KEY POINTS:
A funny thing happened when Floyd Lee told his first on-stage joke. "I died.
"I went up and a red mist came down. I was shaking. I couldn't believe it. I just died. My ears blocked up, I couldn't see anything. It was like that villain in Casino Royale, eye-watering ... I suppose everyone was looking at me, I couldn't tell. In the end I think I got wheeled off. Then there was the sympathy. 'Oh, you were funny. I didn't laugh, but you were funny.' Horrible."
Yep, horrible. Joining the undead and then being patronised for it. That's ugly. Especially when this is a young guy who thrives off laughs and devotes most of every day to raising them.
He's the class clown who's expected to nail it without trying. But the worst part is that this was only a practice run, no pressure at all. He was even telling someone else's joke and knew everyone watching on a first name basis. And yet he died.
Later, when he'd calmed down a bit, Lee climbed back on stage to re-enact what had happened to some curious mates: "Oh shit, it's happening again ..." This time, the lanky 17-year-old Long Bay College student, originally from Barnsley in South Yorkshire, stayed there, rode it out and then took some time to consider the view as his classmates walked in and out of the room, basically ignoring him.
A week later, it was take three. Another practice run, but this time with his own gags. Four minutes worth. That doesn't sound long and it isn't if the crowd's on-side, but fill that space with silence and it's a cold-sweat marathon over broken glass.
One by one, Lee's classmates go up to do their thing, studies in nerves and reluctance. The jokes hit and miss then they're applauded back to their chair, usually after an apologetic: "Umm, and that's all I've got."
It doesn't matter, no one is allowed to feel failure. Lee spends the time looking out the window. Otherwise he's looking at his hands. Either way he's looking pained. After a few acts are done, he leaves the room. Ten minutes later he's back. He sits motionless until his name is called, then takes the tiny stage, grabs the mic, and rocks the house.
But now it's for real. Some time after 3pm today he'll be under the spotlight, with only internal demons for company, on the Concert Chamber stage inside the Auckland Town Hall where he'll try to entertain about 400 paying punters, almost every one a stranger, as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival.
It's an inevitability best not dwelt on, but he's excited and terrified by the prospect all the same. As are the other 17 Auckland teens who will be doing the same thing. These are the Class Comedians of 2008 and they're all stand-up virgins.
After a three-month boot camp run by the Comedy Festival, they have knitted themselves into a brave, bonded-by-adversity bunch of quasi-volunteers ranging from perhaps Auckland's first comedic, guitar-toting emo, to a droll economics nerd, a loud nervous tic on shaky legs, an androgynous latter-day new romantic, and a blond South African who channels Jennifer Ward-Lealand.
Their motivations are as varied: Kelston Boy's head prefect Kieran Ford will be happy if it improves his public speaking while 15-year-old St Mary's student Danielle Maclean has been gagging for a shot since her sisters had a go at previous bootcamps. "For me, it's incredible," she says, "Everything I wanted.
You can always expect things, but to go and live it is really, really cool. It's kind of hard to describe, it's not just having fun, we're all working toward something and I think there's like this pride thing. Going on stage is horrifying.
If I've learned anything it's that there's a big difference between being funny and being good at stand-up. But if I can make people laugh, that'll be amazing." "I know it's a cliche," says Lee, "but people laughing, I've always enjoyed it.
All that class clown stuff. But doing this, I just go mental, it's the end of the world. I hate everyone, I turn on everyone. I go bipolar. If this goes wrong because of stage-fright, well, it's just one audience. I'll still go on with it, to prove to my dad that anyone can do it. That's why I'm here. If I do all right, then Dad has to [have a go]."
So, it's a challenge for everyone: sisters, dads, and even the Daves: Billy T Award winner and half of the Mrs Peacock duo Dave Smith and Dave "Mr Clean" Wiggins, who run the course in almost good cop/bad cop style. Because reputations are kind of on the line.
They've convinced a group of secondary school students to give up their weekends, holidays and mental well-being, shown them the ABCs of stand-up and not-so-gently extruded four minutes of original material from each of them.
