Stand-up comedy has a problem, and the problem is comedy clubs. Best-case scenario, the mozzarella sticks will be warm. The Coors Light, cold. The hecklers, tepid. The whole experience offers little character, save for the comedians and the brick wall behind them. Which is why I was thrilled when Amphibian Stage Productions launched a comedy series this year with actor and comedian Baron Vaughn (Netflix’s Grace and Frankie, HBO’s Girls) as the curator.
Since February, the Fort Worth theater has hosted four alternative comics—Kyle Kinane, blue-comedy hipster and Comedy Central’s “voice,” was the series’ first sold-out act—in its renovated theater space, which features a legit bar flush with Fort Worth beers and Spanish wines, plus sherry mules served in hand-hammered copper mugs. The scene is as classy and casual as the polished concrete floors. And at the end of August, Vaughn has an entire week onstage to work out his pop culture ramblings and intellectual trips.
Full disclosure: my husband went to acting school with Vaughn and facilitated the partnership’s initial conversation. That being said, I have no stake in the series, but I hope artistic director Kathleen Culebro makes good on her promise to keep it going for two good reasons—the soup and the sausage. Let me explain.
The soup: “diversity” is a nonprofit-theater buzzword. Artistic directors are always angling for diverse audiences and diverse programming, which often involves producing a multicultural production with grant money behind it.
I have personally made it to three of the series’ sets, during which I’ve sat among the usual theatergoers, well-to-do men and their wives with smoothed silver bobs. But there were also black nerds, teenage comedy geeks, flannel-clad dudes sporting seriously impressive facial hair, and country girls with rhinestone jeans. A truly strange soup.
Culebro has not only found a way to attract a mixed crowd, but the series is a for-profit venture that helps offset pricey stage plays. It’s all pretty brilliant.
Even more interesting is the sausage. Vaughn’s weeklong stay at the end of August is a workshop—a normal concept in the theater world, a rarity in comedy. Comedians might slip in a new joke or two in their usual set. Maybe more at the occasional open-mic night. But this residency gives audiences the uncommon chance, as Vaughn puts it, “to see how the sausage is made.”
He suggests those who want to see the final product, rather than the process, attend later in the week. “If something doesn’t work, I’ll move on or comment on it,” Vaughn says. “Sometimes the material comes out of that. It might be uncomfortable at times, but it’ll always be funny.”
Me, I’ll be there a few nights of his visit. I don’t mind if it gets weird, because no matter what, I know I’ll have a good glass of Tempranillo in hand. Amphibian keeps a few Coors Lights in the fridge, though, if that’s more your thing.
A version of this piece appears in the August issue of D Magazine.
