By Rhonda
Hansome
I auditioned and worked my way
into “regular spots” at THE historic New York comedy incubators: Catch A Rising Star and The Improv. Now long gone, those “original” rooms were
where I honed my humor following Bill Maher, David Brenner, Robin Williams, Sandra
Bernhard, Dice Clay, Sam Kinison, Rita Rudner and Jerry Seinfeld. I had done my obligatory 1:00AM club
sets, MC’d for (pre-pole) stripper shows, bachelorette parties and the
ubiquitous “Comedy Night” at every bar, restaurant and lean-to shack in the
tri-state area cashing in on the comedy boom. I was a working comedian in a flourishing industry that had
begun to pluck journeyman joke meisters from smoky little comedy clubs and
catapult those chosen into TV super stardom.
It was a magical time 1990. I
had a Hollywood agent shepherd me into my first speaking role, Bermuda in
Pretty Woman. The girl in the
makeup chair beside me was an unknown named Julia Roberts. Board member of the show business
fortress, Friars Club was my New York manager. His client list included a major young star who at the
pinnacle of his sitcom career, put a bullet in his head. THAT was the self-annihilating comedy success
I craved.
I became a Catskills favorite. Vegas and Tahoe showrooms were my pleasure to play when I
wasn’t working with Atlantic City headliners. While waiting for my propulsion into the white-heat of comedy
celebrity, fortune and excessive substance abuse; I landed the plum job of opening
act for Empress Songbird, Anita Baker. To say it was a dream come true is a cliché that shames the
reality. I was on cross-country
tour with a top diva in venues from NY’s Radio City Music Hall to LA’s
Coliseum. Three or more nights a
week I was awash in waves of laughter from thousands and getting paid $$$!
Roadies, back-up singers,
techies, musicians and me. We ate,
shopped, drank and swapped lies every chance we got, but we all moved as one
when it was show time on the Anita Baker Tour. This particular hot summer evening we boarded our van and
settled in for the drive to Greenville, North Carolina. Our boss, Anita was to follow in her in
her private limo.
That our Greenville venue was
sold out to several thousand adoring Anita Baker fans was not unusual, but the
night’s cornucopia of evolving circumstances offered me the most exceptional
experience of the tour. After the
band’s instruments were placed, microphones and monitors set and the curtain
released, I walked into the house to view my performance area. Much to my surprise it was a foot wide space
of the stage spanning the gymnasium.
That’s right, GYMNASIUM!!! Our
tour was known for rocking the best and most beautiful houses in American
entertainment: the palatial rococo
of Detroit’s Fox Theater, the art deco luxury of Radio City Music Hall, the
modern expanse of DC’s Constitution Hall and the magnificent embrace of the
historic Grand Old Opry. The overbearing
sent of sweat and chlorine was pungent confirmation - yes we’re playing a GYMNASIUM! A gymnasium with no seats, no air conditioning and wait for
it…no Anita Baker!
Our world weary tour manager
informed us the show would be held until we knew our diva was well on her way
to joining us. Her private
limousine driver had taken Anita to Greenville, SOUTH Carolina; nowhere near
our airless, chair-less, stage scarce gym in Greenville, NORTH Carolina.
One –half hour after our
scheduled show time, I clambered to the precipice four feet above the sweating
throng standing in rabid anticipation. I planted myself above the teeming song
starved and started my schtick. The
three people in the room retaining of a sense of humor chuckled at my opening
line as disappointment rippled through thousands of Anita Baker enthusiasts
like lightning. I spoke, gestured
and remained upright as their mantra shook the gym. “You’re not Anita! You’re not Anita! You’re not Anita!” Three thousand voices in unison. This was more hecklers than any one
comic should experience in a lifetime!
I threw words into the rhythmic thundering chant until my peripheral
vision revealed a stage hand ready to assist me off stage. My tottering exit set off a roaring
wave of applause which I, delusional from vertigo, assessed a standing
ovation.
Thank goodness for the three
back-up singers. The Perri Sisters’
not too secret cache of Chivas Regal,
and a glass was set at my mirror in our communal dressing area. I lifted the glass to my lips as our
newly arrived boss took to the stage.
She sang and I sipped Chivas through the entire concert. I’m told that as I was dragged glass in
hand to our van, my last words were “I’m not Anita Baker!”
