Since opening in September, Mottley’s Comedy Club has been a standout in the city and a member of the proud line of intimate, comic-run rooms, which means cool vibes, interesting bookings and sensible ticket policies. Co-owner and Northeastern grad Jon Lincoln hosts the wild Wednesday nights, a mix of multi-act showcases with the insane character comedy of Chris Coxen and the all-around musical ridiculousness of local favorite Robby Roadsteamer. And, unless bread bowls of chowder filled with touristy goodness make you laugh, you won’t find any better place near Faneuil Hall for $10 comedy. I recently spoke with Lincoln about the club.
What kind of crowd are you drawing for the Wednesday shows?
It’s a mix, because if you’re someone who goes to the alternative clubs like Improv Boston and the Great and Secret show, there’s some weird stuff like that but also some traditional stand-up. It’s two shows in one. I co-host with Chris Coxen, and the running gag is that every show he has to leave for some reason, to move his car, go Christmas shopping or because his mother is in the hospital. We do that because it’s about getting the audience on the inside of the joke rather than the outside. The thing with Chris’s characters is that if he’s on a regular showcase and he just goes up as Danny Morsel, the audience is kind of confused, they don’t know if he’s serious, if he’s really a motivational speaker. Here, they remember he was the guy they saw earlier.
How would you describe the current Boston comedy scene?
It’s kind of getting back to its roots. Over time, comedy became a business. You saw more comedy bookers that were not comedians. Especially in the 80s, there were lots of clubs run by owners looking to make a profit. Now, if you look at all the clubs in Boston, 99% are comedian-run. The Comedy Studio is run by Rick Jenkins, Mottley’s is run by Tim McIntire and I, the Vault is run by Dick Doherty. A lot of times when clubs are run by people who aren’t in it for the comedy but are in it for the money, the creativity is crushed a little bit. Now, it’s still a business for the clubs, but all the people who run clubs right now do it because they care about comedy, not because it’s a wise business investment. If Tim McIntire and I wanted to make killer money on an investment, we’d open a paper clip factory. Shows become better when the comedians care about it and run the shows. Then the audiences grow, and you get an underground following.
Were you star-struck when the Smothers Brothers came in there during the Boston Comedy Festival?
The Festival was such a boost. Tim, Jeff Fairbanks and I, we built the stage, we put in the lighting, we put in the sound. And we put in some of our own money to do that. And, it’s scary to do that not knowing if a single person is going to walk through the door. Within the first week, the Smothers Brothers are on our stage. The term “legend” is tossed around a lot in comedy, they are true legends, and to have them on the stage - it was an incredible thing. Tim brought a record of theirs he’s had since high school, and they signed it to Mottley’s. We’re going to get it framed.
[The Lincoln Exhibit, Wednesdays from 1.07.09, 8pm/$10/21+. Mottley’s Comedy Club at Trinity, 61 Chatham St., Boston. www.mottleyscomedy.com. 877-548-3237.]
Joe List has been one of my favorite Boston comics since I first saw him on a showcase show in a rec room in the basement of Boston University. List's performances combine hilariously crude sex jokes with a nuanced, self-depreactory charm. It's easy to see why his career has taken off as fast as it has, with appearances on Comedy Central's Live at Gotham and in the finals of the 2008 Boston Comedy Festival. List lives in New York now and is the regular opener for Nick DiPaolo, another comic with Boston roots. Both men, along with Gary Gulman, Kevin Knox and Kelly MacFarland, will be on the Comics For A Cure show on Friday at the Cutler Majestic Theatre. The show, which List will host, is a benefit to raise money for neuroblastoma, a cancer that affects young children. I recently talked to List about the show, his career and opening for Nick DiPaolo.
How did you get involved in the show?
Tracy (Harding, the organizer) had contacted me. I went to high school with her boyfriend and evidently he let her know that I was a comedian and she contacted me on MySpace. And, we did that one, which was great and a wonderful cause, and then she asked me about this. I had no idea about this and how big this would be. I thought it would be similar to the Darfur thing, which was one night at a comedy club, and this has turned into a theater production. I’m certainly excited about it.
How did you go about putting together the bill?
I contacted everyone who I thought would make a great show. Tracy gives me credit for more than I’ve done. All I did was call four people. She’s doing all the work. I wanted to keep it fairly local. It’s also who I know the best. It wasn’t necessarily an effort to make it a “Boston show,” but it’s also people who I know the best, and I think are the best comics.
