Laughing all the way to the bay
July 20, 2003 | 12:00am
On the same stage where ten or Franco Corelli, soprano Renata Tebaldi and cellist Mstislav Rostropovich performed, stand-up comedian Tim Tayag told a full house of 1,800 people that as a young man, he was nicknamed "Titing Kabayo." He was making a point about Filipino nicknames not having anything to do with their given names. "I think I’m the first guy to say titing kabayo at the CCP. There’s no joke there. It’s just that somebody told me, ‘Bet you can’t say titing kabayo. Bet I can!" and repeated his, er, nickname over and over again.
That stand-up comedians took over the Cultural Center of the Philippines on Roxas Boulevard last Sunday to deliver their shtick on childhood trauma, pop culture, politics and Pinoy stereotypes happened just at the right time. After all, the growing following of stand-up comedy could no longer be contained in overpriced shows and at mall food courts since they started doing the rounds last year.
All the comedians – from a very pregnant Candy Pangilinan who skip-roped her way out of the stage to Allan K. who dissuaded the crowd from applauding because "kulang ang oras" – were awed by how far live comedy has come in the country and where they found themselves performing that night.
Maybe it’s a comedian thing – this sense of reverence and irony for such venues. Even standup trailblazer George Carlin when he performed at New York’s Carnegie Hall in 1982 (the year he had his second heart attack and Richard Prior set himself on fire) paid tribute to the venue; Robin Williams at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1986 shushed a rowdy audience member with "Easy, don’t heckle at the Opera House, pal…They also have ballets here – men wearing pants so tight you can tell what religion they are"; or more recently, wholesome Ray Romano in 2001 opened his show by saying in an amazed voice, "Carnegie Fucking Hall. The only profanity of the night." And it was.
The traditional hallowed halls of performing arts are the antithesis of where stand-up comedy traces its roots and finds its present – in smoke-filled, drunk-hecklers-in-the-audience, sticky-floor clubs. Which perhaps explains the comedians’ urge to be irreverent – vulgar and gross even – in such a place. That’s classic comedy in itself – irony taken to ridiculous levels, self-deprecating like finding yourself in a place where you don’t belong.
Like rock stars and movie stars, "professional comedians" (as opposed to your drinking buddies) can now fill seats and draw a mixed bag of fans. Last Sunday’s Tongue-in-a-Mood Mo Rin show at the CCP drew comedy fans who had been following the acts throughout the metro and the usual opera crowd.
The cast: the Fil-Am, San Francisco-based troupe called Tongue-in-a-Mood composed of Kevin Camia, Gayle Romasanta and Theo Gonzalves with Omz, Mark Marking and Andrew Mendoza. And local standups Candy Pangilinan, Allan K., Jon Santos, Tim Tayag (who made the move last year, bless his Kapampangan soul) and itinerant visitor Rex Navarrete.
It was interesting to see two groups of comedians having very different approaches to comedy. Almost like a culture clash. On one hand, you have the locals who live the everyday absurdities of life in the Philippines, and on the other you have Filipinos based and raised in the United States, carrying in their blood our culture but really ignorant of how life is right here, right now.
Tongue-in-a-Mood delivered some good sketches, but bombed in others. Their biggest disadvantage is that they don’t seem to be in touch with the prevailing pop culture. One wonders whether they read Filipino newspapers, magazines and gossip rags on-line, which is a good way to keep abreast of the changing culture and language. Their Lola Seang "commercials" were funny, but could’ve been funnier. Dinuguan mineral water? I don’t think so.
If their show is a hit abroad, maybe it’s because their Fil-Am audience still thinks middle-class families sell their heirlooms for their daughter’s coming-out party. Though they made pointed comedy about our culture, the audience couldn’t relate to most of it, perhaps because most of it is passé while the rest is simply alien to us such as the class in Filipino-American history – what the hell was that? It wasn’t that the audience didn’t get the joke about America being our "savior," it’s just that who’s supposed to be thinking that anyway? If there is anything one can learn from the audience’s reaction, it’s that old stereotypes are not funny.
