Feb 7th, Madden’s Bar, Belfast
Yesterday I was in a special emotional state where I didn’t want to converse with a single human person but I did want to be out on the town. A contemplative night of comedy was the only answer and Our Wee Comedy Club at Madden’s Bar had the goods. Located in Belfast’s Cathedral Quarter, it was yet another classic Irish pub hosting an open mic for beginners and seasoned comedians alike. The inside was all worn wood and rickety bar stools and the Guinness cost £4.5 (allegedly a steal). The show took place up a narrow flight of stairs in a room that could accommodate about four rows of chairs and a bar. At 7:40 I took my seat at the end of a row. The show started at 8:15 and in the interim I pondered some things:
Does my hair look good right now or does it actually look bad?
Wow, the couple next to me looks so cute. I should talk to them. We could be friends.
Can people see that I keep refreshing my gmail?
I am a mysterious comedy critic muahahahaha
You know what, I don’t care that I’m here alone. It feels nice!
Omg why did I ask for ice in my Magners?? This is so watery noooo
Ok actually I think I DO care because I keep THINKING about it and about my HAIR aahahhahaklsdfj;alksdfj
No new emails. Hmm.
Parts of last night’s show were very dive bar chic. An elderly gentleman got so drunk he was escorted from the room in the second half. One comedian, also seemingly drunk, pretended to pull a cucumber out of his asshole for his grand finale. It was kind of epic!?!? There were also your usual cheap shots like one dude complaining that there’s no correct answer for a woman who asks if she looks fat. WoooOOow. And to the comic who said “I’m not in a relationship right now. I can’t make women stick but that doesn’t keep me from throwing them at the wall”: Get new jokes my guy. But beneath all of that, there was a tenderness to the show that cut right to the Creme Egg goo in my heart. I write this not as a critic, but as a simp who really felt something in there!
What got me - omg what always gets me - was people’s courage to perform, especially the newcomers. My seat was right next to the aisle where comedians waited to go on stage which meant I got to observe them go from anxious little beans to performers. Comics stood in the darkness with tense shoulders, taking a final gulp of their pint, staring at the stage in anticipation of their cue. One couldn’t let his hands rest at his sides, instead they hovered in space like two penguin flippers. Brows were furrowed, eyes were wide, and the fear was palpable. But as soon as the MC called their name, a switch flipped. Each comic committed to their performance. Some spoke with a shaky voice and fumbled their set-ups; others crashed around the stage, shouting into the mic; and a few dropped absolute bars like it was the easiest thing in the world. But they all committed! It sounds like a small thing but it’s not! In my professional opinion, performing in spite of fear is one of those examples of true human bravery. It’s Liam Neeson facing the wolf at the end of The Grey. It’s Sam and Frodo accepting the quest to Mordor even though they’re only tiny hobbits obsessed with cake and birthday parties. Open mics are profound in the same way because the setting is so humble (£4.5 for a pint of Guinness…), and yet the bravery required is still so dear. And yes, stand-up is ultimately a bunch of jokesters trying to make their audience laugh. But in order to get there they each had to believe their material was worth sharing, own that material by performing it, and then get immediate feedback on whether or not they were right. And then imagine doing that for the first time! I’m simping, I’m simpinggggg.
What’s even better than when people are brave enough to give stand-up a try, is when a room is down to clown with them. The MC for the night, Sean McAleavey, did such a good job of warming up the crowd with his chat and reminding everyone to be kind to first-timers. He had me feeling like we were all just a bunch of besties having some banter. Obviously besties who loved my hair. His request worked as well. Everyone was very receptive, even to cucumber man. Even the bit on the event page stating that acts get in for free “for being a legend and giving it a go!” was very safety & security💖. That’s all you can really hope for from an open mic tbh: a space where performers can take a risk with the knowledge that the room will hold them.
So evidently the fact that people were performing at all had me in an emo spiral about the human condition. The feels didn’t stop there, however, because this group didn’t write material summarizing their Twitter feed or Prince Harry’s new book. Nah, nah, nah they were capital v Vulnerable about it. A prime example is newcomer Claire Johnston’s set, which addressed her experience living with bipolar disorder…and also bunions. She clarified to the audience that she “has a mood disorder, [she] isn’t a mood disorder. Just like how [she] has bunions, [she] isn’t bunions.” Another one of her bits described being on the wrong side of mania as seeing the traffic light go from yellow to red and cruising through at top speeds until the inevitable crash. I loved her jokes and her neon green sweater, but more than that I was very moved by the honesty of her set. She mentioned landing a part in a Shakespeare play for the BBC and then losing that part as a consequence of her mood disorder, something that obviously pained her. That’s a lot to tell an audience, especially in an artform that’s new for you, and I commend her.
Professional comedian about the town, William Thompson, gave a similarly personal performance as he discussed growing up with cerebral palsy in East Belfast. For instance, he described sticking out at school due to the posh accent he acquired in speech therapy. My favorite bit was his story about running auditions for a film about an NI kiddo with CP. The result, he explained, was a zillion English child-actors showing up talking like leprechauns. This obviously wasn’t his first rodeo and his delivery was so confident, so easy peasy lemon squeezy, I could have watched for ages. Again, comedians be out here cracking me up and pulling my heartstrings all at once.
Even Pete Giffen’s set on aging was tinged with a certain vulnerabilité. His jokes about getting to an age where he instinctively knew when the petrol would hit £20 on the meter, thinking the receptionist at his GP was fit, and competitively giving exact change to the Tesco cashier were real knee-slappers (lol). But also what’s the preoccupation with aging, my guy? Tell us how you really feel hehe.
All this personal storf had me thinking about why serious subject matter and humor make such a good couple. The most obvious answer is the experience of catharsis. In a lot of ways, the stage is a site of transformation and empowerment, where painful experiences can be reclaimed through the creative act of performing. Telling a joke about something difficult gives the power back to the speaker. It provides a chance to reshape the experience into something of their own design. Plus if all goes well and the joke lands, then a connection emerges between audience and performer, one imbedded with a whole bunch of joy and laughter and empathy and all the other wonderful things that live comedy inspires. I felt this so hard last night, I can’t explain it! It just goes to show that you should never write off dive bar comedy, even on a weekday. Who knows, it could renew your belief in the human spirit, or at least get you giggling enough to forget you’re a mysterious comedy critic who doesn’t care she’s doing this show solo💫