I ask every Boston comic this – is there something about the city, a Boston attitude, that links together the comics that are from here?
I think there is. It’s just an angry city. It’s small, it’s in the shadow of New York. People are angrier in Boston than anywhere else. It’s cold, and up until eight years ago, our sports teams were all fucking miserable. There’s a lot of anger to go around in Boston. The city plays a role in every comic who comes from there, and every person too.
Is it strange for you to think about the contrast between the seriousness of the cause and the kind of comedy you will be doing?
What we’re doing onstage when we’re talking, that’s when it’s just a comedy show. The event as a whole is a cancer benefit, but I think the portion where we’re onstage is stand-up. Certainly, no one is going to be doing cancer jokes. I hope the audience will see it as a comedy show for an hour and a half and then everything else before and after can be more cancery. Cancery, is that a word?
How is it opening for a guy who has the kind of diehard audiences that Nick DiPaolo does?
It’s good. I think the people who are fans of Nick’s are really good comedy audiences. Nick’s a really smart guy, and I think one of the smartest comics working. He’s a pure stand-up. There’s not a lot of tricks or juggling or high-energy. Just pure jokes and great jokes. That’s what I strive to do. Nick and I are very different politically, but comedically, I think we’re somewhat similar. It works great for me, I love it. It’s fun working all over the country, and also, he’s one of my best friends.
Are you surviving on your comedy earnings?
I am. I should have another job. I’m scraping by, and I’m broke all the time, and I can’t bring myself to work. So, not as good as I probably should be.
Anything else we should know about the show?
All five of us are buddies and all started in Boston. It should be a great cause, so please come out.
Here's a bit more from my interview with Potter, who was in great voice as she played the Wilbur Theatre tonight with the Nocturnals. They made great use of the theatre space, crafting a wonderfully layered show that was at times mellow and at other times rocking, including an impassioned cover of Irma Thomas's "Pain in My Heart" and - in a nod to Boston - an encore of "Sweet Emotion."
What do you like about touring all
the time?
Doing the headlining shows is exciting
and endearing, and you start to get to know who your crowd is. You start
seeing the same people come back again and again, and it turns into
this whole family, this whole world that you created. It’s a pretty
wild thing. It’s like having kids, except the kids are mostly older
than you and can drink you under the table.
Would you tour into infinity if
you could?
I think it’s not an endless circle.
I would like to get out of that – not forever, but touring has been
my life since I was 19. I’ve been in more vans than beds. It would
be good to chill out a little bit at some point, make a new record,
and find some time to live a life outside of bus, bunk, or hotel room.
At the same time, it’s been a good life to me. But, I can see the
end of that road coming soon. I’m really excited to step away from
that soon.
You’re from a small town in Vermont.
What don’t we city folk understand about small town America?
I don’t think that my town is the
right small town America example. I feel like I’ve really grown up
in a place that is aside or apart from the rest of the country. But,
when I see a small town, I love it. I was just down in North Carolina,
in a great little town called Wellington. It’s right on the beach,
and it’s a cool and true small town, from the architecture to the
hardware store to the music store that has a jewelry counter in it,
because they can’t just have one or the other if they’re going to
make ends meet.
My small town is very insulated and
protected from the outside world. I love saying where I’m from and
having everybody give me a blank look. It is a little weird to be from
a town that’s so separate from everything. It’s just so far up there,
it’s like making a pilgrimage somewhere. There’s actually a council
in my town and in the state of Vermont that’s trying to do that “secede
from the union” thing.
You turned 25 earlier this summer.
Have things changed?
I feel like I’m taking a little bit
more responsibility. When you’re 19 and 20 and you’re doing the
band thing, it’s all a flash in the pan, and it could be gone the
next day, and I could be waitressing again and painting houses. And,
it was a good life, and I would go back to it if I had to. Being five
or six years into this career, it’s starting to sink in that this
is my reality, and I need to be a little more precious with it, a little
less careless. It’s weird to feel like you’re growing up.
Are you rapidly accumulating regrets?
There are definitely things that I’ll
regret. There were songs that I wrote when I was 17 that I regretted
the day after I recorded them. But, I can’t think of anything that
I’m desperately ashamed of. For now, I’m just happy to be doing
this at all.
You’re playing a fancy theatre
this time. What gives?
