Consequently, comedy clubs took a massive hit, including the original New York Improv, which closed in December 1992, becoming one of the first casualties along with Catch A Rising Star two years later. Though I hadn’t been involved at all in the New York club for more than seventeen years and I don’t completely fault Silver, who unsuccessfully tried to keep it afloat in several other locations, having it fold was very traumatic—kind of like having your childhood home hit with the wrecking ball even though you aren’t there to witness it.
What happened? My own personal issues with my ex-wife notwithstanding, the short answer—even though this may be an overgeneralization—is that club owners, myself included, had become victims of our own success. Quite possibly without even realizing it, the showcase-style business model we invented had also accidentally created a monster as countless others tried to imitate both us and our show.
Maybe the Improv could have avoided this if we had just stuck to the more inventive and original Robert Klein-Jay Leno-Andy Kaufman type acts that had first made us who we were. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, although I can live with it because in between the would-be and never-really-would-be comics who occasionally performed at the Improv, the comedy boom also saw the rise of some of the greatest comedians of all time, many of whom were vetted and streamlined on our stage. Unfortunately, the problem still was that with comedy fans now also flocking to second-rate chains and jerry-rigged stages in bowling alleys and hotel bars, it eventually became so difficult to tell the good from the bad that many stopped trying—and in the process, not only did the New York Improv close along with our other club in Santa Monica, business on Melrose also began to suffer, although this dip was happily short-lived.
No matter how oversaturated stand-up comedy became towards the late eighties and into the early nineties, I’ve always firmly believed that cream not only rises to the top, but that a new generation of even better comics comes along every five to seven years. For me, unquestionably the biggest and most-satisfying affirmation of this was when the all-time top of the Improv’s crop, Jay Leno, became the host of The Tonight Show in June 1992, following his very public feud with David Letterman.
Though some accused Jay of forgetting about his friends and not championing comedians enough, it was a charge that I found completely without merit. Regardless—and thanks in no small part to a grassroots comedy scene in cities like San Francisco and Boston, not unlike the Greenwich Village coffeehouses of the early 1960s—many of the best young comics who would emerge in the mid to late nineties like Bill Hicks, Andy Kindler, Marc Maron, Dave Attell, Janeane Garofalo, and Margaret Cho would all eventually find their way to Melrose Avenue. Ditto when it came to drawing from the ranks of improv troupes, both new and old like Upright Citizens Brigade in New York, Second City in Chicago, and The Groundlings in Los Angeles, which is where another future Tonight Show host named Jimmy Fallon was performing in 1996 when he first came to my attention via my stepson Ross.
ROSS MARK:
After working in television for several years after college, I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore and so Budd hired me to help him book the comics. One of the first showcases I did was for Lorne Michaels, who was in LA scouting potential hosts for what would become Late Night with Conan O’Brien. We had about ten comics on that night, including Conan and Jon Stewart.
About six months, maybe a year, after that, a woman at Brillstein-Grey named Randi Siegel sent me a tape from this kid from New York named Jimmy Fallon. So I put it in the VCR and it was hilarious—he played the guitar, his impressions were incredible, and he had this thing he did with a troll doll. And I was like, “Oh my God. This kid is going to be a huge star.”
And so I called his manager up to tell her this, and when I did, I asked him not to work at other clubs, which he did anyway. But I didn’t care and I immediately put him on during prime time on Friday and Saturday nights. And I told Budd the same thing. I said, “This kid’s going to be a huge star. Trust me. Book him whenever he wants.”
JIMMY FALLON:
You don’t forget it. You walk down Melrose Avenue, you see the lights, and it feels like showbiz. As soon as I walked in, I saw Budd sitting at his table with his monocle dangling by his lapel. He’s a very sharp dresser—fashion forward and he sticks out, because you can just tell he’s a classy, cool guy. And I thought to myself, “I can’t believe that’s Budd, that’s BUDD FRIEDMAN.”
My first time at the Improv instantly reminded me of that scene from Goodfellas where you walk in and you know everybody. And they were all there that night—Richard Lewis, Dom Irrera, Margaret Cho, Janeane Garofalo, John Mendoza, Ray Romano—just talking and hanging out. It was insane because it was like going to a party of comedians I never knew existed. I was freaking out, because I knew everybody’s act by heart and I could do everybody’s act, when all of the sudden my manager, Randi Siegel, took me over to meet Budd.
He’s one of the few guys I don’t impersonate, but when I spoke to him he was like, “Right, right. Good to meet you.” I don’t really remember much else because I was so nervous and intimidated to meet him. Then I went into the show room just to see what it was like. I went in through the swinging doors, past the bathroom area, and the first thing I saw was the brick wall, the mic stand, and the light. People could still smoke back then, so there was this kind of cool haze, almost like stage smoke like you’d see at a rock concert.
And it’s a decent-sized room and all you hear are the people laughing, so immediately I got nervous even though I wasn’t going on. I was soaking it in like, “This is the Improv.” Then this guy Brett, who was the sound engineer, came up to me. He said, “You can stand over there.” That was when I was shown the back corner of the room where the comedians sat to watch each other’s acts. So I did, too—boom, boom, boom—the people that I love.
