Laugh Lessons

By Andrea Appleton
POSTED MARCH 2, 2007

Becky Donohue is old-school funny. Down-to-earth and fast-talking, she can flow effortlessly from Jewish mother to flamboyant queen to Southern belle in the course of normal conversation. It is a gift, but it is also well-honed shtick.

Donohue is a pro, a full-time stand-up comedian with a busy touring schedule and a resume full of Comedy Central appearances, who earned her chops the hard way: by testing her material in the back rooms of bars, at open mics, by taking any gig she could get.

Workshops? Comedy classes? Not for Donohue. She opted for the comedy G.E.D.

“I’m sort of against stand-up comedy classes,” she says.  “Which is why it’s hilarious that I’m teaching one.” Frustrated with watching aspiring young comics waste their money on classes that she says don’t provide practical advice and often aren’t even taught by comedians, Donohue gave in. Last month she taught her first course at The Tank, which is housed in a space at 279 Church St. in Tribeca. For four consecutive Saturdays, 17 students—from greenhorns to more seasoned comics—met for four hours to reap the benefits of Donahue’s experience.

They sat in a circle of folding chairs in a cramped basement, clutching cups of coffee and scripts. They took turns performing on the little stage, projecting over the groans and thumps of a stage combat group practicing upstairs.

 “Hello. My name’s Stuart. I’m the love child of Moby and Phil Collins,” began a shy Brit with black frame glasses and shaved head. The group laughed.

“Good!” said Donohue. “There’s a reason comedians start with the ‘I’m half this, half that’ bit. It’s a little hacky, but it gets people.”

Seated on a sagging couch at one end of the room, Donohue pointed out common pitfalls, edited the verbose, and coaxed the shy. And nearly every critique or compliment made them laugh.  “Look,” she counseled one student who’d unwittingly delivered a tasteless bit, “if you’re gonna make jokes about the homeless, the homeless guy in the audience better be laughing his ass off.” Donohue repeatedly urged her students to make their material personal. At first, Larry Tadlock, who’d just moved from Hawaii, spent much of his set talking about the trials and tribulations of moving to cold, fast-paced New York.

“The Macy’s in Honolulu recommended these boots,” he said, gesturing to a pair of puffy tan Uggs on his feet. “‘All the movie stars are wearing them,’ they told me. What they didn’t tell me was that all those movie stars were women!” The group chuckled and Tadlock moved on. “I come from a Baptist family,” he began, “That’s why I’m gay, but that’s a whole other story.” Everybody laughed. Tadlock moved on to another joke.

When the set was over, Donohue dove in. “Now, you said one line: ‘I come from a Baptist family and that’s why I’m gay.’ Everybody laughed! Why save that for some whole other story?” She looked demurely at the class and assumed a coy tone, imitating her student: “I’ll tell you about the funniest thing about me....mmm...some other time. I want to talk about boots and the weather.” The room exploded with laughter.

Donohue’s own willingness to be vulnerable often helped her students do the same. Imrana Zaman, a Pakistani- American, didn’t mention her ethnicity until late in her set. When it was over, Donohue paused a moment.

“Did you ever hear the expression ‘Always talk about the elephant in the room’?” she finally asked. “It’s so true to comedy. If there’s something about you that people are gonna notice right away, you have to discuss it right away. Sometimes it’s your ethnicity. I happen to talk about my ass a lot,” she said, displaying her ample backside. “So Imrana, open with the South Asian stuff.”

Each week, the sets improved. Jokes got tighter, monologues became performances. Christian Cintron remembered to keep his hands out of his pockets. Caroline Waxler got better at pausing. Stuart Mason learned to calm himself using deep breathing. They are small steps many hope will lead to greatness.

Their first test would be March 4, at a graduation performance at The Laugh Lounge, a Lower East Side comedy club where Donohue also hosts a new talent night. It’s where many of the students came to know and love her.

 “Becky takes that extra step to give you worthwhile practical advice,” says Cintron, who’s taken comedy classes elsewhere, “as opposed to ‘Work on that joke, it’s not funny.’”

“I loooove Becky,” says Zaman, “She’s so sincere.”

Donohue hopes they’re hooked on more than her teaching style. 

“Doing stand-up is when I feel most alive,” she says. “If a couple of them catch that passion from me and stay with it, that would be very rewarding.”

Donohue will teach another round of classes at The Tank in April. But first, she has to convince the current crop they’ve got what it takes.

When one student apologized for his set, out came the exaggerated, motherly New York accent Donohue uses when she wants to be comforting without being hokey.

“Sweetie. Honey. Baby doll,” she said. “It’s good. I’m telling you.”

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