In my mind’s eye, the memories from my maiden performance as a comic are still stark. A popular watering hole in South London lays the scene. The hushed silence hung thick in the air, so profound that I could hear my own breathing over the PA system, right after my timid greeting, my first “hello”. Then came the piercing sound in my ears, followed by a mental outcry, imploring, “Act!” That was my debut on the stand-up comedy scene, and it was the first time I felt the gut-wrenching dread of a performance going awry. The one instance of genuine laughter I received that night was an impromptu self-deprecating quip about taking a bus – genuine, because I would have rather avoided the whole ordeal. It’s amazing how five minutes can stretch to an eternity when the audience’s laughter is a mere reluctant agreement.
It’s amusing to see people light up when they find out I’m a professional comic. “Comedian, that’s awesome!” they say, oblivious to the turmoil that’s part and parcel of this occupation. Granted, there are sporadic instances of sheer exhilaration and instances when I profess my comedic prowess. Instances where I can trigger an uproarious laughter just by looking at the audience in a certain way. Yet, these instances are just illusions, fleeting moments that give you a taste of comedic paradise and keep you coming back for more, even though the road up ahead is fraught with failures.
My trials and tribulations on stage remain pretty much the same as that fateful night in the South London pub. The dreadful anticipation manifests in rapid, shallow respiration and a total intolerance for silence. The ambience immediately turns stifling, eventually unbearable. Not two minutes into the gig and I can feel a solitary droplet of sweat trace its path along the length of my back. Each pause, each stifled cough, takes me further from the desired booming laughter of the crowd. My parched mouth feels as if it’s laden with a chunky, cumbersome tongue. In the middle of my mounting panicking, I fail to register that I’m prattling at an incomprehensible pace. I am at a loss as to what words have just poured out of my mouth. Although the grin plastered on my face suggests otherwise, my ordeal is far from over.
In a deeply personal reflection, Ed Byrne contemplates his journey through stand-up comedy. He describes the feeling of failing while performing, likening it to a profund spiritual experience. Images come to his mind of Jesus on the cross crying, not from his own suffering, but at the torment of watching Byrne’s flailing act. A desperate plea for divine intervention echoes in his head, but the only response he perceives is a chastising voice, blaming him for his predicament and suggesting he might be regretting walking away from mundane stability and respect that comes from regular employment.
A litany of missed opportunities rise up, with the key skill he wishes he’d mastered–writing killer humor– topping the list. Instead, he chastises himself for having the audacity to believe that his emotions, dreams, insights, and values would make comedy gold. As he flaps on stage, his failure cuts deeper than ever before. Each attempt at crafting a fresh comedic narrative seems to just bury the pain deeper. As the suffering intensifies, the audience remains blissfully oblivious. Fallback lines like asking audience members’ names or their most-loved variety of bread become momentarily comforting.
Over time, however, Byrne learnt to hold his head high even when he was metaphorically ‘dying’ on the stage. He became resolved in his ideas, enduring the quiet moments, the perspiration, and panic, courageously braving the failure and exiting the stage with a contemplation of a career change, humorously considering a postman’s life instead.
Despite the countless blows and difficulties, my mind, body, soul or even the divine intervention of God, has never suggested surrendering. That initial strike was intense. For stand-up comedians like myself, the prospect of making a golden connection is an irresistible allure. As we’re driven by the dream of inciting laughter, we are ready to endure repeated failures. Much can be given up in the pursuit of this goal. Whether it’s all worthwhile, I have no definitive answer. However, as I approach my fourth Edinburgh Fringe Festival, I am acutely aware of what lies in store: instances of happiness, infectious laughter, standstill silence, parched mouths, litres of perspiration, triumphal gestures, and teary moments at the local pub. Above all, I’m aware that the same response will ring true for the majority of the hundreds who will come to see my performance. For myself and many others in my field, it’s a matter of life and death. Looking back, it wasn’t as remarkable as I’d imagined, yet it wasn’t as dire either. For most audience members, it was a pleasant experience, an opportunity to laugh before continuing with their routine.