SOMEHOW I SURVIVED

Published by Rick on Tagged Uncategorized

This past weekend saw the annual Reading and Leeds Music Festivals, which always features a comedy tent where the most prominent comics as well as up-and-comers get 30 minutes to prove themselves. I had a look at this year’s lineup, and there was no one whose name I recognised. That may be because the acts I worked with decided they didn’t need to subject themselves for 20+ years to the throng of people that decided yea or nay in about 30 seconds. I managed to survive seven consecutive years (2001-2007) with my dignity and pride intact.

There was a food tent that all the performers got to take advantage of, and that first year, I was sitting at a round table with a slew of musicians. The guy I sat next to and talked with was English and impressed by me being from LA (I didn’t leave LA until 2002). It was after we’d both finished our meal that I asked him what band he was with, and he said “I’m the lead singer of The Cult.” They had modest success in America, but the guy, whose name I never caught that day (Ian Astbury), took down my number because he was in the process of moving to LA to increase his and the band’s profile. I guess it wouldn’t surprise that I never saw or heard from him again.

Every year except maybe that first one, I always saw someone die a major death. And it didn’t necessarily mean they were bad comics, it was more like it was the audience deciding “We’re gonna hate THIS one today,” and it could be someone otherwise well respected, just not  on this day. Among future big names that I saw struggle were Micky Flanagan, who for the past decade has regularly sold out the 20000-seat O2 Arena, and Marcus Brigstocke, a prominent name in comedy even back then, who incurred the wrath of one female, but it was enough to turn a good portion of the audience against him. I have no idea what she was on about but she wouldn’t let up.

I remember that each year I’d be a bit more intimidated by the massive and judgemental crowd, often being a lot of the same people each year. In 2004 at Reading, there was another American on the bill, Andy Kindler, someone I truly admired for his anti-comedy stance. He was part of an LA alternative comedy scene which spawned some big names, most prominent being Patton Oswalt, Kathy Griffin, and Janeane Garofalo. He was doing a London theatre run, and probably his management said, “Hey, you could do this, a half hour in the afternoon and make an extra £200.” I’m not sure why things went south for him, but it seemed that once he started bad rapping the TV show Big Brother, they turned on him. He was handling it best he could, even when they started clapping in unison, a true death sign, and which happened to me once in the town of Maidstone. Still, he had to make a quick exit when someone threw a bottle. It got me worried that maybe there was an anti-American sentiment there, but there was a British comic between him and me. When I got to the stage, the first thing I said to the audience was, “Well I guess I picked the wrong day to have THIS accent!” It got a big laugh and they accepted me, thank god.

There was also the factor of competing with the sound from the main stage. If it was a band that was on their way up, then it was death for us comics. In 2002 at Leeds, I was doing really well, then White Stripes went up on the main stage and I saw close to half the crowd make an exodus. In 2001 at Reading, I was following a comic named Ross Noble, very nice guy who’s made a big name for himself on the circuit, and was one of the special guests doing a 45-minute set. I envied him that day because the act that went up on the main stage was an annoying psychedelic band whose music reminded me of a line Penn Jillette would say to Teller onstage when Teller had long hair: “The 60’s are over, and we LOST!!” Noble was having a field day dissing them, and I was thinking how much fun I would have had with my guitar trying to play along with their tunes. It turned out the band was the US band Dandy Warhols, who I only recognised when they played their final song “Bohemian Like You,” which had been a UK hit, and a song I really liked. I might have felt guilty making fun of them. I also lucked out that the half hour in between main stage acts was in complete synch with my time on stage.

My final year, 2007, I drove up to Leeds with a Canadian whose name I don’t remember, but as he was describing his act during our two hour drive, I sensed that he was going to bite the big one. His act consisted of original novelty songs, and by his description it sounded really esoteric. Sure enough, the throng expressed their discontent, he bailed after about 10 minutes, and didn’t even want to wait around for me to finish my set to drive him back to London. It’s just as well, for what I said to the audience after I realised they were liking me was real show biz schmaltz: “Well, folks, I been doing Reading and Leeds for seven years now, and have seen some really fine acts die big time, yet somehow I have escaped your wrath. Now maybe it could be that I’ve just been lucky, or maybe it’s just that you people in Reading and Leeds really ROCK!” Total bullshit, but it worked this time.

I’ll close by recounting the parting shot of another Canadian who had a rough go. It was in 2003 at Reading, and the Iraq War was in full swing. His very clever line after a torturous 30 minutes was, “Well folks, I don’t have any weapons of mass destruction, but you’ve just seen a Canadian bomb!” I’m just relieved I quit while I was ahead!

August 31st, 2023



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