Doing Comedy For Comedians
Reflections on a Recent Show (Show Note 2)
I’m coming up on my 1-year comedy anniversary. That’s right, it was nearly a year ago, on 12/28/23, that I decided to take my first steps into the world of stand-up. All along the way, I’ve been documenting as much as possible. As I’ve said in other posts, I’m a lifelong student (I have 5 degrees: 1 Bachelors, 3 Masters, and 1 PhD) and an avid researcher. I’ve published more than 35 books, presented nearly 100 papers at academic conferences, written for academic journals, and so on. In fact, I just submitted a final draft of an essay on the topic of defining “love” to a journal this week. Kudos to me!
So, as a researcher, I’m keen on taking notes as often as I can and sharing those with others who are interested. Many have zero interest in such things and that’s fine. Many might not like the fact that I’m talking about such things at all and that’s fine. But I am very aware that there are people, just like me, who have something of an obsession with peeking behind the curtain, as it were, into the world of stand-up. How are jokes written? What is it like to perform? What happens when you bomb? What is it like to hang out with comedians? The questions are endless. And, for me, I love writing about those things and sharing them with anyone interested. So, I do. Even if anyone wasn’t interested, I’d still probably do it just to get all the thoughts out of my system.
My point is: All this writing and talking fits with my primary vocation at the moment—I’m an educator, a college professor and I teach students how to research and write, how to share their findings. Writing and talking is what I do. But while I’m a researcher and educator, I’m also a practicioner. I don’t just vigoriously study stand-up, I also do it. And last night’s show, which is my focus here, was an interesting experience for me. The venue was packed, but not with your typical comedy audience. It was a small “room,” or should I say “loft,” within a brewery/restaurant. All the seats in the loft were pretty much taken and, even down below the loft, many people were watching and listening. Out of the crowd of 30-40, I believe only four were regular audience members.
The rest? Comedians. It was a Christmas potluck/gift-exchange/get-on-the-mic party—a night full of chaotic energy, good food, and, of course, comedy. Most people didn’t come with prepared sets, which made for a fun mix of riffing, roasting, and spontaneous hilarity. But I did have a set, jokes I’ve been working on and wanted to try—I had what I thought was a tight six minutes. And let me tell you, performing for a room full of comedians is a different kind of beast.
The first two minutes of my set were…fine. Not bad, but not great. The laughs weren’t coming as easily as I’d hoped. I’ve performed enough to know that some jokes just take time to find their rhythm, but this felt different. Things weren’t clicking for me early on like I typically want them to. I wasn’t bombing, but I wasn’t killing either. And in a room full of comedians, that silence between punchlines feels heavier somehow.
Here’s the thing about performing for other comedians: the bar seems higher. Way higher. Average audience members want to laugh—they’re looking for a good time, and they’ll meet you halfway if you bring decent material and energy. But comedians? They’ve seen it all. They’ve heard it all. They’ve tried it all. They know the setups, the punchlines, the rhythms. And even if they’re sitting there waiting to laugh, it’s still like they’re analyzing, breaking down your bits in real time, whether they realize it or not. It’s not that they don’t want to laugh—it’s just that the jokes that work on a regular crowd don’t always hit the same way with comedians.
Even as I try to describe it here, I’m struggling a bit to find the right way to say it. There’s just something different. I remember sitting with seasoned comedian, Ritch Shydner, not too long ago, and he was telling me that folks like Bill Maher have often described him as “a comedian’s comedian.” My interpretation of that descriptor, a comedian’s comedian, was basically a performer who commands deep respect from their peers, not just for being funny but for also mastering the craft of comedy itself. They may not always have the mainstream fame of bigger acts, but within the comedy world, their talent and skill are respected and they can make other comedians laugh and there’s something to be said for that.
Anyway, at about the two-minute mark of my set last night, I adjusted. I leaned into a darker joke—not vulgar, not edgy in the traditional sense, but something that played closer to the edge of clean. And while I wouldn’t describe myself at all as a comedian’s comedian, that’s when the laughs started coming. It was subtle at first, then steady. By the time I hit the halfway point in my set, I could feel the shift. Even more, I could hear it. Not only were there laughs, there were audible shouts, one of them being “Oh s***, he’s funny!” At that point, other comedians were engaging, leaning in, too, and laughing. And that was one of my takeaways from the night: even as a clean comedian among those doing some blue material, the heavier topics I touched on had more weight in this room. It wasn’t about crossing a line or shocking anyone. It was about digging into something a little deeper, a little more unexpected.
The bigger takeaway was really just a reminder of something I’ve always known regardless of the venue I’ve had a mic in (e.g. church, conference, classroom, panel, podcast, etc.): know your audience. This wasn’t the average crowd. This was a room full of people who think about comedy all the time, people who have heard and told thousands of jokes. They weren’t going to laugh at the predictable or the easy. They needed something more nuanced.
Performing for comedians is pretty humbling. It’s like answering a math question in a room full of mathematicians—they’re going to notice if you skip steps. But it’s also incredibly rewarding when you get it right because you know the laughs aren’t just polite—they’re earned. In comedy, you can’t get much better than that. Last night wasn’t the easiest room, but it was a good one. It pushed me to think on my feet, to adapt, to take risks within my material. And ultimately, it reminded me why I love doing this in the first place: because every audience is different, and every set is a chance to try to figure things out in real time.