BOOK OF THE DAY: I'm Dying Up HereBy William Knoedelseder, PublicAffairs 304pp, £14.99
MODERN Irish comedy started low-key in the 1980s and kind of wormed its way into the nation’s consciousness. “We were just a bunch of people who thought they were funny and wanted to perform,” according to Ardal O’Hanlon, a founder of Dublin’s Comedy Cellar. “People talk about the scene back then, but there was no scene. Just a bunch of young fellas sitting around in the pub and wondering where their next pint was going to come from.”
Remembering those early days, Tommy Tiernan commented that fledgling comedians didn’t need to be nervous that some talent-spotter from RTÉ might be in the audience, because they never were. And out of drink-soaked poverty, public indifference, messing, self-indulgence, dithering, creativity and rebellion emerged talents as diverse as Jason Byrne and Dylan Moran.
Naturally, it wasn't at all like that in the Los Angeles comedy clubs in the mid-1970s. Except, oddly, for the poverty. There, as William Knoedelseder explains, the defining trait of aspiring comedians was grim ambition because, while they gave their services free, there was everything to play for: a spot on the career-making Johnny Carson's Tonight Showand the films, fame and sitcoms that might follow. A bit like the Edinburgh Fringe today.
That is why hundreds of hopefuls gravitated to the west coast and begged to perform at Mitzi Shore’s Comedy Store, just on the off-chance someone from the Carson show might be in the audience. And some of the budding comics jostling for attention did catch Carson’s eye: Andy Kaufman, David Letterman, Robin Williams and Jay Leno.
But the vast majority didn’t. One young comedian leaped 14 floors to his death on Sunset Strip. The suicide note in his jeans pocket began: “My name is Steve Lubetkin. I used to work at the Comedy Store.”
Knoedelseder, who was around in those days as a reporter on the Los Angeles Times, interweaves the fascinating stories of the tragic, unknown Lubetkin and the performers who were to become household names, set against the basic contradictions of working the Comedy Store. Mitzi Shore and another club-owner, Bud Friedman of the Improv, charged patrons plenty to get in but didn't pay the comedians a cent.
The clubs, claimed Shore, were a work experience environment where comics learned their craft and were given a platform to shine and catch the attention of influential producers. Why should she pay them? As the Comedy Store and the Improv became wildly popular, most of the comics began to feel resentful.
All they wanted was a tiny, dignity-saving percentage of the door. Shore refused outright, so the comedians went on strike and placed picket lines around the clubs. The dispute made headlines, and Richard Pryor sent a note of support, which stated: “I believe it is within the artist’s rights and privileges to receive proper compensation for his or her efforts.’’ A token few dollars might have helped Steve Lubetkin walk a little taller and save his life, muses Knoedelseder. The comics eventually won, but that was scant consolation for Lubetkin, who felt he was subsequently victimised.
The story of ambition and exploitation Knoedelseder tells is still a little shocking. Even at Dublin’s Comedy Cellar back in the 1980s, the performers got a couple of pints, a tenner off the door and went home laughing.
Stephen Dixon co-wrote Gift of the Gag: The Explosion in Irish Comedy(Blackstaff Press)