I've written on here before about how stand-up comedy was just a big part of my life in my youth. It didn't just make me laugh though, it crawled inside my thought processes and often could bring me to a near state of relaxed meditation. These folks weren't just funny as hell, but the way they could string words together was an art form.
Some better than others, but nonetheless.
During my Middle School years and into my senior year in High School, I was picking through the cut-out bins at Camelot Records at the Richland Mall in Waco, TX and the Wausau Center Mall in North Central Wisconsin for stand up albums. I had accumulated the likes of Bill Cosby, Steven Wright, Howie Mandel, George Carlin, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Eddie Murphy and Steve Martin.
Sometimes after my parents had gone to bed, I would grab my Panasonic Slim Line tape recorder and sit in front of the TV's speaker and record shit like Robert Townsend's Partners in Crime, Joe Piscopo's Halloween Party, and any one of the Rodney Dangerfield's comedy specials that gave up-and-coming comedians a big audience before they broke. These were my introductions to Sam Kinison, Robert Schimmel, Rita Rudner, Andrew "Dice" Clay, Carol Liefer, Louie Anderson, and Bill Motherfuckin' Hicks.
While living in Waco, I started the practice of lying down at bed time, in the dark, with the headphones of the Sanyo pocket cassette deck my Dad had bought me as a gift firmly on my head. You know, the old man left the thing lying on my pillow to come home to after school one afternoon. He had no idea what that little expenditure meant to me. Particularly while living in Waco, with an even more accentuated amount of that solo self-introspection time. I didn't even ask for the player. He had just seen me fiddling around with my old standard Slim Line tape recorder with some cheap headphones in an attempt to listen to music privately. It didn't work that great and he picked up on it.
But I digress.
I'd lay there, crawling towards sleep, with Bill Cosby's (or as W. Kamau Bell refers to him as "The artist formerly known as Bill Cosby" for obvious reasons) To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With. This album was an extended routine about two brothers lying next to each other in their apartment bedroom, whispering in argumentative fashion while fearing their old man coming in to beat their ass for failing to go to sleep.
Now anyone who has a sibling or has had friends or cousins, et al sleep over knows what this is like. And it had a soothing sentiment to it.
I also lay there on other nights listening to Carlin. Either Playin' With Your Head (the audio release of the HBO stand up special which I had recorded and repeatedly viewed) or Toledo Window Box. Playin', particularly, was a tour de force of the man's domination of the English language. His routines were so honed, so tight, there was nary a stumble of the tongue, much less an "uh.." to be found. But the shit was so hilarious that you didn't realize you were in the presence of one of the world's all time greatest public speakers. And that voice, that low, deep, yet slightly raspy tone could relax me even when talking about the most inane things in existence. It was only upon repeated listens that you realized that his speech was laser focused and error-free.
George could get me to shut it all down, focus on his genius, and fall asleep in a time where it was difficult.
Billy Crystal's Marvelous! is another example of a comedy album that I could relax to. Whether he was talking about libido in his youth, his flatulent grandfather, actors Yul Brynner or Edward G. Robinson, or doing impressions of his favorite boxers, an aged jazz musician, or his own character, Fernando, I loved it all. The broad spectrum of places where humor could come from in his imagination was awe-inspiring and often touching. There was a ton of fucking heart on this record, and it also made me unwind, and I recommend this semi-forgotten audio take of a video-recorded special as well.
Looking for Laughs, I guess in some cases, found me peace.
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