bombing in rural wisconsin

Last month, I do a show in an Irish pub in Illinois, just across the border from Wisconsin. The crowd is fine, but not great. They’re older, they’re all white, and I’m guessing, based on how far we are outside of Chicago, that they lean conservative. The producer tells me to do at least 35 minutes but that I can “land the plane” whenever. I have a good set. I do exactly 35 minutes, and then I get offstage. 

If a comic is doing well onstage, they usually don’t want to get off, but I’m eager to leave. Not because the crowd seems tired, and not because I’m tired, but because I simply don’t have any more material that this crowd will like. 

While I’m from Wisconsin, I never did comedy here until I moved back. I’d done a few shows in Chicago, and a couple in Minneapolis, but that was the extent of my Midwest comedy experience. I didn’t realize things would be different. Comedians, by and large, are the same. Open mics, the same. But while LA is lauded as a hub of diversity, the audiences generally all felt the same. They all thought like me. And though I did get out of LA on occasion, the places I went - Denver, Atlanta, Seattle - had crowds that felt no different than the ones I’d been performing in front of for years. Here, though, not everyone thinks like me. 

Last year, I drive four hours north to a city in Wisconsin called Rhinelander. The population is 8,000, and the venue is packed. It isn’t just a show; it’s an event. There’s a catered dinner. People are dressed up. Maybe it’s Valentine’s weekend, I can’t recall. The crowd is hot, and pretty drunk, and I’m going up last. I consider my jokes. I have a new bit about abortion that just crushed so hard in Chicago, but part of me does hesitate. In the joke, I don’t say, Hey! Everyone! Get an abortion! But I do say, yeah, I believe in the right to an abortion, and I wonder if this will turn people off in Rhinelander. Maybe some of them, I concede to myself. But it’s such a good joke! And so I do it. I don’t lead with it. I lead with other stuff, and they like me, it feels fine, but when I say “abortion,” all 300 people instantly sober up. Their eyes drain of joy. They stare at me with disgust. And just like that, I am bombing. I go back to sex jokes. I go back to the old stand-bys. And I get them back, kind of, but my momentum is gone, and they remember, even as I close with a joke about the humdrum of married life, that I am not one of them. And not only am I not one of them, but I didn’t even understand who they were. 

I stop doing the abortion joke unless I am in Madison, Chicago, Minneapolis, or Milwaukee (though not the suburbs). I cut out a line about the existence of God. I excise the darkest jokes. The one about 9/11. I start using a different closer. 

Last year, I did a guest set at a small-town club. I knew the headliner from LA. I could feel how conservative the crowd was, even from the host’s set. I was worried about how I’d do. I said this to the headliner, and they said, “I don’t like these crowds, and these crowds don’t like me.”

Some people’s comedy naturally plays well to people on both sides of the aisle. I’m not one of these people, I don’t think. That headliner wasn’t, either. But that headliner was returning to LA; their time in Wisconsin was just a stint. Bombing for a weekend, upsetting people you have ideological differences from, it seemed inconsequential to that comedian. But I live here now. I have to adjust. I can’t afford to bomb. I want that club to bring me back.

In LA, I didn’t reflect too deeply on what kind of comedian I was, or even what my material was about. It wasn’t until I moved here that I realized I have so few clean jokes. “Are you serious?” a friend told me when I divulged this epiphany to her. “Rachel, you’re filthy.” When I returned to LA in the fall to do a show, I hung out in the back with my friend Simon. The crowd was kinda weird, and we were commiserating about it. Then, a pop of laughter. Simon looked at me. “Oh, they like sex stuff,” he said. “You’ll do fine. That’s basically all you do.” I was momentarily incensed, but then I gave it a second thought. Is it all I do?

I loved my time doing comedy in LA. They were, largely, beautiful years. The other day, my husband and I were driving, and I stared wistfully out the window. He asked what I was thinking about, and I said, “Oh, just those first few years of doing open mics.” But I wonder what kind of comedian I would be if I had started here. Would it have done me good to begin with these more politically diverse audiences? Would I be able to do more than 35 good minutes for the people of Love’s Park, Illinois? Would I not tremble in fear if a booker asked me to keep it PG-13?