Allan K was the exact opposite of Tongue-in-a-Mood. He was pure and simple entertainment. Nothing really profound, but a lot of fun. Maybe it was the blond wig, or the fact that a fake sunflower was covering the bulge under his swimsuit, or how he sent up the national obsession with beauty contests. As an unwanted contestant who is suckered into donating trophies for the winners, he portrayed that Filipino trait of trying to maintain a taas noo attitude in the face of extreme humiliation.
Allan speaks the language of the masses (and I don’t mean Tagalog), which is why he connected with the audience. The part where he is shooed by the sosyal contestants on the bus and is forced to sit beside the driver is faultless comedy writing. "Akala nila sila lang ang nagchichikahan. So chinika ko rin ang driver. ‘Manong, ilan ang anak ninyo?’" And the theater erupted in laughter.
Or the phone dialogues conducted in half-Tagalog and half-gayspeak, as in "Hoy bakla, ang ganda-ganda mo ngayon ha."
These are the nuances in the language lacking in other acts. Manong, ilan ang anak ninyo? The only thing funny about this is that it’s real. This is exactly how and what you would talk about with a bus driver. You can’t compare living in the Philippines to anything else when you want to make Filipinos laugh – they must recognize themselves in your material.
Tim Tayag, who moved back to the Philippines in October last year, knows this. At the opening of the club Comfort Room a few months back, he said that texting has become so out of control that when he was stuck in traffic, a beggar standing next to his car texted him, "Palimos po." He killed during that show.
Tim Tayag has Steven Wright’s deadpan delivery, Jerry Seinfeld’s witty observations and Ray Romano’s timing. "Dipaneng alte, putanaydamo," he muttered innocently after asking if there were any Kapampangans like him in the audience. You have to be a Kapampangan to appreciate these old cuss words that only our lolas would use.
Tim made fun of water rationing and trying to take a bath with one tabo. His comedy for me is a little more high-brow than Rex Navarrete’s – who depends too much on carabao English like for his SBC Packers sketch (and other materials on his CDs).
What Tim does is take an ordinary situation and bring it to an extreme level of absurdity. "You know what I hate? Getting pulled over by a cop because they’re all after the same thing: ‘Meron ka bang pang-kape diyan? Konting pang-kape naman o.’ So you know what I did? I started bringing instant coffee in my car. That’s why when I get pulled over – here you go, sir, Nescafe, Blend 45."
His solution to the traffic situation: "Jeepneys should have only one designated stop: their house, that’s it. Coz I hate getting stuck behind a jeepney and the passengers are looking at me and I have to pretend to be fixing the radio. Taxis should have only one lane – the sidewalk, that’s it. They should be allowed to operate only between 3 and 3:05 a.m. Tricycle drivers should all be killed. I’m sorry, we all have to make sacrifices. How do you think the Germans did it? Do you see any tricycles in Germany?"
If the Fil-Am stand-up comics held up a mirror to our cultural flaws, Jon Santos gave the show its heart. I fist saw him perform at UP in the late ‘80s in his last year as a student, at a time when standup comedy (or monologue as they called it) was confined to theater groups on campus or as part of original plays produced by fraternities and student organizations.
Today, Jon has his impressions down pat, from Ramos to Erap to Cory to GMA. His political satire and take on current issues is perhaps in no small part due to his UP background. His sarcasm is sharp but not cruel, his concerns are not trivial – the OFW who leaves her family to work in New Jersey or Kuwait, the underpaid Filipino na "nadukutan na sa FX, pero nagagawa pa ring mag-forward ng text jokes at religious quotations."
Jon doesn’t patronize his audience. He performs like he’s an old friend making kuwento. He makes fun of Filipinos’ tendency to be liberal with American idiomatic expressions, such as "The more the manier," "You’re barking up the wrong dog," "Come on, you’re joking my leg."
On gays, he says, "Napakaganda ng mystique talaga ng mga bading. Di naman nabubuntis pero dumadami."
On Israel Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, "Paano mo mapagkakatiwalan ang lalakeng may pangalang babae?"
At the CCP show, Jon Santos demonstrated to a larger audience that he truly is a live performer – he belongs on stage, not as some TV station’s mascot. He doesn’t need to dress like Cory to be Cory. He doesn’t need to be holding a cigar to be FVR. I’m not saying he should do a Jerry Seinfeld and junk TV altogether to take his comedy on the road, but he is truly at his best when he’s performing live.