The very next day I came back to talk to Budd’s stepson Ross whom he’d told me to come see, and we arranged a time for me to do an audition but during the daytime. When that day came, the vibe at the Improv was entirely different because nobody was there and the whole room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and beer. So I got up onstage with my troll doll and my guitar. And I started doing my act and Ross started laughing. He said, “This is good. You should come on. I’ll give you a spot Wednesday night.”
So I came back and I did my usual act—Seinfeld, Travolta. Sometimes I would close with Pee-wee Herman because that was a big scandal at the time. I said something like, “This doll is cool, but I’d rather play with myself.” My other closer was George Michael. I would play the guitar and then I’d turn around, shake my butt like George Michael did, and that would be the closing.
It was the best night of my life ever. Then I got off, and when Budd saw me he said, “Jimmy, well done. That was great.”
I was like, “How cool is that? Budd Friedman said hi to me.”
And then he said to my manager, “Let’s have him back next week during the week.”
“Wow,” I said, “now I’m a working comic at the Improv.”
For which I got paid $8.25. I still have the check that’s unused because obviously there’s nothing you can do for $8.25. But the best thing about the Improv is that they would feed you. My mom loved it when I played there because that meant I could eat. She knew I was eating. She was like, “God bless Budd Friedman. He’s feeding you. Please tell him thank you from the Fallons.” I didn’t tell her I was eating chicken fingers, but it was still great because I was flat broke.
After about three months, Budd invited me to sit at his table, which was big because the unwritten rule was that you could say hello anytime you wanted to, but you didn’t just sit down. Before I sat, he told me to get out of the aisles. Then he said, “I think you’re ready for Saturday night.” That actually was a paid gig and your name even went up on the marquee like a movie opening. It was exciting, and I was so happy that I went back to my apartment and began practicing that night, everything over and
over.
So finally, Saturday night came and I showed up at the Improv with my doll and my guitar and everyone was congratulating me. And when I told them how excited I was, they said, “Yeah, it’s a big night. Seinfeld’s here.” I looked over and, sure enough, Jerry Seinfeld was eating dinner with Budd. I was like, “My God,” because this was at the height of Seinfeld and it couldn’t be any bigger. I was like, “Oh my, gosh. I’ve got to call my mom and tell her Seinfeld’s at the club.” So I ran outside to the pay phone and I called her collect. I said, “Hey, it’s Jimmy.”
“How’s everything?” my mom said.
“I’m at the Improv and Jerry Seinfeld’s inside.”
My mom went berserk. She was like, “What? My God, I’ve got to tell everybody.”
I hung up and when I went back into the club, just as I was about to go on, somebody tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Seinfeld’s getting ready to go up. He’s going to go up and do ten minutes.” So everyone, all the comedians, went back to watch and he came up and they announced him. No one else knew he’d been there in the audience.
He got a standing ovation just walking to the stage. And he killed, just a great stand-up. And I was standing over near the sound booth when the sound guy said, “Who’s next?”
Whoever the other comedian was said, “I’m not following that.” Then the next two guys after that said the same thing, so the sound guy said, “Who’s Jimmy Fallon?”
“That’s me,” I said.
“Okay, you’re up.”
I thought to myself, “I’m following Jerry Seinfeld my first night. This is like the worst ever.” And I was freaking out, but my manager tried to reassure me.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “You can do this, you can do this.”
So they announced my name, and I went up with my troll doll and my best ten-minute act—in fact, it was my only ten minutes, but I switched the order of my impressions and started with Seinfeld. I said, “Welcome to the auditions for the new spokesperson of Troll Doll, Inc. First up, Mr. Jerry Seinfeld.” And I did my impression of Seinfeld and it worked. I’ll never forget that night. Electric.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Passing the Baton and Looking Ahead: The Early 2000s to the Present
Like everyone else, the extended Improv family awaited the dawn of the new millennium with anticipation and hope, and with a bevy of both established and new acts coming to our stage in Los Angeles and other clubs around the country each year—a small handful of which currently includes: Jeff Ross, D. F. Sweedler, Rich Vos, Jim Norton, Zach Galifianakis, Demetri Martin, Chelsea Handler, Louis C.K., Andy Dick, Ricky Gervais, Seth MacFarlane, Patton Oswalt, Steve Carell, Dean Edwards, Dane Cook, Jeff Dunham, Mitch Hedberg, Aziz Ansari, David Cross, Dov Davidoff, Kevin Brennan, Lynne Koplitz, and Rachel Feinstein—the twenty-first century has proven to be all of that and more.
Ever since I started out in New York in 1963, the thrill for me then, as it is now, has been watching our performers emerge and then forever continue to evolve. A lot has changed even since 1963, and practically everything has changed on the comedy scene, most significantly the exponential number of opportunities for performers.
However, the basic fundamentals of stand-up haven’t changed, and I am confident about the future because I have no doubt that the value of what it offers will only continue to increase. On a more personal note, following the sale of the Improv to Levity Entertainment Group in 2012, I am no longer as actively involved as I once was, even though I still own the rights to the Improv name.
