- Win Goodbody
- The bright, cavernous Norse Hall
On Sunday afternoon outside the Doug Fir I ran into Bridgetown Founder Andy Wood, who was showing his parents around the festival. Coming from Michigan, it was the Woods' first Bridgetown. Happy to finally attend, Wood's dad joked that for the first few years they weren't sure if the event would last long enough for them to make the trip. That's no longer the case. Bridgetown is not only on firm ground—it's a goddamn hulking institution.
While 2014 boasted more comics, this recently wrapped weekend felt bigger in almost every way. It also ran more smoothly. Being able to once again walk between every venue was a huge relief.
That said, Bridgetown's previous home on SE Hawthorne was missed. In part, that's just nostalgia raising its stubborn, surly head. Still, there was something not only in the oddity of the venues like the Eagles Lodge, the Tanker, and the two stages inside the Mt. Tabour theater, but in their extreme proximity. One could bop from one show to the next in the time it took a comedian to be introduced. That's not quite the case in the reconfigured, lower Burnside locale.
The Doug Fir was the hub this year and, again, it's a fantastic room for comedy—dark with low ceilings and great sight-lines. An new addition, Norse Hall, didn't fair quite as well. It was too bright and cavernous, with loads of extra space that could've been filled with more seating for the big shows. I saw two comics—Ian Karmel and Kyle Kinane—in both rooms performing the same sets and each faired much better at the Doug Fir.
And while it's yet to become as much of a known quantity as the Tanker, My Father's Place has all the necessary ingredients—cheap drinks, kitsch, divey-ness, and just enough fucking late-night weird—to become an adequate replacement for the legendary, bipolar open mic. I love too that it's hosted by Portland ex-pat Dax Jordan, who closed out Saturday night with a bygone tradition of improv games. Hopefully next year a few more comics from out of town will get the word and get onboard.
Top to bottom, 2015's lineup was stout, particularly through the middle. Every bill was packed with talent, hardly any duds in the bunch. It made deciding which shows to attend almost tantalizingly difficult.
On the other hand, 2015 was also the year of the line. As the amount of comics decreased, so too did the venues. Many shows boasting the most visible talent were at or near capacity. A snaking line for Saturday's Funny Over Everything saw folks at the front waiting upwards of an hour. I spent a good chunk waiting on Friday for the Kill Rock Stars showcase and it felt kind of like a Sophie's Choice: go see more comedy now and risk missing the show. Despite the waiting, I never missed a show, and I'm not sure how many people did.
But it's an issue, and one I don't have a solution for—at least not one that I like. It's either: A) get bigger venues; B) sell fewer tickets; or C) spread out the talent.
Another problem for which I have no solution whatsoever: venues needing to be cleared out in between shows. This sucks particularly for pass-holders, as it's almost as if they're being penalized by wanting to see two consecutive shows. See one, be ejected when the room clears, and emerge to find yourself at the end of a long goddamn line.
Indeed, these are the spoils that come with success. And hopefully, as they've done in the past, Bridgetown will continue refining and streamlining. The hard part—convincing good comics to come—is well taken care of. This year boasted almost an embarrassment of riches. Now it's just about splitting them.
A bunch of random notes after the jump.
Obviously, Kyle Kinane killed it. And unlike some of the other big-name folks who've played the fest in recent years, Kinane didn't rest on his laurels by playing just a show or two. He was out there getting it, show after show, all damn weekend long. Of course, that kind of road dog work ethic is what's vaulting him to the top of the comedy pyramid. His I Liked His Old Stuff Better is the comedy album of the year thus far and he just keeps getting better.
Adam Cayton-Holland is another on the way up. I saw him twice and it wasn't enough. I crave that full headlining slot. Adam, come do an hour in Portland, ASAP.
It'd been a number of years since I'd seen Baron Vaughn and goddamn has he grown. He's becoming the Richard Pryor-like super-threat in that he does it all: storytelling, impressions, physical comedy, the political and the absurd, all with great economy and shit, he can even sing.
Some surprise discoveries included the tough talking but fun-loving New Yorker Michelle Buteau, a great deconstruction on the ridiculousness of the term "moderate Muslim" from Atlanta's Ismael Loutfi, and Rana May's absurdist bit on saving animals from the dangers of nature.
I'm pissed as hell I missed Kate Berlant, that a flight cancellation kept Ben Roy from completing the Grawlix trio, and that a work obligation kept me from Kurt Braunohler's blindfolded bus trip.
I noticed more aged attendees at the fest this year, and they were good sports—especially for the truly filthy Uncalled Four, a live game-show from Denver similar to the Cards Against Humanity model. Chris Fairbanks, who earlier did a stellar set about the previous night's transgressions and the following hangover, took the win, though contestants Matt Kirshen, Jackie Kashian and Claire O'Kane all showed out.
It's time for Ron Funches to make a triumphant return to Portland. Crossing my fingers for next year's fest.
Speaking of returns, Ian Karmel and Shane Torres joined Sean Jordan to reprise Funny Over Everything. I felt like it was good but never great, and I blame Norse Hall—particularly the club beats bleeding into the room from upstairs during the first half of the show. Phil Schallberger's pre-recorded, Bro-centric dating piece, which freaked the shit out of a participating audience member, was one of the highlights.
Amy Miller is one of Portland's finest. She's fucking wild and gross and great and bound to win Portland's Funniest Person sooner than later.
Some other locals, including Christian Ricketts and Don Frost, were deeply missed, though I'm sure they'll be back in the years to come.
I love Lance Bangs' work and his taste in stand-ups, but when it came time to the video portion of the show I split. Taped bits pale in comparison to live stand-up, and when comics on stage are so readily available it seems a shame to partake in something static.
Same goes, mostly, for live podcast recordings—at least the more conversation-heavy ones. When recording is the intended medium, I don't feel like I'm missing much by listening later.
Other first time venues, Branx and Rotture were both well-suited to stand-up, and I'm kind of kicking myself for not visiting them until Sunday, as I'm assuming they weren't plagued by the lines.
And to that end, I think that's how I want to attack next year's fest: by forgoing the known quantities and taking more chances with the unknown. Indeed, after veto-ing something like 10 submissions for every one comic that was accepted, Bridgetown has been—again—left with almost an embarrassment of riches.