It’s a new thing for us. We wanted
to give our fans the chance to see us in a different context. We’ll
probably cater to the theater vibe a little bit. You don’t want to
smash people’s faces in, but a band like My Morning Jacket does a
good job of adjusting their sound and performance to a theater setting,
without completely losing sense of themselves. Theaters have a beautiful
sound to them. We’re going to do our most beautiful rock songs.
You’ve changed the arrangement
pretty drastically on some of the songs from the band’s first album
Nothing But The Water. Is that because you’re tired of them
or because you’re looking for a new way to do them?
Yeah, I think we get tired of them,
and I think we’ve improved as musicians. Although, sometimes, I think
in the fans’ opinions, it’s not an improvement, it’s a sidestep.
But, I do think, you want to constantly give people something different.
I’m not just going to do a reggae version of a song for the sake of
doing a reggae version of the song. It is nice to put a fresh take on
things for our sake and keeping us excited about playing these songs
year after year. Some of those songs are five or six years old, which
isn’t that old, when look at the Stones or Tom Petty, but we’re
going to get there some day, so you have to keep it fresh. I don’t
listen back to these records, and I actually just forget how they sound,
so I associate them with the live environment. It’s like a game of
telephone.
I saw you at Bonnaroo a few years
ago, kicking ass at some ungodly hour like 1 pm.
That was early that day. I don’t
know how we pulled it together to play.
Is it a nice perk to be able to
get into those giant festivals for free?
It is interesting, because I never
thought of it that way until we started getting onto these bills with
Radiohead and Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers. That is an exciting
part of it, to know that you can be milling around backstage and actually
see these people in the flesh and get to watch their entire show. Although
most of the time, when you’re on a festival bill with another really
huge act, they shut down the backstage for their private VIPs. But,
it’s still a real thrill just to hear that music from a distance.
To hear “Free Fallin’” - even if you’re a mile and a half away
- is kind of awesome.
Are you looking forward to the days
when you can be a really inaccessible festival headliner?
I hope I’ll never be inaccessible,
but I definitely want to be a festival headliner. It’s been cool,
as we’ve gone into the festival world, to see the sun get a little
closer to setting as our shows are happening. And, even some shows actually
occurring after dark, god forbid, we are called the Nocturnals, it seemed
a little strange that we were always getting these daytime shows. But,
from Bonnaroo up to now, the days have been getting a little longer
and the nights a little closer, which is nice.
Does that make you feel like you’re
making it? What’s the measure of success now? You have your own Wikipedia
page.
Yeah, which is all complete false information,
which I love. I don’t want to change it, because it’s all so wrong
and awesome. I don’t know. It’s weird. There is no such thing as
making it these days. Especially with the internet. People have “made
it” online who have never even left their fucking house. But, one
thing that I really enjoy is meeting other musicians and actually having
them know our name, like the people who really inspire me and get me
excited about music. When you see them and they’re like, “Oh my
god. How have you been? I love you guys!” That’s fucking crazy.
I met Andrew Bird the other day, and he was like, “Yeah, Grace Potter
& the Nocturnals,” in his little Andrew Bird way, as he’s straightening
his tie. That sort of revs my engine a bit.
When you’re going to see Van Morrison, there’s always the
question of what Van Morrison is going to show up. (But not when – the tickets
specify “7 pm sharp!” and it’s true.) Much like his friend Bob Dylan, Morrison spent
the last forty-odd years showing us the songwriter’s version of Sherman’s
March, restlessly, relentlessly plowing through genres, bands and his own songs
while upending nearly everything we thought was stone-set about music along the
way.
The crowd
at the Providence Performing Arts Center last night was alternately dreading,
expecting, hoping for…country Van, blues Van, Celtic soul Van, frustrated Van,
jazz standards Van, the Van in purple tights whose breakneck performance of
“Caravan” (with triumphant high kicks for punctuation) probably shamed The Band
into retirement after The Last Waltz.
And, they sort of got all of those –
though no “Caravan.” As is also the case with Bob Dylan, you could write five
or ten alternate set lists with all the great songs he didn’t play: “Into The
Mystic,” “Saint Dominic’s Preview,” “All Saint’s Day,” “Here Comes The Night,” “Cyprus
Avenue,” “Brown Eyed Girl” – if you consider that to be one of them. But,
unlike Bobby D., whose hit-and-huge-gaping-miss shows these days consist mostly
of him firing sporadically and inaudibly at his keyboard while barking lyrics
into a microphone, Morrison still pulls off many of the things that inspired a
young Bruce Springsteen to - let’s call it – borrow so much from him.