As for the current keepers of the Improv flame—Robert Hartmann of Levity Entertainment Group; our franchisees; and last, but certainly not least, the comedians—my wish for each of them is that they will always have the good fortune that I’ve had as I settle into that distinguished status called “elder statesman” without, I think, cause for too many regrets.
I know you can’t get where I’ve gotten without putting some of what makes Seinfeld Seinfeld, Leno Leno, Fallon Fallon, and the thousands of other performers who’ve spent time on our stages over the years into the equation. I’m also acutely aware that the concept worked and continues to flourish here and at countless other comedy clubs across the globe because the constellations aligned to bestow upon me the funniest men and women on the planet, and I happened to be in the right place at the right time. How lucky I was. How lucky I am. How lucky I will always be.
DAVID STEINBERG, comedian, director, actor, writer, and talk-show host:
They always say a comedian needs a place to fail. I’ve never quite understood that logic, but Budd gave them a place to fail and he would guide them. He loved them and they love him for it.
NORMAN LEAR, television producer and writer:
It had to take a great deal of astuteness and love for comedy to do what Budd did, and that’s his legacy. You can’t spend the kind of time he had to with stand-up comics, both good and bad, without understanding the foolishness of the human condition and what makes a good laugh. Budd Friedman will be remembered for both things because he understood both.
JAY LENO:
You know what it is? When people make it comfortable for you, it becomes like an old sweater. That’s how I’ve always felt about the Improv, and to this day it’s a place where I know I can get onstage, try out material, and work. And it’s the same kind of thing with Budd in the sense that even if I haven’t seen him for six months, we can still pick up the conversation exactly where we left off.
PAUL PROVENZA:
I really believe that Budd will be remembered as the George Washington of the comedy business because he single-handedly created a paradigm shift. That’s why a lot of comics know Budd’s name the way they do George Washington’s even though they’ve never met him.
MIKE PREMINGER:
Budd’s legacy should be what it is. You can’t say he was the father of stand-up comedy because there was stand-up before, but just look at all the people who started at the Improv. Before Budd came along, there was no place to try out things. You weren’t just getting up there and telling jokes. You were talking about yourself, observing, and commenting. From that vantage point, Budd really opened up things.
ED BLUESTONE:
How will Budd Friedman and the Improv be remembered? Together, they were the primary catalyst of America’s comedy wave. Before the Improv came along, there was an era of small places like The Duplex, The Bitter End, and the Blue Angel where people like Shelley Berman, Nichols and May, and Mort Sahl got their starts, but after that there was a period when comedy was sort of flat and the Improv was the renaissance.
DAVID STEINBERG, film producer and talent manager:
In the comedy business, the Improv was and is the place to be, and Budd was always the comedian’s friend. He is the consummate ringmaster. He’s the guy who would always be at your housewarming party. Even though he can act like a braggart and is sometimes full of shit, he gets away with it because he’s fun to be around and you know he’s really going to be there for you if he likes you.
MICHELE LEE:
Budd is an icon. He brought comedy into our culture and it’s never changed. There’s no one like him. Obviously, there have been other clubs that have introduced comics, but the Improv and his concept of introducing people who would be and who were was all Budd’s.
JIMMIE WALKER:
Love him or hate him, I think Budd will be remembered as the Mount Rushmore of comedy. He’s the face of it.
RICK NEWMAN:
He will go down as a frontiersman and an original in the world of comedy for starting the Improv. He’s an explorer who made it work.
JOE PISCOPO:
Budd is the man who institutionalized comedy. He took it from joints to an industry, and he’s still relevant to this day.
JUDD APATOW:
Budd will be remembered as someone who helped invent the whole form of the comedy club. He was a champion of some of the greatest comedians of all time. We have a lot of their work tod
ay because of that early support.
BOB ZMUDA:
If you think about it, the Budd Friedman story is kind of like the Frank Capra film It’s a Wonderful Life. I mean, if the Improv hadn’t existed, there would have never been a Sex and the City or The Sopranos, because those are all shows that Chris Albrecht green-lit at HBO and it’s a job that he never would have had if he and I hadn’t walked into the Improv. It was the springboard for all of our careers.
The money we raised for Comic Relief never would have happened without Budd and the Improv either. The connections back to this guy are amazing. There’s a saying about being in the right place at the right time, but there’s also another saying about knowing where the right place is, and in comedy it was the Improv.
RICHARD LEWIS:
Without question, Budd is the father of modern-day stand-up. He made it possible for people to feel good about themselves with a real comedy audience. I say this because there were nightclubs where you could perform before the Improv, but they didn’t represent stand-up. It was like you were going on after Richie Havens and you had three minutes. You were like a hanger-on. Budd Friedman was the first to give praise and recognition to great comedy and great comedians. He was the first guy to give real prestige to comedy. Budd turned us into stars.
Acknowledgments
To the lucky few who are given a second chance and make it work, we love you all.
—ALIX AND BUDD
Budd Friedman
This book is dedicated to my beautiful wife Alix, who has been my rock of Gibraltar through good times and bad from the moment we unexpectedly met at the Hollywood Improv nearly forty years ago.
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