So how does an amateur comedian – and we know there are a lot out there who dream of doing it, too – achieve such recognition? How do you get to the CCP? Practice, man. Practice.
E-mail the author at tanyalara@yahoo.com.
That stand-up comedians took over the Cultural Center of the Philippines on Roxas Boulevard last Sunday to deliver their shtick on childhood trauma, pop culture, politics and Pinoy stereotypes happened just at the right time. After all, the growing following of stand-up comedy could no longer be contained in overpriced shows and at mall food courts since they started doing the rounds last year.
All the comedians – from a very pregnant Candy Pangilinan who skip-roped her way out of the stage to Allan K. who dissuaded the crowd from applauding because "kulang ang oras" – were awed by how far live comedy has come in the country and where they found themselves performing that night.
Maybe it’s a comedian thing – this sense of reverence and irony for such venues. Even standup trailblazer George Carlin when he performed at New York’s Carnegie Hall in 1982 (the year he had his second heart attack and Richard Prior set himself on fire) paid tribute to the venue; Robin Williams at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1986 shushed a rowdy audience member with "Easy, don’t heckle at the Opera House, pal…They also have ballets here – men wearing pants so tight you can tell what religion they are"; or more recently, wholesome Ray Romano in 2001 opened his show by saying in an amazed voice, "Carnegie Fucking Hall. The only profanity of the night." And it was.
The traditional hallowed halls of performing arts are the antithesis of where stand-up comedy traces its roots and finds its present – in smoke-filled, drunk-hecklers-in-the-audience, sticky-floor clubs. Which perhaps explains the comedians’ urge to be irreverent – vulgar and gross even – in such a place. That’s classic comedy in itself – irony taken to ridiculous levels, self-deprecating like finding yourself in a place where you don’t belong.
Like rock stars and movie stars, "professional comedians" (as opposed to your drinking buddies) can now fill seats and draw a mixed bag of fans. Last Sunday’s Tongue-in-a-Mood Mo Rin show at the CCP drew comedy fans who had been following the acts throughout the metro and the usual opera crowd.
The cast: the Fil-Am, San Francisco-based troupe called Tongue-in-a-Mood composed of Kevin Camia, Gayle Romasanta and Theo Gonzalves with Omz, Mark Marking and Andrew Mendoza. And local standups Candy Pangilinan, Allan K., Jon Santos, Tim Tayag (who made the move last year, bless his Kapampangan soul) and itinerant visitor Rex Navarrete.
It was interesting to see two groups of comedians having very different approaches to comedy. Almost like a culture clash. On one hand, you have the locals who live the everyday absurdities of life in the Philippines, and on the other you have Filipinos based and raised in the United States, carrying in their blood our culture but really ignorant of how life is right here, right now.
Tongue-in-a-Mood delivered some good sketches, but bombed in others. Their biggest disadvantage is that they don’t seem to be in touch with the prevailing pop culture. One wonders whether they read Filipino newspapers, magazines and gossip rags on-line, which is a good way to keep abreast of the changing culture and language. Their Lola Seang "commercials" were funny, but could’ve been funnier. Dinuguan mineral water? I don’t think so.
If their show is a hit abroad, maybe it’s because their Fil-Am audience still thinks middle-class families sell their heirlooms for their daughter’s coming-out party. Though they made pointed comedy about our culture, the audience couldn’t relate to most of it, perhaps because most of it is passé while the rest is simply alien to us such as the class in Filipino-American history – what the hell was that? It wasn’t that the audience didn’t get the joke about America being our "savior," it’s just that who’s supposed to be thinking that anyway? If there is anything one can learn from the audience’s reaction, it’s that old stereotypes are not funny.
Allan K was the exact opposite of Tongue-in-a-Mood. He was pure and simple entertainment. Nothing really profound, but a lot of fun. Maybe it was the blond wig, or the fact that a fake sunflower was covering the bulge under his swimsuit, or how he sent up the national obsession with beauty contests. As an unwanted contestant who is suckered into donating trophies for the winners, he portrayed that Filipino trait of trying to maintain a taas noo attitude in the face of extreme humiliation.