His voice
retains most of that impossible fullness; now that he’s in his 60s, he arguably
has better control of his range than ever before, swooping from scat
improvisation and whispered repetition to that rare, explosive burst of power. And
that was just “Moondance.” If he wanted, say, a banjo solo, a violin interlude
or a piano break, he’d just emphatically point to the musician he needed,
running his group like a merciless high school teacher who could pick on anyone
at any time.
“This is called Brown Eyed Girl,” I
heard someone who I suspect was not Lester Bangs say to his date as Van entered
to the opening notes of “Domino,” his ten-piece band onstage waiting for him. Not
every audience member was an idiot, but it didn’t matter – Morrison never
performs for the crowd anyway. Notoriously shy, he sticks to a tiny comfort
zone in the middle of the stage, surrounded by monitors and musicians, always
looking like he’s just realized he had an important errand to run before the
show and is now paralyzed with regret. He isn’t Mick Jagger, but then he doesn’t
need to be. As always with Van, the best parts are when it looks like he doesn’t
know he’s onstage, eyes closed tight, feeling his way through the moment with
abbreviated arm flails and sharp, staccato head bobs.
Like Dylan,
or Coltrane or any of the greats, Morrison always searches for a new entry
point into his songs, a new rhythm to the vocal, something that interests him
enough to stay onstage during the exactly 90 minutes for which he usually
performs. (Apparently, his famous exclamation “It’s Too Late To Stop Now!”
doesn’t apply after 8:45.) He switched off at random, from vocals to sax to keyboard
to guitar, which led to one hilarious mishap with a roadie frantically trying
to get him a six-string he was happy with. He couldn’t. But, Van was in a
generous mood, throwing out some crowd-pleasers like “Bright Side of the Road,”
“Have I Told You Lately That I Love You,” a Georgie Fame-inspired version of
“Moondance” from the underrated How Long
Has This Been Going On and the Ray Charles country version of “I Can’t Stop
Loving You.” He also played some stuff that nobody in his right mind would
request, like the title cut and a couple other songs from Magic Time. And, it all worked. The intimate, nearly spiritual
textures of “Celtic New Year” were a dynamic contrast with the spooky urgency
of “St. James Infirmary,” the blues simmer of “Help Me.”
While his
band continued to play “And The Healing Has Begun,” he wandered off-stage for
what passes for the finale of a Van Morrison show. Of course, he’s not
interested in contrivance anymore than he is in playing “Gloria” every night
(which he didn’t and doesn’t). A few minutes and one “big hand for the band”
later, he reappeared for what seemed to be an unplanned second encore, shortly
before deciding he was done for good. He walked off again as the band finished
up, the musicians taking turns introducing the now-halfway-to-his-hotel “Mr.
Vaaaaaaan Morrison.” Not that anyone needed to be reminded.
For a sample of Van Morrison at his very best: check out the
above-mentioned “Caravan” from The Last
Waltz and this version of “Cyprus
Avenue” (recorded at the Fillmore East in 1970),
which inspired the real Lester Bangs to write perhaps the definitive paragraph
on the subject of Van Morrison, also below:
“With consummate dynamics that allow him to snap from
indescribably eccentric throwaway phrasing to sheer passion in the very next
breath he brings the music surging up through crescendo after crescendo,
stopping and starting and stopping and starting the song again and again,
imposing long maniacal silences like giant question marks between the stops and
starts and ruling the room through sheer tension, building to a shout of “It's
too late to stop now!,” and just when you think it's all going to surge over
the top, he cuts it off stone cold dead, the hollow of a murdered explosion,
throws the microphone down and stalks off the stage. It is truly one of the
most perverse things I have ever seen a performer do in my life. And, of
course, it's sensational: our guts are knotted up, we're crazed and clawing for
more, but we damn well know we've seen and felt something.” Lester Bangs, Stranded, 1979.
Like a cool kid, I slept through my alarm back in Boston yesterday morning, scrambled to finish packing before my last minute cab showed up, and then forked over $40 for said cab to drag my sleepy ass to Logan for my flight to SXSW.
By weeklydig on Tue, Mar 16, 2010 7:17 pm
LIVE REVIEW BY RILEY OHLSON
RJD2 got his start DJing for Columbus rap group MHz in the '90s, but is better known for his solo work, beginning with Your Face or Your Kneecaps in 2001, and hitting his stride with widely acclaimed 2002 release Deadringer.
