Rockin’ Robin : Mr. Mouth Sounds Off on the Commercialization of American Comedy

COMEDY WAS THE ROCK ‘N’ ROLL OF THE 1980S. IT EXPLODED IN THAT decade of greed and Reagan as comics of every stripe--male, female, from all minorities--stretched the definition of humor beyond recognition, broadening its scope, exploring forms and themes that today seem almost commonplace but at the time were not so quietly revolutionary.

Along with Richard Pryor, Steve Martin, Lily Tomlin and many less well-known performers, Robin Williams is emblematic of that change. He hallucinogenicized humor with his stream-of-consciousness approach, crashing through barriers, giving comedy a visceral, kinetic edge. He went way beyond joke-telling, lifting humor out of the neurotic and personal style of edge-of-the-stool cabaret storytellers to heights of cosmic absurdity.

Williams and the others performed their alchemy in such venues as the Improv, the Comedy Store and San Francisco’s Boarding House--all outgrowths of coffeehouses and basement boites, all crucibles where stand-up comedy evolved and metamorphosed in the 1970s. By the 1980s, they had created a crazed new world, one with more venues than ever. Comedy clubs proliferated and cable TV, largely unfettered by censorship, embraced stand-up--because it attracted subscribers and, not coincidentally, because it was an inexpensive form of programming. Today, there are comedy clubs in nearly every strip mall of every city in the country. There’s even a 24-hour Comedy Channel.

Through most of those years--even after his star ascended following his success on the TV series “Mork & Mindy” and his film career took off--Williams continued to work in clubs, honing his style and observing his fellow comics as they evolved. But today, Williams infrequently does stand-up, partly because film roles come nonstop, but also because the commercialization of stand-up has diminished its excitement and impact. Comedy today is big business.

Williams’ role in all this is ironic because he became a comedian almost accidentally. He had always hoped to be an actor and had studied drama at the Juilliard School in New York.

On this day, Williams has just flown in from his home in Northern California. Holed up in a Universal City hotel suite as he kills time before a stint on “The Tonight Show,” he tools around the room, conversing amiably, drifting from subject to subject. His comments are still dotted with amusing diversions, but he always comes back to the matter at hand. His energy is as boundless as ever, but it is more focused, more directed.

Q: Many people don’t know that you didn’t start out to be a stand-up comic.

A: It was a fallback after leaving Juilliard, after I came back to San Francisco because I’d fallen in love. While I tried to find acting work, I did improv workshops with a stand-up comedy class and performed in basements and coffeehouses. I remember the first time I performed. They had radical feminist poetry and after that, comedy--always a nice mixed bag. Soon I was performing at music clubs that were just starting to dabble in comedy. After about a year, I came down to L. A. and eventually moved into an apartment just off Weatherly, near that restaurant (Chasen’s), the old one with the $40 bowl of chili.

Q: Who determined if you got to perform in these clubs?

A: Budd Friedman (at the Improv) or Mitzi Shore (at the Comedy Store) determined your time slot, which depended on where you were on the food chain. And then there was what night you went on, what day of the week or weekend.

Q: What was the initial reaction to your kind of comedy?

A: At first, people were a bit shocked. Everybody else lived off the microphones. I never used a mike. I loved to wander in the audience. It was a way to make them shut up and listen. And it was a great way of wading into them, without waiting for them to like or dislike me. Just-- boom! --in their face. It changed the perspective of the room.

Gradually, I developed a free-form style, infused with a few characters but kind of all over the place.

Q: Your comedy wasn’t based on the personality of Robin Williams like, say, a Woody Allen or a Robert Klein.

A: No, it wasn’t based on personal observations. Just the opposite. My focus was outward. It was about everything out there, the whole world, but not me. It’s a way of not dealing with me for a long time.

Q: And why was that?

A: My childhood was very normal. Almost hypernormal. Being an only child. I didn’t know what was funny in that. Now I kind of talk about it, saying my mother was a Christian Dior Scientist or that she breast-fed me with an Evian bottle. Maybe there is something there. When I’m comfortable with dealing with that, maybe I will.

Q: The clubs were a place to experiment.

A: Yeah. Some nights would be overindulgent, and I’d go on for 40 minutes just rambling. Other nights I’d find stuff. It was just playing. There was no boundaries for what I could talk about. Martin Mull called it the cesspool of consciousness.

