United We Laugh

Appearing on Late Night With David Letterman, Conan, Jimmy Kimmel Live and NPR's Fresh Air with Terry Gross, comedian Hari Kondabolu has parlayed a master's degree in human rights into a successful career in comedy.

The New York comic's debut record, Waiting for 2042, is out now, and in late July, Kondabolu returns to Portland, debuting new material in a three-night stand at Helium Comedy Club.

Kondabolu sat down with Willamette Week to discuss political comedy, The Daily Show and President John Adams.

WW: Your brand of left-leaning political comedy is ideal for The Daily Show. Hypothetically, if you'd been offered the job of replacing Jon Stewart, would you have taken it?

Hari Kondabolu: Since we're in hypotheticals, and Trevor Noah already got it, I would say yes because it's the job.

So many people turned down that job. It's a hard gig: Every day you're grinding it out. It's a gig that requires so much personality and experience, and it has such a following, people are obsessed with it. It's so good, it competes with itself.

In a sense, it's almost like being John Adams:

"George got us the thing, he was like '€"the big general.'"

"€œYeah, but Iâ€'m John Adams!"

"Yeah, I know you'€™re a diplomat, you're a politician. But did you fight?"

Who wants to be John Adams?

In your 2014 comedy record, Waiting for 2042, you point out inherent racism in how ethnic demographics are tallied in the U.S.: "2042 is the year that, according to census figures, white people will be the minority in this country. Don't worry, white people, you were the minority when you came to this country…here's the bigger point: 49 percent white doesn't make you the minority. That's not how math works. Forty-nine percent is only the minority if you think the other 51 percent is exactly the same!"

Why do you feel it is important to laugh about issues of social justice?

I don't know why it's important to laugh about it. I know why I do it. I do it because I feel terrible about these things. It's like when I was a kid being bullied, I used comedy as a way to survive. It's a defense mechanism that somehow turned into a career.

Definitely, the people who come to see my stuff are struggling with these thoughts—and for me to talk about racism or sexism or homophobia or whatever, it's stuff they've thought about a great deal and they feel less alone.

For other people, it's probably unexpected. They come to a comedy club: "Let's go to the club and hear some dick jokes and go home!” I’m not that guy. You pay for baby-sitters, and you take the night off, and you go to a club, and you're drunk, and this man is up there talking about colonialism. It'€™s very disappointing.

You'll be debuting new material in Portland. Without giving away any punch lines, can you give us a sneak preview?

I want to be more honest and personal with family stuff and relationships.

Sometimes I feel like I lose people who aren't onboard. If they just got to know me on a deeper level, they would be. I want to know, if I gave you more of my heart, would you understand my perspective a bit clearer?

I appreciate that my divisiveness is an indication that I'm doing something interesting and good. If everybody liked it, I'd know I'm not saying anything with teeth.

SEE IT: Hari Kondabolu performs at Helium Comedy Club, 1510 SE 9th Ave., 643-8669, heliumcomedy.com. 8 pm Thursday and 7:30 and 10 pm Friday and Saturday, July 23-25. $16–$30. 21+.

Willamette Week