Underbelly
written by Mike Cody
I live in Cincinnati, a fact that has prompted more than one out-of-towner to say, “Sorry about your luck.” Cincinnati isn’t a bad city, it’s just not New York, L.A., Boston, or any place else where great and exciting things are supposed to happen. Ours is not a 24 hour city, unless your 3 a.m. needs can be satisfied by Waffle House.
Since I am not a lifelong Cincinnati resident, I have a different perspective about it than most. If I hadn’t moved here after college and gotten a terrible, unsatisfying office job, I wouldn’t have taken the comedy class that jump started my creativity and led me to become a stand-up comedian, a strange, wonderful path that I have followed for the last five years. My adopted city can be boring, predictable, and obsessed with homemade chili for reasons I cannot fathom, but this is MY boring and predictable city, damn it! And once you’ve had it five or six times, Cincinnati chili tastes pretty good.
For a city of its size, Cincinnati has more than its share of talented comedians. Two of my friends, Geoff Tate and Dave Waite, have been selected to appear on Comedy Central’s “Live at Gotham.” Another comic, Josh Sneed, has his own half-hour Comedy Central special and has performed at the Just For Laughs Festival in Montreal. There are two comedy clubs operating in the greater Cincinnati area: The Funny Bone in Newport, KY, which brings in largely mainstream acts like D.L. Hughley and Eddie Griffin, and Go Bananas in Montgomery, OH, which brings in both mainstream performers and cult comics like Jimmy Pardo and Todd Barry.
When I moved back to Cincinnati after spending two years in Chicago and Minneapolis in order to further my career (i.e. drink a lot and crash on friends’ couches), I was full of energy and had a strong desire to wake up the local comedy community. Eventually, I decided to start promoting my own independent comedy show. As far as what type of comedy show I would run, my decision was inspired by a depressing conversation with a fellow comedian, who lamented the fact that only two people had shown up to a bimonthly open mic he ran at a local coffee shop by saying, “Everybody around here hates stand-up. It’s hard enough to get people to come see us at clubs, let alone to coffee shops and other places so we can work on new stuff.”
I spent two years living in Chicago, where I performed stand-up at “alternative” venues and shows run by local promoters. From those promoters’ trials and errors, I learned that the shows that sold the most tickets were usually the ones that revolved around a theme, like “The Handsome Bastards of Comedy,”. The theme I settled on stemmed from a conversation with my comedian friends about the sort of things we could do on the show.
“We could do sketches, play music, dress up in costumes, or read poetry. In fact,” I said slowly, as the clouds pulled away and things finally became clear, “we don’t have to do stand-up at all.”
The mission statement for the show became “Stand-up comedians doing improv, music, sketches, characters, and poetry—everything except stand-up comedy.” I named the show “Underbelly,” which I always thought would be an awesome name for a night club or an independent magazine. There are several dictionary definitions for “underbelly,” including “a dark, seamy, often hidden area or side,” which is the definition I thought would perfectly capture the theme of comedians stepping out of their comfort zones. Another definition was “a vulnerable area; weak point,” which, sadly, felt like a more accurate take on how locals would react to such a show.
I dashed off an e-mail to the booking manager of The Southgate House, a historic rock n’ roll club located in nearby Newport, KY.
Past performers in the ballroom have included indie rock legends like Guided By Voices, They Might Be Giants, The Decemberists and even The White Stripes. The lounge usually hosts small acoustic performances or open mic nights, while the parlour, which has a capacity of roughly 75, is where bands with smaller followings or avant garde performers usually play. I asked the manager if we could hold some sort of alternative comedy show in the parlour. A month later, I received a courteous reply from Rick McCarty, the Southgate’s manager, saying he was interested in putting something together on Tuesdays to entertain folks waiting to sing karaoke, yet another obvious similarity between my show and “Showtime at the Apollo.”
Local comics met the announcement of Underbelly with a roar of approval. Early reactions ranged from “My material doesn’t work in front of young people” to “I’m not going if I have to pay to park.” The show generated so much buzz that, within weeks of announcing the show, our Facebook page had a staggering 13 fans. 13 is roughly the same number of comedians who asked to perform at Underbelly without realizing they wouldn’t be able to perform their normal stand-up acts, freaked out when they realized they needed to create original material.
If you think I was having second thoughts, think again. I never spent any evenings pacing my apartment, wondering aloud if my show was going to be a colossal flop. I didn’t check Underbelly’s Facebook page ten times a day to see if anyone else confirmed they would be attending. Mike Cody’s mailing address might be Cincinnati, but he owns a timeshare in a quaint, seaside village named Absolute Confidence.Besides, the idea that Underbelly could fail would give credence to the outdated view that exciting, vibrant comedy can only be found on the coasts. The show would work.
The Southgate parlour is a rectangular, wood-paneled room with a small stage at one end and a bar at the other. Behind the stage are tall bookcases filled with musty old volumes and an old piano that still worked perfectly. The surrounding walls are decorated with creepy oil paintings. Facing the stage were two old church pews and roughly 35 chairs. Forty-five minutes before show time, when nearly every seat in the place was still empty, I didn’t panic. When the battery died in my Mp3 player, which I needed for music cues, I threw back my head and laughed. And thirty minutes before show time, when one of my featured players informed me he hadn’t written a sketch for the show and was planning on “going up there and winging it,” the tears that welled in my eyes were from joy, not fear.
I ran over to White Castle to grab a few burgers and sooth my rattled nerves, hoping that people would be there when I got back. Fortunately, when I returned 10 minutes later, roughly 20 people were sitting in the pews. The show would open with me reading love letters to and from an imaginary girlfriend while the theme to Ken Burns’ documentary “The Civil War” played in the background, followed by Ryan Fohl and his girlfriend Celeste performing
“Choose Your Own Adventure Comedy,” followed by Sally Brooks performing as a rapping suburban housewife addicted to Oxycotin and Jack Daniels.
The audience seemed to be just as nervous and excited for us as we were to perform for them. There was an enormous ovation when the show began, and the first five acts killed. The show didn’t go off without a hitch. A few acts flopped badly. Also, as the finale approached, music from the karaoke lounge downstairs started bleeding into the parlour, making it hard for people to understand some of the dialogue. But overall, the show was a success. People who performed had a blast. My friend Jeff, whom we refer to as a “nonsexual comedy groupie,” shook my hand afterwards saying, “This is exciting. I really think you’re on to something here.”
Thank God.
So, we’re headed into our fourth blockbuster show. Once a month, roughly 15 comedians from Cincinnati and neighboring communities like Dayton and Lexington try to expand the definition of “comedy” by doing things like reading poetry written from the perspective of an Amish horse or performing an interpretive dance set to 1980’s television theme songs.
All apologies if this seems a bit anti-climactic. Everyone knew this was going to turn out perfectly, especially me. After all, Cincinnati has always been a place where dreams are rewarded and intelligent, restrained art has a home. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start sewing my costume for a sketch called “Guantanamo Bay Dance Party.”
For more about the show, visit ilovemikecody.com