It wasn’t the way it is now where people are fighting for five, six minutes and from that careers are made or broken. There’s this incredible feeding frenzy. And so many clubs, all over the country. It’s like Joke in the Box.

Q: Many comics performed to develop five minutes for Johnny Carson?

A: When I started there was still Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin. The ultimate thing was to be on “The Tonight Show.” People wore it like pelts, based on how many times they’d been on. I was never going for that. I never did “The Tonight Show” until years later to promote a movie. First, I didn’t know what I would do that would be a stand-up. And second, I didn’t feel the need to. I had “Mork & Mindy.” I didn’t need to use it to get somewhere. And once you were doing movies there was no need to bust your chops.

Q: What did you learn in the clubs?

A: I never learned technique from anyone. I learned a lot from watching Pryor. The man is fearless.

Q: Did you rely on drugs or drinking before you went on?

A: The only thing I used to drink onstage was white wine. It would help relax me, and it gave me the sugar energy. One night, the audience was sending up kamikazes and I remember it hit me after the fourth one. Then it hit me: They just want to see me pass out. I was conscious enough to say, “Thank you and good night.” . . . Once someone gave me cocaine, and I tried it onstage. It made me so paranoid--that I didn’t need. It was usually afterward . . . .

Q: Did you also learn from people’s bad nights?

A: No, because you couldn’t really blame them if they were playing to a room full of drunks. Sometimes you’d laugh your ass off at the audience not getting something. Gilbert Gottfried was famous for that. He’d empty a room doing Jerry Lewis singing the entire soundtrack of “Tommy.” It was great.

Q: Yours was the first generation who challenged the boundaries of comedy.

A: I don’t think I changed the parameters. People like Andy (Kaufman) and Richard Lewis and (George) Carlin first started pushing away. It was a reaction to joke, joke, joke. Like when Richard Lewis goes off doing when Freud meets Fellini. Or Jewish Greek drama. Or a dog with a bad smoker’s cough. That’s not a joke, that’s just a strange observation of what his life is like. It obviously goes back to Lenny Bruce who said, “F--- it, I want to talk about shit that people think about but don’t want to talk about.”

Q: How did you bring form to the chaos of your comedy?

A: There was always something behind it. I’d take an idea, outline it and look at it as improvisation. Today, I was thinking about the royal family. That’s the suggestion. You start with, “It’s getting so ridiculous now that they’ve started a 1-900 line. Talk to a member of the royal family.” You build on that. Talk about the Windsor Fire Sale. “Come on down, some of these paintings have never been seen.” And you relate that to the future of the royal family: a game show called “Queen for a Day”--literally. And then you come out of it and that may trigger off into something about English politics or back into our royal family, the Kennedys. It’s usually dictated by the audience. Or now sometimes I’ll take the chance and keep pursuing it.

Q: Have you run up against political correctness?

A: I can’t be politically correct anymore. Only personally correct. If you’re trying to be politically correct you’re like a chameleon in front of a mirror. What can you say that won’t be offensive to somebody? When I started talking about pro-choice material, for the first time I got letters from people that were like, what the hell’s wrong with you? Or talking about the Pope saying it’s all right to discriminate against homosexuals. This from a man dressed in ermine and surrounded by 400 boys.

It all has to be open season for you as a comic. Politically, too. I’m gonna miss Dan (Quayle)! He should get a grant. Just to have him around is amazing. A man who is so earnestly inane. People would say that at a certain point it got too easy. And I said, yeah, but it’s wonderful fun.

Q: Is there a line that can’t be crossed?

A: Yes. And the moment you draw it someone will step over it and make it work. The rules are that there are no rules, or someone rewrites the rules and either through a brilliant move or just sheer balls kicks the door open and does something else. It’s like an Etch-a-Sketch owned by an epileptic, the new world disorder.

Q: Is there any kind of comedy you categorize as reckless?

A: It’s hard, because in order to get to darker areas, you have to be reckless. But totally abusive? People said (Andrew) Dice Clay was reckless. He used to do impressions. Then he found this thing, this outlet. Did it piss off people? Yeah. And other people loved it.

Q: Some say he brought out the yahoo in people.

