TRUSTING LAUGHTER
By Charles Kraus
I was raised by a father who thought ‘buyer beware’ was the eleventh commandment. Lots of folks, he explained, were going to solicit my vote of confidence. Most would mean well, but except in very simple, straightforward situations, when they said they knew, they could, they would, what they really meant was, they thought, they hoped, they’d try. People wanted me to trust their opinions, interpretations, products and their absolute, solid, swear on grandma’s grave, versions of “the facts.” Caveat Emptor.
As time went by, life experience gave me a less skeptical point of view. This transition began at the start of my career as a comic and magician. Without ever mentioning the concept, my mentor, comedian Jay Jason, modeled a kind of faith, a set of positive assumptions offering guarded optimism that the mixing of trust and conviction could be a successful formula.
Jay told jokes and sang a few songs. He’d flirted with stardom but never achieved it, settling instead for a niche as a second tier highly respected professional. During the course of the three summers plus odd school-year weekends that I worked for him back in the 1960s, I served as his driver, apprentice, gopher, and on a few occasions, his opening act. He was my employer, teacher, and friend.
Seventeen is when you got your New Jersey driver’s license. Would you trust a kid who’d recently obtained one to chauffeur you in and around New York City and upstate, late at night, through traffic jams, summer heat and winter snow storms? In your brand new Cadillac convertible? After quizzing me on the rules of the road, Dad would occasionally, and quite reluctantly, dole out the keys to our station-wagon. Jay offered me the Caddy drivers seat with but a single word of caution — “don’t pass if you are driving up hill.” So, OK, trust can border on naïveté.
We filled drive-time to the mountain resorts by talking comedy. Why the first two minutes of a routine were so important. What you did if the show was sparsely attended. Taking advantage of the unexpected. I was asked to rate possible jokes, offer feedback as he arranged then rearranged routines. Reaching our destination, I’d pass out band music, take notes, carry luggage and make sure the props were in place.
Many a night, particularly on the weekends, Jay performed in multiple locations . One or two venues would be medium sized hotels, next an eleven o'clock performance at the palatial Concord or maybe the Tamarack Lodge. Later in the evening we’d end up at a bungalow colony – a collection of small summer cottages sharing centralized services such as dining facilities, a pool, recreation equipment and a canteen used for dances and shows.
Bungalow colonies had limited entertainment budgets. They were the “I’m-in-the-neighborhood, might-as-well-do-the-show” stops. Their audiences got what was left of Jay after his earlier appearances. These loosely scheduled post-midnight programs required special skills. Jay was tired. Half the crowd planned to stick around just a little longer, then if he still hadn’t arrived, head off to bed. The other half was steadfast. Guests watched the clock, danced and drank.
I felt protective of my boss. Folks were boisterous. How was he going to do his act at such boozed up soirees? My concerns proved unwarranted. Jay Jason had been around and around. He could handle just about any crowd. Trusting himself, his instincts, his talent and the audience, he looked mighty pleased to be there.
The first time I accompanied Jay to such an appearance, we’d entered the canteen to cheers. But I could see that the guests had no immediate plans to be seated. Jay joined the party, glad handing ‘old friends’ and fans, telling a story to this group, to that group, getting folks to listen and laugh. This group merged with that group, as the informal jokes and stories continued. Slowly the comedian led everyone toward the stage. Jay’s voice became a whisper. People grew quiet and leaned in to hear him. He mounted the platform, motioning for them to sit down so he could reveal the punch line to a joke he'd begun. Individuals fused into an audience. The show had formally begun.
One Sunday afternoon, as we pulled into the driveway of a small resort, Jay moaned. He was upset because passing the welcome sign, he realized the guests only spoke Yiddish. He nodded, accepting his fate, then started mumbling a variety of Yiddish expressions, dredging them up from wherever he stored his inner resources.
By now, I’d seen my boss enough to know he’d figure out some way of performing. I was more curious than concerned, though the situation did present a dilemma. Thankfully, everyone looked friendly. Guests were joking among themselves and seemed willing, even anxious, to be entertained.
The MC offered a few of his own stories, told in Yiddish. People chuckled. They were waiting for the genuine article, the actual, authentic comedian. Finally — “And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls “– probably that’s what he was saying. Next, a rim shot – evidently this sound effect was the same in all languages – “Jay Jason.”
In an elevated pitch, a little slower than normal, and maybe just a smidgen tentative, I listened to what I’m guessing was pretty much Jay’s standard routine delivered half in English, forty percent in Yiddish, and ten percent in body language.
There were a few quiet moments while the kids explained the jokes to their parents and grandparents. After the initial laugh came a pause, then delayed laughter as the translation kicked in.
Trust your talent. Trust your instincts. Trust the audience. It can be your best friend. Turns out, if you deliver the goods, they’ll sign the receipt.
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