15 Takeaways From Producing A Comedy Show

What A Perspective Shift (Comedy Mindhacks #84)

I’ve been producing my first comedy show recently with the first to happen in less than 48 hours and what I can tell you is: I now understand why civilizations collapse!!! From the outside, it looks so freakin’ simple. You book a venue. You book some comics. You sell some tickets. You tell some jokes. People laugh. Everyone goes home happy. End of story. Except that’s not really my experience at all. There’s way more to it! Here are 15 takeaways.

First, you gotta find a venue. But it can’t just be any venue; it has to be the right venue. It can’t be too large but it can’t be too small. And it should be a room that fits your style and the kind of crowd you hope to draw. Second, once the venue is down, you have to talk contract. This is the stuff of percentages, minimums, ticket splits, bar cuts, who covers what, what happens if ticket sales are thin, who’s responsible if something breaks, and so on. You learn very very very quickly that comedy is fun and contracts are not.

Third, you gotta find comedians. And just like the venue, they should be good and reliable ones. The need to fit your theme, style, and tone and not torch the night or make you look like an idiot. When you’re booking comedians, you’re not just booking talent; you’re protecting a brand you have spent time building. Then comes more math. Fourth, you have to decide how to pay the comedians. BUT… how do you do this when you have literally no idea what ticket sales will be? Do you guarantee a rate and absorb the risk yourself? Do you split the door and hope? Do you front the money and call it an investment while calculating how much investment your checking account can survive?

Fifth, then you need a name. But you also need: a logo, artwork, a theme, colors, fonts, tone, etc. Then you ask yourself a million times whether this strengthens your brand or fractures it. Sixth: Promotion then becomes a second job. You try, often without any traction, to reach out to news outlets, contact local calendars, make social posts, create and design graphics, send emails, send texts, and send reminders. You have to be persistent. (It helps, too, if you learn how to say “tickets available” in twenty slightly different ways without sounding like you are begging.)

Seventh: If the venue controls ticket sales, you sit in the darkness never able to check the numbers yourself. So, annoying, you keep asking for updates. You try to sound calm even when you’re not. Then, eighth, you think about security. If something goes down, if someone’s unruly, what will you do? How will you handle it?

Tenth: You think about logistics: seating, food, and drinks. You think about whether the room is designed for listening or for distraction. Eleventh: You think about microphones, speakers, lighting, sight lines, stage placement, and so on. And, if it’s not your venue, you have to think about whether they’ll let you adjust the configuration or whether you’ll have to work with it.

Twelfth: Then you think about who checks tickets at the door and who handles the awkward moment when someone swears they bought one but cannot prove it. You realize that someone has to own every single detail, and that someone is you. Thirteenth: You build the lineup carefully and obsess over it. Who hosts, opens, features, and headlines? Fourteenth: You ask whether you put yourself on the show or not and in which role if so. If you do not, are you surrendering valuable stage time? If you do, are you being selfish?

Fifteenth: If you are performing, you still have to write and prepare. You still have to walk on stage as if you are not also carrying contracts, percentages, seating charts, and ticket counts in your head. There is so much that goes into it that the audience will never see. Then again, that’s exactly how it should be. It should look, feel, and seem easy to everyone there.

I have a great friend who always says, “Everyone should work at a fast-food restaurant some time in their life.” He says it to make the point that, if we all were to do so, we’d have way more patience toward and gratitude to show those who work in such places. Similarly, in producing a comedy show, it’s really recalibrated my gratitude. I’ve started looking a bit differently at the people who’ve put me on their stages, handled the contracts, welcomed the risk, engaged in promotion, fielded awkward emails, navigated the money conversations, signed off on the tech checks, and endured the late night worries about sales. They are the ones who made it possible for me to simply show up, grab a microphone, and do my job.

I realize that every stage I’ve stepped onto has existed because someone else carried these invisible weights first. We all know stand-up comedy looks spontaneous, effortless, and loose; it’s supposed to. But behind every tight set is someone who signed paperwork, designed graphics, sent reminders, calculated payouts, checked sound levels, and hoped enough people would show up to make it worth it. I’ve learned that, once you’ve produced a show, you never quite walk onto a stage the same way again. For that, I’m thankful.

JOKE WRITING COURSE: By the way, if you have any interest at all in learning about your persona, how to write some jokes, or doing stand-up comedy, check out my online joke writing course, “The Joke Writer’s Lab,” HERE.

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