A: When he did Madison Square Garden, people said it was like a Bund rally. But comedy is just an affirmation. He tapped into a current, a rage, and that’s what scared people. Like heavy-metal comedy. What scared people is how he could pack Madison Square Garden. The bottom line in comedy, with me and, despite all the anger, even someone like Lenny Bruce, is, do you love me? It’s “Hey, you’re great, you’re funny, I like you.” It’s difficult when people say, “Hey, I hate you, you suck.”

Q: What about hiding behind comedy?

A: Well, Richard Pryor said that being funny kept him from getting f----- in prison. It’s a great way to keep people at a distance. If they’re laughing, at least they’re not considering doing something else to you.

Q: Are comics no longer as angry as they once were?

A: Carlin is angry. He did a great piece on HBO’s “Comic Relief” where he said you have so many homeless people, and where are the two biggest pieces of wasted space on this planet? Graveyards and golf courses. He did a great piece on language where he talked about how people are no longer handicapped. Someone is no longer mentally retarded, they’re intellectually challenged. I’m no longer poor, I’m financially challenged. There’s an anger there at the absurdity of a world that doesn’t recognize that.

You still find angry comics. There’s a lot to be pissed about. I could point to just as many comics who are truly enraged at themselves and everything. There’s Steve (Martin) who comes from a dadaist tradition. There’s that great joke: How many surrealists does it take to screw in a light bulb? A fish. Or Martin Mull doing his cynical songs, but sung with such love. Dennis Miller is like the eclectic thing. He can mix and match metaphors. Kind of like a Spanky and Our Gang Bauhaus. The amazing thing now with comedy is that there are so many things--that any particular taste you want in a comedian you can put together a category. Say I want a blind lesbian Spanish comedian. You can find it. For every disorder there’s a comic, every ethnic group and all mixtures.

Q: When did women comics become mainstream?

A: They were always there, but it was just a question of finding an outlet. Like Elayne (Boosler) or Lily (Tomlin) or Paula Poundstone talking about her cat and George Bush in the same breath and making comparisons, seeing the world in a way that’s wonderful and not self-deprecating and not talking about her period.

And Lily, she just kicked the shit out of the boundaries. It all started at about that same time.

Q: Where did this freedom, this opportunity come from for all different groups?

A: It started with comedy clubs, and especially with HBO and cable. Cable was like Lincoln, the emancipation of broadcasting. All of a sudden you could say anything about anybody, address things without the filter of network TV with terrified sponsors or network executives. Like on “Mork & Mindy,” they would show up and say to me, “Gee, you’re funny. You’re the funniest man since Jack Carter.” Phew. Thank you. Please don’t ever say that again. Those are the frightening things you have to deal with when you’re dealing with regular TV. But then, there’s this other thing where there are no restrictions, and it spawned a whole new batch of comedians.

Q: Didn’t the proliferation of clubs help that too?

A: Yes. But first it came from TV from people seeing them on TV and wanting to go out and see them. Sam (Kinison), Bob (Goldthwait), all these different styles found an outlet. And then MTV, and VH-1, all with their own comedy spotlights. It’s gotten to the point now where it’s about to be ridiculous. You almost can’t avoid watching comedy.

Q: How do you avoid it?

A: It’s difficult unless you’re just watching CNN live feed. Even then it’s hard. Most news stations have a guy who does funny weather. Comedy has become a means of selling something. It’s a commodity, part of the market. Pork bellies and comedians. You get to the point where the market’s almost at its limit.

Q: Were you aware that this was happening?

A: You knew something was up. Steve Martin says comedy became like rock ‘n’ roll--for better or worse. He could fill a 10,000-seat arena. The bad thing is that the audience would say the punch lines before he could get out the material. It took the joy away.

Q: The rock ‘n’ roll analogy seems apt because in the beginning there was a period when it was all so fertile, so limitless. And then . . . .

A: And then it goes through a dry period. Like music in the ‘70s. Then it comes out the other end with very aggressive punk music. Just like there’s now punk comedy and anti-comedy. Really nasty, get-in-your-face comedy. It comes in waves, just like the culture.

Q: When did the multiplication of comedy clubs start?

A: The late ‘70s, early ‘80s because people thought they could make money off it. There’s an Improv in almost every city now. Catch a Rising Star, too. It’s a real cheap format, just a guy and a microphone, unless he has some props. They don’t have roadies. Small stage. Not even a lot of room on the stage. All you have to do is pay them.

