It was a late summer, sweltering, early 1980 Sunday morning in Hell’s Kitchen. I had found street parking somewhere near 44th Street (all things were possible then) and stopped at the Smiler’s Deli on 9th Avenue and picked up a coffee, buttered roll and the Sunday Daily News.
I was 28 years old, pretty late to be a baby comedian, but this was the last best dream I had to be in show business. I couldn’t give it up, you see, it just meant everything. If I was wrong about being a comic, then I was wrong about all my life choices up till that point because they all had been made to realize that dream. Auditioning at the Original Improvisation and passing auditions meant that I had run out of excuses for failure. I was either going to make it in show business or not, but I resolved not to live the rest of my life wondering ‘what if’? Being a regular at the Improv was not a guarantee of success, but it was a huge door to walk through in finding my way to it.
Hot and humid, that’s how I remember it. At 7:30 in the morning, the smells of cooking garbage put out the night before from the restaurants in the area, coupled with various other scents from the people living in the doorways created a uniquely New York state of mind.
There were no other auditioners outside the Improv when I parked myself on the sidewalk. Soon however, they would trickle in, and sit, and sit, and wait throughout the day for someone to give out the numbers for a three minute audition later that night on the famed stage.
By three o’clock, the line of hopefuls had grown to at least 25-30 people. We line ‘veterans’ were already sneering at the latecomers because we had heard that at most, only ten numbers would be given out. Of course, the number ten had been made up by the first ten people on line. We had no idea how many auditions were to be allowed. Already we were learning about the hierarchy of comedy.
At around three-thirty, a Checker cab pulled up and Budd Friedman stepped out of it, monocle and all. He explained to the gathered horde, that whoever got a number had to be back at the club by 7:30 pm or they would lose their spot. He then began to hand out cards randomly to whoever got to him first. I got number 3. Second comedy lesson leaned? Don’t expect to get noticed unless you make yourself noticed.
As mysteriously as he had appeared, Budd re-entered the Checker and off it went. It was to be my one and only encounter with him.The line dispersed and we who had numbers were elated.
I arrived at the Improv at the appointed time and we wide-eyed auditioners were herded toward the far corner of the bar, next to the pay phone (look them up) and away from the veteran comics, who looked at us with disdain. We were, to them, life forms not worthy of their malicious glances, talentless hacks and wannabes who had no business invading their sanctum sanctorum. We were also a future threat to them. Talent coordinators and Casting people were forever coming into the Improv looking for new talent and we posed a threat to some of the older comics who had not yet gotten their big break.
A young man with curly hair came our way and introduced himself as Joe Piscopo, our emcee for the evening. On the cards that Budd had given us earlier, Joe told us to write down something about ourselves so that he could bring us up.
That’s all I remember about the actual audition. I must have done well because I was told that I could begin ‘hanging out’ and by doing so earn my way onto the stage.
Back then, I stood outside the other clubs in NY to get numbers. Freezing cold outside the Comic Strip, driving rain outside Catch a Rising Star over and over again in those early years. But it was the Improv, and my one and only encounter with Budd Friedman which set the course on which I’ve sailed for 42 years.
It turned out pretty well I think. Silver Saunders Friedman, Budd’s ex, took over the club and I spent my formative years there. I saw the world of comedy at the very beginning of the boom and rode that wave and beyond it to a career which I love.
Budd passed away yesterday. But we comics owe him and Silver a huge debt. Without them, none of this comedy business would have existed and the world would never had the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Thanks.
