times in the past, as a performer, the good gigs sort of fade into anonymity with a few of the excellent ones standing out, whereas that 1 or 2% of gigs that go terribly wrong are the ones that will remain forever. Why else would I commemorate a disastrous gig that happened exactly 20 years ago today? Of course it helped that I have kept my calendars (or diaries as they call them here) from 2004 to present day, so pretty much everything good and bad is on display in all its glory or shame.

The venue was one that I worked several weeks every year, The Glee Club in Birmingham, along with their other room in Cardiff. Both are still running and they have added rooms in Glasgow, Oxford, and Nottingham. My first week there was in January of 2001, working with Adam Hills, now very successful on UK TV as host of the satirical show “The Last Leg.” Later that same year, I debuted at the room in Cardiff, having to follow the resident superstar Lee Evans doing 45 minutes each night. That didn’t bother me, maybe partially because I didn’t know who he was, though I recognised him later from his role in “There’s Something About Mary.” I also wasn’t intimidated by following him, as I had gone through many years at LA’s Comedy Store being the resident sacrificial lamb who had to follow whatever superstar just graced the room for an hour or so. Backstage, while the other comics on the bill were bowing to kiss Lee Evans’ ring, he seemed most interested in talking to me as I still lived in LA at the time.

Things would continue to go smoothly at both Glee Clubs for the next few years, but we fast forward to May 15, 2004. The emcee was Jim Jeffries, who I had struck up a good friendship with after working with him in many different venues, probably because we had the same agent for a number of years. I remember on that day in May the two of us went out to dinner on my invite. I was excited about the way things were going, as I was engaged to be married in November of that year, and was making preparations to move my whole life to this new country. I was also working more than I ever had in a long time, but feeling accepted by audiences and colleagues. “Not So Fast” was the verdict that came down on this particular night.

The opener was a local just doing 20 minutes, who the audience mostly appreciated. I sensed there was trouble when the second act, a veteran whose act was fairly reliable, struggled, and I could see him rushing to find a stopping place as the crowd gave very little back to him. Also the conversation among them kept getting louder the longer he was on. There was a break before I would come up, and during that break he lamented how he really couldn’t figure out what went wrong, and for that matter neither could I. I decided I would amp things up and give as energetic a set as I could give.

But alas, it wasn’t in the cards that night. I went with my routine, but sometimes an audience wants to just hear jokes, not music. They made it plainly evident after about five minutes, when the first person yelled out “You’re shit.” I chose to ignore the remark and press ahead, maybe not the best idea, but at that time I was still not comfortable stopping my routine to deal with drunken hecklers. I did change gears, throwing out my medley of dirty song parodies, to some mild acclaim. But when I tried to move on, there was a nearly universal refusal to make me feel welcome. Even my standard self-deprecating line, “OK, you don’t like what I’ve had to offer so far, what would you like me to do…besides go fuck myself?” gave them the idea, “Yeah, why don’t you go fuck yourself!”

I went into auto pilot from that moment, sleep walking through my final medley of country versions of unlikely songs, getting encouraging words like “Fuck off Yank” and “Go back to America.” The man who shouted out the latter comment had a very mean threatening look about him, and I would encounter him after the show, though we didn’t actually speak to each other. As I walked off, my final gesture to this loving crowd was an extended middle finger from behind the curtain, though I don’t know if anyone saw it.

My troubles weren’t over though. I really felt I needed a drink and while I was at the bar, someone tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around, this young punter with a ridiculous amount of spray tan said only one word: “Rubbish!” I started to say “You made your point earlier” but the bouncer stepped in and told the guy to move on. One couple who saw that display said in consolation “We’re not all like that, my apologies.” Later as I prepared to get my guitar and leave, I slipped slightly on the wet floor, didn’t do a pratfall, but slipped enough to see the guy who shouted “Go back to America” laughing derisively at me.

What surprised me in the aftermath was that I was given numerous chances for several years after at the Glee Clubs. I worked the room in Birmingham in August that same year and had such good shows all three nights that on the final night I bought all the comics a round of drinks. My success would only continue with them another couple of years, but while I never had as bad a set as that night in May 2004, there were a few times where things didn’t go that well. Eventually we parted company, but I appreciate them giving me the chance for redemption.

May 15th, 2024



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