House shows have been a staple of the music scene forever.
But there's a different art form encroaching onto this turf: standup
comedy.
In a town with more comics than there are open slots at standup showcases,
comedy has expanded from clubs and bars to basements and living rooms.
Sometimes the jokes happen alongside Bob Dylan covers. Other times,
standup is the sole draw. Guests huddle on couches and smoke spliffs on
the back porch. Beer and wine are for sale in the kitchen.
We hit three house shows—here's what we found.
THE PARENT TRAP
White Tiger Lounge is not a lounge. It is a refurbished
backyard mancave gone suddenly public, missing only a pool table and
beer light. This quality is made more apparent by comic Amy Miller, who
calls out cave owner Jack Miller for joshing her about blowjobs the moment
they met. The polite fabric among the mostly professional couples—Amy Miller
jokes later that they cleaned Northeast Portland out of babysitters—is
briefly ruffled.
But
it's an oddly polished house party, and it can recover. There's an
actual stage, sound insulation and podcast recording equipment, with
three other comics booked besides Miller: Christian Ricketts, Whitney
Streed and Jacob Christopher. It's pretty much BYOB at White Tiger, and
because it's cold out, everybody leaves their alcohol on the table
outside the door like an offering to Cthulhu. There's some good stuff,
like the barrel-aged cider from a couple who drove down from Seattle.
Shanon Emerson, the host, is a real-estate broker who does capable
standup only in this very room, among friends—mostly about meth heads
and parenthood. The night is like a pressure-release valve from the
passive-aggressive politesse of Portland's professional set. "Why did
the dog suck its own dick?" asks Ricketts, as the room goes briefly
silent. "Because I was wearing a dog costume!" MATTHEW KORFHAGE.
FREE PERRIER
"It's like I went to my grandma's house
and someone handed me a mic," mumbles Seattle comedian Scott Losse. It's
not the most precise description—this spic-and-span living room in
inner North Portland favors twinkly lights and framed posters of
midcentury noir films over needlepoint pillows and fragile feline
knickknacks—but it feels homey and safe, like if you took a nap someone
would toss a crocheted blanket over you. Izzy, a 15-year-old fuzzy white
dog in a bow tie—breed unknown—does just this, shuffling at comedians'
feet before falling asleep in the front row. A few attendees pop open
bombers clearly purchased with ABV in mind, while others shell out for
$1 cans of PBR or $3 glasses of boxed wine. There is also free Perrier
(ballerrr!).
As for the lineup,
it's stacked: a few duds, sure, but also some of Portland's better
standups, including Nathan Brannon, JoAnn Schinderle and Christian
Ricketts. Seattle's Emmett Montgomery—clad in red footie PJs, his ginger
beard reaching halfway down his chest—does a fever-dream bit as Sugar
Plum Gary, soliciting questions about Christmas and giving existential
answers about the naughty-nice binary, Frosty the Snowman and the
fluidity of gender. There's much made of the fact that this is a room
full of mostly young white people in what was previously a black
neighborhood: Ms. Lo Rain, who blares Beyoncé's "Video Phone" from her
purse as she comes onstage, cracks a studded belt and riffs on
reparations. As we shuffle into the night, Toto's "Africa" plays us out,
with Izzy the elderly dog still slumbering on his chair. REBECCA
JACOBSON.
PRETTY YOUNG THINGS
This Cully spot is way more of a band
house: It has a fire pit, a pot-smoking shed warmed only by a space
heater, and a basement catacomb with an actual bar. A guy in a derby hat
sings a Bob Dylan cover like Jack Johnson might, with lots of attention
paid to his own voice. Partygoers discuss where they live, and their
houses all have names, the same way somebody might name their bicycle
Shirley.
Amid the music, the house had booked comic Anthony Lopez, who bagged out, and so Amy Miller is slotted in. She seems wigged by the youth of the crowd and so she bothers them affectionately about drugs, and being jobless and vegan, and about their parents giving them money, and about how they're really pretty. The audience moves from back chatter to laughter, and then to rapt attention. Everybody loves to be paid attention to, and Miller pretty much owns the place for the next 20 minutes.
Later, in the pot-smoking shed, someone asks me my philosophy—as if there's only one for everybody—and listens with equal attention. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.
Willamette Week