Now they will push them on stage and see if the strokes they've learned are good enough to keep them afloat. And remember, these are teenagers we're talking about - all braces, acne and hormones - so public embarrassment is about as welcome as ... actually, that's about as bad as it gets. "It's all about giving them confidence," says Wiggins, who went pro in January after five years of part-time gigging, "and helping them believe in themselves enough to be relaxed about what they do so they can tap into their own personalities instead of trying to channel someone else.
There will be a lot of nerves, there should be, but they'll have a really supportive audience - I had a bunch of friends there to support me for my first gig, we all did.
As for what happens next? Well, some of them have talent and there are some who are really keen, but to succeed you really need both. Everyone's got ideas, but it's the ability to be able to reproduce them on stage."
The only class rules are no swearing and no sexual innuendo - to date the only issues needing censorship have been using cussing as punctuation, ass-touching, the gratuitous over-pronunciation of Whakatane and a punchline involving a Nazi salute. Which is pretty much same old, same old - the students have been pushing the line since the course emerged in 2001.
Admittedly, it came about with a dollop of self-interest. Life is much easier for Comedy Festival organisers if they can spawn their own talent, but it was always going to be a big ask to sustain. The annual Rockquest competition also encourages student talent, but it can draw on wannabe rock stars who study music at school and know what it's like to perform.
There are more detentions than NCEA points to be earned from comedy and there is a vast difference between taking the piss from the back of the class and maintaining a sweaty grip on a microphone in front of an audience.
But Class Comedians has survived - hoorah for sponsors - and, all going well, it will only get bigger. For the past two years students have been recruited from 25 Auckland schools and another 10 in Wellington that contribute to a parallel course.
Spots are now sought-after enough to allow some picking and choosing. It's a simple process: about 20 comics split up and hold lunchtime shows at each school before giving the course a plug and inviting anyone interested to a workshop - holding them after school is an excellent means of sorting out players from stayers. Then the pros chat amiably with the wannabes while quietly assessing who might have a jape or two in them.
About 145 students attended these workshops last year, with 16 making the cut. This year's class is 18-strong with an 11-7 boy-girl split, representing 16 schools from Kaipara to Howick and Rangitoto to Papakura.
It's too early to say how many will survive tonight's debut, but festival associate director Kylie Aitchison is hoping they'll continue an improving trend. Retention has been the biggest issue, with only one member of the 2006 class still performing, but he's a rising star.
Less than a year after graduating from Class Comedians, Rhys Matthewson became New Zealand's youngest ever pro-comedian at 16 and has already racked up more than 50 pro gigs. Last year he was was named best newcomer at the national comedy awards and reached the final of Raw Comedy Quest '07, a competition to find the best new comedy faces.
"I was a little bit pushed into it by a friend," he says, "but that class was life-changing. It made me realise what I wanted to do. Confidence-wise, it's a great affirmation of whether you're funny or not - that's one of the biggest stresses you go through.
Then the final show went really well, almost everyone got the really big laugh. Not every joke works, but the audience is really understanding - they've put their trust in you to entertain them. It's nerve-wracking - every gig makes me nervous, you don't know if anyone will laugh - but it's so worth it."
Matthewson's success seems to have triggered a sea change. The 2007 class had three graduates invited to join the Raw amateur nights at the Classic Comedy Club and 10 reunited this year as "Ad-LOL-escents" to present their own festival show, High School Comical, which may be down to the end-of-year Master Class show introduced last October.
"The best way to keep them in comedy is to stay in contact," says Aitchison. "And the Master Class brings them back, we get together one Saturday a month to build them up to the show and try to get them interested in the [regular] Raw nights.
But the big one is [tonight's] festival showcase. Mums crying, dads crying, everyone's just so proud of them because getting up there is such a hard thing to do. It's always amazing, I hope - no, I'm sure - they'll do well."
And if they do, it'll be another tick in Aitchison's five-year plan to spread the giggles nationwide. There is a strong contingent of drama classes in Christchurch which she hopes to mine, while Hamilton could do with a dose of funny.
All going well, Class Comedians from across the country will eventually meet in a national final. AS FOR THIS year's crew, most of them needed some prodding to get involved - Kieran Ford didn't even know he was part of course until he got a "where the hell are you?" phone call. But from that first taste on February 18, they've been treated to some first-class advice, criticism and ongoing mentoring from local and international comics.
