Andy Kaufman Revealed!

by Bob Zmuda

  Some described Andy’s presentations as performance art before the genre even existed. Some were reminded of the late comic genius Ernie Kovacs, but, still, Andy was too edgy, too unusual to permit definition. Despite the local acclaim, Andy could not even afford to buy his own beers, let alone his dream beer-tap system. But the growing perception of him as a comic “artist” was compensation enough.

  Andy came to be known as a comedian, a categorization he would grow to hate, as he felt it didn’t begin to express the depth of his talents or the breadth of his vision as an artist. Though Andy would have accepted “con man” or even “bullshit artist” over “comedian,” he preferred to think of himself as a song-and-dance man. But the young “comic’s” evolving act encompassed a blend of the real and the unreal, often woven into a demonstration where some or all of what the audience witnessed did not occur. While the other stand-ups were simply telling jokes, Andy created a whole world for his audience — a world they were frequently unsure of. Andy was honing the birth of what I call Kaufmanism, his original interpretation of smoke and mirrors.

  Unfortunately for the acting team of Albrecht and Zmuda, the light of stardom did not shine in time to save us from squandering our savings as well as from losing our apartment. Soon we were starving and homeless, which was the real, unglamourous introduction to the entertainment business that most people don’t talk about. Luckily, Chris and I weren’t on the streets for long, as a kingly gentleman named Dick Scanga offered us a tiny salary and lodging in the back of his Upper East Side theater. Dick was not only best friends with actor Chuck Grodin but also the proprietor of the Little Hippodrome, New York City’s first dinner theater.

  Dick’s notion was that since Broadway shows were expensive and usually preceded by dinner, a thrifty combo would be just the ticket for budget-minded seekers of live culture. Unfortunately for Dick, New York theatergoers considered themselves far too sophisticated for such “packaged entertainment,” and his big experiment was Hoovering up his life savings at an alarming rate. But Dick’s financial dilemma was the furthest thing from our minds, ensconced as we were in his actors’ dressing rooms in exchange for light duties around the place such as cooking, cleaning, and table waiting. Dick’s only stipulation was that we have our sleeping bags out of the way by the time his thespians arrived at 7 P.M.

  The clockwork torture of every audition becoming another personal rejection was beginning to take its toll on us. One night after getting bumped from our rooms by Dick’s slightly less starving actors, Chris and I went separate ways to find a little solace from the lowest-rung-on-the-food-chain existence that had become our lives. Dazed and feeling sorry for myself, I took a left on 44th Street instead of my usual right. A moment later I was staring at the facade of the Improvisation, or the Improv, as it would become shorthanded, the first comedy club in America. I had a couple of bucks in my pocket (thanks to Dick), so I paid the two-drink minimum and went inside. I didn’t know it at the time, but my entry into that club was no less significant than had I been riding into Virginia City, Nevada, in 1849, at the start of the gold rush. But now it was 1973, and within the next few years a comedy rush would take place, with the Improvisation as Main Street, Virginia City.

  2

  A Foreign Man

  It wasn’t an act, it was a happening.

  CARL REINER

  As I cozied up to my vodka that night, I watched an array of young, talented unknowns named Jay Leno, Richard Lewis, Elayne Boosler, Joe Piscopo, Richard Belzer, and Larry David take the Improv’s stage. (Larry would later co-create, write, and produce a little show called Seinfeld.) During breaks between acts, a shaggy-haired young foreigner could be heard from the back of the room begging, then demanding, that Budd Friedman let him on the stage. The strange young man with the odd accent got the attention of everyone in the packed house as he and Friedman went back and forth about his being permitted onstage. I didn’t know Budd Friedman, but I thought he was being overly patient with this sad loser.

  Finally, near the end of the evening, after numerous noisy discussions between Friedman and the weirdo, the club owner threw up his hands and relented. Taking the microphone, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome a visitor from afar, Mr. Andy Kaufman.”

  I didn’t know much about comedy clubs, but I did know that going last was an honor. Still, this kook with the thick, unplaced accent had begged his way on as the closing act. The volleys between Budd Friedman and this guy were themselves worth the price of admission. I also remembered the law of the street for Comedians and aspiring actors: pushiness works. I, along with the rest of the audience, sat back and waited for the schnook to bomb.

  It didn’t take long. Walking out into the spotlight, dais goofy guy with eyes wider than the Hudson began with a few extremely lame impressions, or “emetations,” as he called them. He started with Archie Bunker, slid into Ed Sullivan, and finished with our president, Tricky Dick Nixon. Even though each “emetation” was worse than the previous one, he emitted a rough charisma that began to grow on me. But despite that, the guy’s sorry impressions, exacerbated by his indefinable accent, made me figure Friedman would be reaching for the hook in about two seconds. To my surprise, he didn’t, and the man continued with his hopelessly amateurish act, a routine I was beginning to think he’d practiced only slightly in the cabarets of Budapest or Prague.

  As his “act” painfully continued, some of the audience could not contain themselves and began snorting. They were not laughing with him, they were laughing at him. Some of the more sensitive shot the laughers disapproving glances, embarrassed by the discomfort this poor yutz had visited on himself and now the congregation. When he announced he was going to do “de Elbis Presley” there was a collective groan from the house. Given this was 1973, years before Elvis impersonations would be in vogue, nobody gave a rat’s ass about Elvis. I looked to Budd Friedman in the back, expecting him to rush forward to put this bonehead out of our misery, but he just stood there, arms crossed, calmly awaiting the train wreck.

