Read Online Still Foolin' 'Em by Billy Crystal - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Billy Crystal
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It’s Jewish boxing. You don’t hit the guy, you just make him feel guilty.” BIG LAUGHS. If this was a fight, I was way ahead on points.
Ali was fantastic. He started joking around with me during my act, hiding his face with his napkin. When I was done, the crowd gave me a huge round of applause, Dick told them my name, and then Ali hugged me. “You are my little brother,” he whispered. That is what he calls me to this day.
* * *
One night Jack Rollins came to see me at Catch a Rising Star. This was the first time since that fraternity house that Jack would see what I was doing. A quirky, interesting man, he came off more like an eccentric English professor than the dean of comedy managers. I was nervous that he was there, but I had a great set. We met afterward, and I thought for sure he was going to tell me he was giving up Woody for me. We had settled into a booth in a quiet restaurant when Jack said, “I didn’t care for what you did tonight.” I wanted to stab him with a fork. “Why?” I spit out. “Listen,” he said, “the audience loved it, and you can do very well with what I saw, but I have no idea what you think about anything. You didn’t leave a tip.”
“A tip?” I managed to ask.
“Yes, a little extra something you leave with the audience: you . I know what Ali thinks—what do you think? Don’t work so safe, don’t be afraid to bomb. Come back tomorrow and don’t use any of this material; we know it works. Just talk. Let me know how you feel about things. What it’s like to be a father, what it’s like to be married, how you feel about politics—put you in your material. Leave a tip.”
At first I was angry, but somewhere inside I understood what he meant, and I did just that the next night. I bombed, but I knew why. I started to talk about what was going on in my life. A few nights later, it started to click. It’s the best advice I have ever been given.
Once I had a solid half hour of material, Buddy got me playing tasty small clubs like the Exit/In in Nashville, the Boarding House in San Francisco, the Great Southeast Music Hall in Atlanta, and Larry Magid’s Bijou in Philadelphia. In Manhattan he booked me into the famous Other End (formerly the Bitter End) for weeks at a time. Under the guidance of club owner Paul Colby I went from an opening act to a headliner. It was on Bleecker Street in the West Village and was the home of Cosby and Woody and other great comedians. I got some good reviews, and people started to come down to see me. There’s an excitement that you can get only from performing in a storied venue in New York City. Being a part of the heritage was a thrill.
One night, as I was doing my set in front of the club’s famous brick wall, I saw a familiar face in the back watching me. It was Bill Cosby. He was the best stand-up comedian of any generation. I aspired to his skill at storytelling and his ease with a joke. Yes, he did great pieces like “Noah,” but it was his anecdotes about his family and the kids he grew up with that stayed with me. He always left a tip. After my show, he came backstage to introduce himself, and we went out and talked. He did this a few times, and it meant the world to me that someone of his stature would take the time to mentor me. He would call me occasionally after a television appearance to tell me that he liked what I had done or to give me advice. “Just talk,” he said. “Don’t let them see that you’re working.”
Buddy also had me play different kinds of places, to give me some muscle. I played a lot of Playboy Clubs, which were not cool but paid well. All the Playboy Clubs around the country looked the same, sort of like McDonalds with cleavage. Businessmen in ties and jackets “enjoyed those Jewish skits.” They certainly weren’t my core audience, but if I could reach them and not give up my integrity (too much), I was way ahead of the game. Buddy then got me my first big job, opening for the
Ali was fantastic. He started joking around with me during my act, hiding his face with his napkin. When I was done, the crowd gave me a huge round of applause, Dick told them my name, and then Ali hugged me. “You are my little brother,” he whispered. That is what he calls me to this day.
* * *
One night Jack Rollins came to see me at Catch a Rising Star. This was the first time since that fraternity house that Jack would see what I was doing. A quirky, interesting man, he came off more like an eccentric English professor than the dean of comedy managers. I was nervous that he was there, but I had a great set. We met afterward, and I thought for sure he was going to tell me he was giving up Woody for me. We had settled into a booth in a quiet restaurant when Jack said, “I didn’t care for what you did tonight.” I wanted to stab him with a fork. “Why?” I spit out. “Listen,” he said, “the audience loved it, and you can do very well with what I saw, but I have no idea what you think about anything. You didn’t leave a tip.”
“A tip?” I managed to ask.
“Yes, a little extra something you leave with the audience: you . I know what Ali thinks—what do you think? Don’t work so safe, don’t be afraid to bomb. Come back tomorrow and don’t use any of this material; we know it works. Just talk. Let me know how you feel about things. What it’s like to be a father, what it’s like to be married, how you feel about politics—put you in your material. Leave a tip.”
At first I was angry, but somewhere inside I understood what he meant, and I did just that the next night. I bombed, but I knew why. I started to talk about what was going on in my life. A few nights later, it started to click. It’s the best advice I have ever been given.
Once I had a solid half hour of material, Buddy got me playing tasty small clubs like the Exit/In in Nashville, the Boarding House in San Francisco, the Great Southeast Music Hall in Atlanta, and Larry Magid’s Bijou in Philadelphia. In Manhattan he booked me into the famous Other End (formerly the Bitter End) for weeks at a time. Under the guidance of club owner Paul Colby I went from an opening act to a headliner. It was on Bleecker Street in the West Village and was the home of Cosby and Woody and other great comedians. I got some good reviews, and people started to come down to see me. There’s an excitement that you can get only from performing in a storied venue in New York City. Being a part of the heritage was a thrill.
One night, as I was doing my set in front of the club’s famous brick wall, I saw a familiar face in the back watching me. It was Bill Cosby. He was the best stand-up comedian of any generation. I aspired to his skill at storytelling and his ease with a joke. Yes, he did great pieces like “Noah,” but it was his anecdotes about his family and the kids he grew up with that stayed with me. He always left a tip. After my show, he came backstage to introduce himself, and we went out and talked. He did this a few times, and it meant the world to me that someone of his stature would take the time to mentor me. He would call me occasionally after a television appearance to tell me that he liked what I had done or to give me advice. “Just talk,” he said. “Don’t let them see that you’re working.”
Buddy also had me play different kinds of places, to give me some muscle. I played a lot of Playboy Clubs, which were not cool but paid well. All the Playboy Clubs around the country looked the same, sort of like McDonalds with cleavage. Businessmen in ties and jackets “enjoyed those Jewish skits.” They certainly weren’t my core audience, but if I could reach them and not give up my integrity (too much), I was way ahead of the game. Buddy then got me my first big job, opening for the
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