"I only went to the audition because my drama teacher said to go," says Ford. "But it's been pretty amazing, I've never laughed so much." It was a blind leap into the unknown - before February he'd never been to a comedy show and had major doubts over whether he could be funny.
"Oh, we all try, but how successful we'll be, I don't know. For now, some people are super-serious, but mostly we're here to have a good time. That's what I'm about anyway. I've written some stuff but I don't know if it's funny. It's bloody hard, you have a great idea and then you find out it's been done before."
Still, that was how he felt during that first week, three months ago. Then, tonight's show seemed a world away and the butterflies were still dormant. What they needed was a pep talk from someone who's smelled his own fear and revelled in success. Someone like standup comic Brendhan Lovegrove.
He was no-holds barred. "You might think 'the audience will like this,' but it's not their f****** decision. It's all up to you. Don't worry about them, forget what you think they might like, just get stuck into what you do. I don't think about the audience anymore, to me that's ripping them off. If they're paying 25 bucks or whatever, give them something they haven't seen before. They're paying for what you do, so just get out there and do it. And don't ever go out there wanting to be funny. I want to be hilarious. I never want to hear someone saying: 'Oh yeah, that was really funny.' I want them bent over, cracking up, falling out of their chair and hardly able to breathe."
Potent, rabble-rousing stuff. Lovegrove pauses to slurp on his raspberry and lemonade, to regather his chaotic thoughts. One student stifles a yawn. Another ponders her shoes. Typical. Sasquatch could be doing handstands, but the fact that it's a learning environment has pushed them straight into "too cool for school" mode.
Not that Lovegrove gives the tiniest of tosses. He's got a captive crowd, so his mojo is amping, and what was meant to be an hour-long rave stretches out to two and a half. You'd think explaining comedy would be like cooking origami, but he actually conjures up a quality lecture of sorts, peppered with impersonations to illustrate the many shades of the stand-up spectrum - it's a potential routine in itself.
Three students even picked up their pens when he explained the importance of pacing: don't fire all your guns early; scatter gags within your gags; tell good stories; and go flat-out until you get off. It's not until question time that we find out what's really on his audience's mind.
"Have you ever died?" Now, that's got their attention. "Oh yes," says Lovegrove. "You can't do stand-up and think you aren't going to die. Expect it. Even really good comics will die. But if you're up there dying on stage - and it's a quite personal experience - make it compulsive viewing. I like a good death, it's like theatre, it's beautiful.
It can even get you laughs. So, yeah, the lows are low, but the highs are really high. When you get that first laugh, you'll dig it ... that was the surprise for me. I thought I'd like it, but I love it. I can still remember my first laugh, so think about the high. If you want to do this, expect to die and suck, but it'll be a lot less than the times you do well."
It's a message that has sustained them. Perhaps too much. One week to go and there are only 50 tickets left for their performance. Today is their final rehearsal and their first look inside the venue. They still haven't looked into the face of a real crowd, but there's an air of confidence. Some already call themselves comedians while one seems disappointed the chamber isn't bigger.
It's time for another short, sharp shock. Dave Smith takes his frown on stage: "You don't seem nervous enough, which worries me. You should all be packing yourselves, there should be stains on all of the seats, you should be freaking out. If you don't have the fear, when you get on stage there's a chance you won't deliver.
But if you have that fear and you want to do it some real justice, then you'll rock. It's entirely up to you. We've given you all the information we have, you've heard from some of the biggest names in comedy across the world, you've been able to ask them anything you wanted, but now we hand the responsibility over to you. Don't f*** up." Cheeks redden and for the first time there are volunteers to perform.
Most have written, re-written, deleted and written again so often that their material is beginning to flow, but two are car wrecks and the drivers are escorted backstage for some urgent panelbeating.
The stumbles were enough to let everyone know there's still work to be done, things like mic technique, how to move, and what to do if people actually laugh - stand there and wait for them to finish or plough on regardless?
They have only four minutes and no one knows how funny they'll be until the spotlight is on them. Oh well, too late now. Today is death or glory time.
Crowds take no prisoners. So, how do I think they'll go? Well, you can't help feeling some sympathy jitters but I took heart from one of the last conversations they shared before splitting up for the week.
"Are you nervous?" "Oh yeah, scared shitless, really nervous. For you, obviously, you're crap."
They'll do fine.