Allan speaks the language of the masses (and I don’t mean Tagalog), which is why he connected with the audience. The part where he is shooed by the sosyal contestants on the bus and is forced to sit beside the driver is faultless comedy writing. "Akala nila sila lang ang nagchichikahan. So chinika ko rin ang driver. ‘Manong, ilan ang anak ninyo?’" And the theater erupted in laughter.
Or the phone dialogues conducted in half-Tagalog and half-gayspeak, as in "Hoy bakla, ang ganda-ganda mo ngayon ha."
These are the nuances in the language lacking in other acts. Manong, ilan ang anak ninyo? The only thing funny about this is that it’s real. This is exactly how and what you would talk about with a bus driver. You can’t compare living in the Philippines to anything else when you want to make Filipinos laugh – they must recognize themselves in your material.
Tim Tayag, who moved back to the Philippines in October last year, knows this. At the opening of the club Comfort Room a few months back, he said that texting has become so out of control that when he was stuck in traffic, a beggar standing next to his car texted him, "Palimos po." He killed during that show.
Tim Tayag has Steven Wright’s deadpan delivery, Jerry Seinfeld’s witty observations and Ray Romano’s timing. "Dipaneng alte, putanaydamo," he muttered innocently after asking if there were any Kapampangans like him in the audience. You have to be a Kapampangan to appreciate these old cuss words that only our lolas would use.
Tim made fun of water rationing and trying to take a bath with one tabo. His comedy for me is a little more high-brow than Rex Navarrete’s – who depends too much on carabao English like for his SBC Packers sketch (and other materials on his CDs).
What Tim does is take an ordinary situation and bring it to an extreme level of absurdity. "You know what I hate? Getting pulled over by a cop because they’re all after the same thing: ‘Meron ka bang pang-kape diyan? Konting pang-kape naman o.’ So you know what I did? I started bringing instant coffee in my car. That’s why when I get pulled over – here you go, sir, Nescafe, Blend 45."
His solution to the traffic situation: "Jeepneys should have only one designated stop: their house, that’s it. Coz I hate getting stuck behind a jeepney and the passengers are looking at me and I have to pretend to be fixing the radio. Taxis should have only one lane – the sidewalk, that’s it. They should be allowed to operate only between 3 and 3:05 a.m. Tricycle drivers should all be killed. I’m sorry, we all have to make sacrifices. How do you think the Germans did it? Do you see any tricycles in Germany?"
If the Fil-Am stand-up comics held up a mirror to our cultural flaws, Jon Santos gave the show its heart. I fist saw him perform at UP in the late ‘80s in his last year as a student, at a time when standup comedy (or monologue as they called it) was confined to theater groups on campus or as part of original plays produced by fraternities and student organizations.
Today, Jon has his impressions down pat, from Ramos to Erap to Cory to GMA. His political satire and take on current issues is perhaps in no small part due to his UP background. His sarcasm is sharp but not cruel, his concerns are not trivial – the OFW who leaves her family to work in New Jersey or Kuwait, the underpaid Filipino na "nadukutan na sa FX, pero nagagawa pa ring mag-forward ng text jokes at religious quotations."
Jon doesn’t patronize his audience. He performs like he’s an old friend making kuwento. He makes fun of Filipinos’ tendency to be liberal with American idiomatic expressions, such as "The more the manier," "You’re barking up the wrong dog," "Come on, you’re joking my leg."
On gays, he says, "Napakaganda ng mystique talaga ng mga bading. Di naman nabubuntis pero dumadami."
On Israel Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, "Paano mo mapagkakatiwalan ang lalakeng may pangalang babae?"
At the CCP show, Jon Santos demonstrated to a larger audience that he truly is a live performer – he belongs on stage, not as some TV station’s mascot. He doesn’t need to dress like Cory to be Cory. He doesn’t need to be holding a cigar to be FVR. I’m not saying he should do a Jerry Seinfeld and junk TV altogether to take his comedy on the road, but he is truly at his best when he’s performing live.
So how does an amateur comedian – and we know there are a lot out there who dream of doing it, too – achieve such recognition? How do you get to the CCP? Practice, man. Practice.
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