A Night at the Comedy Corner Underground
Last Friday my friend, Liv, texted me a link and the following message:
“We have to go to this.”
The link was to a stand up comedy open mic in Minneapolis, not too far from us. She was right, we had to go.
From what I knew about stand-up comedy, I figured we’d either be seeing a single comedian in a grand performance hall, possibly in a suit standing next to a single stool. They’d tell crude jokes about their sex life or share crazy stories about doing possibly illegal drugs with friends. But then there was the open-mic aspect. From movies and TV shows, I then figured we’d be in a cozy, intimate bar scene with only a few occupied tables. After all, who goes to see newbie stand up comedians at a random bar in Minnesota?
Apparently, a lot of people. When we got to The Corner Bar in West Bank, we were the only people there. We were worried that we’d gone to the wrong spot, mixed up the days, or accidentally gotten ourselves roped into a show where we’d be the only ones in the audience. We asked the bartender if we were in the right place for the Stand-Up show, to which he mutely pointed to a door off to the side of the bar, labeled “The Comedy Corner Underground”.
We wasted an hour or so chatting with the bartenders and trying their favorite drinks and before we knew it, the bar was packed. We’d gone from worrying that we’d be the only ones to worrying if we’d be able to find a seat. So we swiftly grabbed our drinks and headed to the mysterious door, unsure of what to expect.
Through the door, we were greeted by a burst of color. Through the dim lighting, the walls were blanketed in posters of various past comedy events. The papers covered every square inch of the walls, trailing from the door, down the steep staircase, around the corner to the stage room. Tucked back in one corner of the room was a stage, probably less than eight feet in diameter, beamed with several spotlights that hurt to look at when my eyes finally adjusted to the warm, soft dimness.
All of the fifteen or so circle tables were full except for one in the back corner, where Liv and I cozied up in leather and wooden chairs. Just as we settled in, music came on, and an announcer boomed:
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Comedy Corner Underground! Give it up for your first performer!”
I was shocked by the pacing of it. Comedians shuffled in and out before I had finished laughing at the last joke. They each got about three minutes of stage time, many of which seemed to fly by (some bombs felt like years-long). It felt like an hour or so of constant giggling, and my mouth ached after smiling for so long.
The first few comedians surprised me. I found myself laughing out loud, which felt odd after the Covid months of watching stand-up specials on Netflix alone in my house, only chuckling here and there. The physical space and actual presence of the performers was exhilarating. When they nailed a joke, you could feel the warmth of the audience laughing. When a few performers missed the mark entirely, the silence was deafening. But the akwardness was almost as hilarious as the jokes themselves.
Overall, it was refreshing to revisit live entertainment after being constrained to streaming services over the past year or so. The beauty of stand-up is the gregariousness of it. The concept of strangers preaching to you about their personal stories and random anecdotes for an hour is somewhat bizarre, but when you’re there, in the audience, you feel as though you’re being spoken directly to. It’s as if you’re on the couch with your roommates, recounting the blurriness of last night’s adventures. Or like being at the dinner table with your family, letting your parents retell the same stupid story just because it always makes them laugh. Stand-up comedy is a way to connect after feeling isolated for so long. It’s the perfect way to spend a Friday night, go on a first date, explore a new city, or just laugh at the stupidity of life.
