Nice politics, but where are the jokes?
If people wanted comedians' political views, they would subscribe to their weekly newsletter
In case you were wondering, that field between Wiltshire and Dorset where I filed last week's newsletter was the End of the Road festival. After 18 months of lockdowns and general faffing, live music is back.
This is not to be a column about music though. (The bands were good, the vibe relaxed, the beer slightly disappointing. Book tickets if interested.) This is a column about comedy and politics.
The leftwing slant of comedy, and restrictions on what the other side can say, has of course become a hoary rightwing talking point. If you believe Al Murray the debate is divorced from the actual practice of making comedy, although the two comics who run the blasphemous Triggernometry podcast would beg to differ.
The sets of two comics I saw at End of the Road – Simon Amstell and Josie Long – nonetheless reflect an entitlement to express certain political views at length, whatever the response of the audience. And in their different approaches, they show the right way to balance politics and comedy.
Let's begin with Amstell, who was brilliant. His reflections on insecurity and ageing are, alas, increasingly relevant to me as I approach 30. His exploration of his fragile ego culminates in a discussion about how Ayahuasca and magic mushrooms transformed his life, although he still seems pretty fucked up.
There's politics in this, but only in passing. He argued that the hallucinogens would be legalised because the science suggested they were good for people. He joked that gay rights were advancing too quickly, and that now he has to worry about whether to become a father. He riffed on how moisturisers had to be marketed as manly to men, and that perhaps vibrators could get the same treatment.
Absent from the show was much that would warrant ‘clapter’, or when audiences applaud after a punchline instead of laughing. This is a recently lamented phenomenon among rightwing comics and their supporters in the press, although you can find similar cheering in old Chris Rock shows whenever he makes a cheap shot about the black experience in America.
This takes me to Long's set. While it was still funny, it was marred by a lot of political complaining. By way of example, she was pleased to find that on moving to Glasgow the only Conservative she could find was the pest control man – naturally, given the cruelty of the job.
Her move away from London had in part been prompted by the 2019 general election, which Long had a surprisingly visceral reaction to. Like many of her peers, rather than see Boris Johnson's victory as an indictment of Jeremy Corbyn, Labour, or the left's wider attempts to cancel Brexit, she prefers to blame the voters.
People are entitled to take a dim view of the public, especially if they are happy to keep losing elections. They are also entitled to believe that Corbyn lost due to Blairite sabotage, although given this was more prevalent in 2017 the claim strains credibility. And these are fine points to debate in a weekly newsletter on politics and culture.
What is dubious is whether such points should be litigated in a comedy set. And although the audience reticence to Long's politicking might be blamed on the late hour or charmingly eery forest setting, it may be that people expect jokes from a comedy set, rather than a political lecture they may or may not agree with.
As Murray and others have said, the main test of comedy is whether the audience is laughing. In Amstell's case, this was most of the time. In Long's case, mirth had to squeeze into the space between her politics. The better comic was the one with their priorities in order.