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The Family Hemerlein Show @ Asylum

January 4, 2010 by Peter

all photos: Shauna Alexander
all words: Peter Heyneman

Mixing Music and Comedy on the same stage can be risky. Ideally they should be clearly and starkly demarcated, with the musicians playing serious music and the comedians for god’s sake not singing. Each medium requires different but congruous audience reactions—applause, attention, laughter, call-and-response. If it all goes right the stand-up routines will focus the crowd’s energy onto the music, and the musical performances will boost their open response to the jokes. Sometimes though, the mixture is in dire need of a catalyst: like maybe jackbooted Altamont thugs with pool cues bludgeoning rude motherfuckers until they appreciate the phenomenal performances going on right in front of them?

There were two “sets” at Matthew Hemerlein’s Family Hemerlein Night at Asylum last Wednesday, and I got there right as the first ended with Mr. Hemerlein himself. Mostly solo, using one of them there looping delay pedals to accompany himself, Hemerlein warbled catchy baroque-pop songs and played the violin like a ukulele. Then he played the violin like a violin, i.e. smoked the blazing classical runs. The highlight of his set was probably the Hemerlein’ed version of the Little Mermaid song Kiss the Girl (also used in the ads for this event), which served as a perfect opportunity for his soft, mannered voice to handle the goofy lyrics with bitter sincerity.

After a short break for more boozing, Hampton Yount came on with a howl. Hampton is one of DC’s funniest and most shocking comedians, and one of the best I’ve ever seen at controlling a crowd. He is loud as shit, but not shrill or badgering, and He’s constantly addressing the mob, even if they’re shouting at each-other instead of giving him even the courtesy of heckling (more on that later), and he has the ability to move through an occult reference or overly disgusting rape joke (4 separate jokes employing the word rape? C’mon man what about grand larceny other crimes need love too) to analyze our lack of reaction and make us laugh at that analysis instead. If he sometimes gets a bit too negative about redneck/Christian/NASCAR/ the Illuminati, he more than makes up for it by turning it back on himself and his own sad paranoia. There aren’t a lot of comedians I’d trust to read excerpts from their romance novel onstage without getting endlessly pedantic, but Hampton diction works so smoothly between poetry and filth that he can pull it off with aplomb.

Next up was Birdlips, a band from Charlottesville. You, like I, perhaps had never heard of them, but now that you have, you fucking love them. Basically they’re a really tall gaunt older fellow and a tiny young woman who looks about 17 making blissful garage-pop-country with jangles and keyboards and a wall of reverberating harmonies. Think Rilo Kiley meets Black Lips. Think the Duchess and the Duke meets Mickey & Sylvia. Think about Sonny and Cher for once. They had a bunch of fans, who stood up front and yelled encouraging things at them, which was great, but then they were done and it was time for comedy, and instead of moving to the back and/or enjoying Seaton Smith, they started drunkenly yammering.

There’s a delicate equation at work when a comedian plays a rock club.

A. S/he has to acknowledge that people aren’t going to be as quiet and respectful as they would be in a theater or café setting.

B. Some people are just fucking idiots.

C. S/he needs to work to hold non-idiot’s attention and keep them from turning away.

D. S/he does not want to beg though. Desperation isn’t funny.

X. At some point though, the discourtesy of the audience overbalances any efforts of the performer to get them to have fun and neither ignoring it or hollering does anything but sour the enjoyment of the fans who are trying to watch the show.

A+B-C = D

Seaton Smith is one of the funniest comedians I’ve ever seen. He has a pitch perfect and naturally hilarious delivery. But he had reached his limit of annoyance at the crowd of cocks near the bar who were literally screaming throughout his act and his frustration showed. He tried to turn it around by addressing specific people in the front (including a deliriously brutal come-on to a wasted pearl-wearing politico girlfriend… “Ma’am you’re so rich your shit must smell expensive”) and trying to get me personally to discuss my threesome habits (“SIR I know you know what I’m talking about sir! You only have a second to text message all of your friends so you just get out one word: NIGGA!”). But sadly he was too flustered by the noise and douchebags to deliver his best knockout punches.

As Mat Hemerlein took the stage to finish the night, I imagined a gang of pink shirted, possibly piano-tie wearing Rodney Dangerfields who would show up at comedy bar shows with brickbats and lit cigars to intimidate drunk assholes at the bar who are too rude to sit in silence and watch someone do their act, like a comedy-nerd Warriors crew. This event is a fantastic idea, and hopefully Hemerlein will put on many more mashups of the two worlds, bringing much-needed fun to music and hipster cache to groundbreaking comics, but something systemic needs to occur to ensure that those with brains don’t get their funny ruined by nattering, clueless asshats. AKA Bring on the UltraViolence! Or maybe just a nice sign at the door? PLEASE DO NOT SUCK,

Signed, the MGMT

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