Q: What determined whether comics stuck it out at the clubs?

A: The desire. Some had the desire. Some didn’t want the abuse. I remember seeing many amazing people and asking what happened to them and people saying, “Oh, he sells computers now.” A lot of great performers became writers. Like Larry David, who writes for (Jerry) Seinfeld. Really amazing, very dry wit. Some stayed, some left. Sometimes you come back years later and see the same people doing the same thing.

Q: Doesn’t that make you feel like, there but for the grace of God . . . .

A: That’s part of it. Another part is that you understand why. Because they know this works, and they’re still banging away with it. It becomes a necessity.

Q: A way of making a living?

A: Yeah. Because if you’re on the club circuit, and there are many circuits you can play around the country, you can make a living.

Q: That wasn’t possible when you started.

A: No. It’s like the old vaudeville circuit. You have to work your ass off traveling all over the place. Rick Overton talks about playing clubs called Guffaws, Titters, Yuk-Yuk. It’s like the old bus and truck; you’re on the road constantly. From talking to people who do it, it beats them up.

Q: People who make a living from it tend to become very safe, don’t they?

A: They’re not about to start experimenting because if they bomb in a particular club they won’t have them back. They can’t be that experimental. If you bomb in Squirrel Neck, Iowa, you don’t even finish the week. Or, if you’re controversial. Unless you have a TV show. Then you can say whatever you want.

Q: If you’re making a living at this, then you’re more conservative?

A: Well, you’re more aware of what will work and who you’re playing to. You get outside the isolated liberal world that we’re used to . . . . You really find out how well the country is doing politically. You talk about pro-choice in some places and you get silence or you get aggressive f--- you’s. It’s a real interesting barometer.

Q: So even as the comedy world has expanded it’s become more bland.

A: I don’t know, because I’m coming from a rarefied environment. Ask people in the trenches. There are some who don’t bland themselves out in comedy clubs. And others, like (performance artist/comedian Eric) Bogosian who’ve created an alternative, an underground movement. He had to find an outlet by creating his own theaters to get what he wanted to talk about out there.

It’s happening in England. They call them alternative cabarets. There are still drinking men’s clubs which are standard jokes and impressions, where people go to have five beers and take their wives and have a good time and go home.

At alternative cabarets, there’s this one guy who puts a Roman candle up his ass and sings “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” He has to finish the song before the candle burns out. He’s burned his ass several times, but he says he can’t give it up because it’s show business. This you know would not be on “The Tonight Show.” It’s weird. In the ‘30s and ‘40s, black jazz players had to go to Paris to be appreciated. Now American comics have to go to England. There’s the guy who has the Nike commercial (Denis Leary). He first made it in England. Got a huge response there and now he’s kicked in here.

Q: Will there be a shakeout on this circuit?

A: The number of clubs might diminish because of the economy or people getting bored. But there’s still something in people’s desire to laugh or forget that will keep keep the clubs alive.

Q: Don’t you think with clubs and 24-hour comedy channels that people are laughing too much?

A: You can never laugh enough. Just like you can never come enough. Laughter’s different. You don’t have to wait three hours and take some protein. I watch the Comedy Channel because they show great old classics. But 24 hours a day? I don’t know.

Q: What about people who say, “If I see another comedy show I’ll puke?”

A: I say, watch the Home Shopping Network, now that’s funny. Or “American Gladiators,” incredibly muscular women beating the shit out of each other. How long before we have the Evangelical World Wrestling Confederation?

Q: Do you do clubs at all anymore?

A: I do the Holy City Zoo in S. F. and Igby’s here, the Comedy Store and the Improv, mostly when I have to get ready for something like “The Tonight Show” and to have a place to get your juices going again, to see if your legs still move.

Q: And the validation?

A: Is it like the bad times when I was just going up to get 300 people to laugh to prove my existence? No. Now I need it to prove that I can still think, that I still have a mind that functions--in unusual ways. That’s nice. And it’s still a great release. Else you could wind up on a tower with an automatic weapon saying, “Look, here comes another bus.” It’s an outlet for things that make you angry, things you’re afraid of, things that you love, a place you can release it.