  This poor Iron Curtain comedian then fumbled around in a tired little valise, found a comb, and began raking his hair into an Elvis coif. He reached back in and pulled out some props. He combed his hair again. I had been trying to suppress a laugh, for fear of hurting his feelings, but now I couldn’t help it: amazingly, this guy was making the act of combing his hair funny. I started to pull for him at this point, excited that he’d managed to get the audience laughing with him. Suddenly the house lights went down and a single follow-spot illuminated the man on stage. The organized theatrics of that one light instantly indicated that perhaps all was not what it appeared to be.

  After a few more hair combs — just enough to whip the crowd into a laughing frenzy — this weird young foreigner began an amazing transformation. Accompanied by the strains of Strauss’s famous opening from the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, he donned a spangled jacket, popped up the generous collar, hefted an acoustic guitar, and I was damned if he wasn’t starting to really look like Elvis. Then he curled his lip in that perfect Elvisian arc, and the crowd screamed.

  I was asking myself, Who the fuck is this guy? when I sensed that we all may have been had. The classical music segued into a rock ‘n’ roll riff and he launched into a stage strut in that patented Elvis prowl. It seemed as if the very act of stalking back and forth and bowing repeatedly in such brilliant mimicry was actually conjuring some sort of “Elvis life force” out of the ether. After a few circuits across the stage, arms flourishing in some air karate and those commanding eyes leveled on us, he grabbed the microphone and spoke. But this time, the poor foreign soul, the cringing little man we had admired and mocked for having the guts to stand before us, was gone. The voice was now rich, sultry … and from the Deep South, as in America.

  “Thank yeh verra much … you can just stare at me while ah catch mah breath.”

  My jaw dropped. This was no impression, this was Elvis. Then, as the
trademark lip twitch went out of control, he deadpanned, “There’s somethin’ wrong with mah lip.” That brought a big laugh, partly because it was funny, but probably more so because we were all still in shock. I was satisfied that this was pretty impressive — that his tribute to Elvis was good even if he wasn’t really going to sing — so what happened next blew my mind.

  Suddenly lights began to flash, and he launched into “Treat Me Like a Fool.” He was actually singing instead of lip-synching, and he was great. He followed that first number with a killer rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” that brought the house down. At the end of the act, this person, whoever or whatever he was — I still wasn’t sure — nodded politely, eyes agog, and said, “Dank you veddy much.”

  He walked off the stage, and everyone else in the place went nuts. Budd Friedman leaped to the stage and proudly announced, “That was Andy Kaufman, ladies and gentlemen, Andy Kaufman!” I just sat there, stunned, unable to clap, blink, or even close my mouth. I had just seen Andy Kaufman for the first time, and the experience was dizzying. Taking my drink, I moved to the back to see if I could get another glimpse of this man. He eventually appeared from the back room and I overheard him speaking to Budd Friedman in — you got it — that foreign accent. By now I was really curious and confused: Was that foreign accent for real? I followed him outside and watched as he started loading props into his car. He noticed me and stopped.

  “Please,” he said in that accent, “my beck is very hurting. Ken you help me?”

  I walked over and noticed that he had a pile of items, apparently from another show. “This is it?”

  “No,” he said, “there is a bit more. Inside.”

  I followed him backstage and was confronted by a mountain of props: a 16-millimeter projector and screen, a record player, two huge congas and their stands, a set of cymbals, and assorted suitcases bursting with props and costumes. I quickly realized that whether or not this guy was from Bucharest, he obviously hadn’t started doing this last week. “Man, you sure have a shit-load of stuff,” I noted.

  He looked at me quizzically. “Shipload? I came on ship, yes.”

  “No … oh, forget it,” I said, giving up, still unsure of him.

  “You help?” he asked again.

  I picked up the congas and groaned, “Yeah, I’ll help.”

  About twenty minutes later I had moved everything into his car, and he hadn’t touched a thing. He had rubbed his back the entire time while complaining about the enormous pain he was suffering. My back hurt now, yet he went to the driver’s door without even a handshake. He smiled blankly. “Dank you veddy much.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, rubbing my sore back.

  Then his face changed completely, as if he had become another person altogether, and he said gruffly with a sneer, sans accent, “Sucker!” as he proceeded to leap into the car and drive away. The exhaust fumes boiled around me. I couldn’t believe this asshole. I was shocked and absolutely pissed … for about five seconds. Then I started laughing. I laughed all the way back to my dinner theater/homeless-actor’s shelter. I sat down with Chris and looked him in the eye. “Forget acting. I’ve seen the future, and it is comedy.”

  I spent the next hour telling him about my encounter with the very, very Strange, very wonderful Andy Kaufman. After we talked all that evening and into the wee hours of the morning, Chris and I decided to abandon our careers as actors and embark on a new direction as comedians. We were excited, and we were ready to go. The only drawback was a large one, but we were young and it didn’t seem insurmountable: we had no act. Details, details. We’d start in the morning.

  Despite being foreigners to comedy, I wrote an act and we began to rehearse it. We scammed a photo session and had some eight-by-ten-inch glossies printed with the proclamation: “Albrecht & Zmuda, Comedy from A to Z.” It was a pretty bold claim given we might have had A and B; unfortunately C through Z were not yet in our repertoire. But we were as motivated as we were broke, spurred by the notion that other comedians were getting their own shows left and right. Freddie Prinze had just made the deal for Chico and the Man, Jimmie Walker had made one for Good Times, and Gabe Kaplan was only a year away from anchoring Welcome Back, Kotter. All of them would go to the majors by way of that farm club called the Improv.

  Chris and I figured Freddie Prinze was young: How much time could he have put in before he made it? His deadpan delivery and shtick as a “Hunga-rican” was funny, but we absolutely knew we could do just as well. What we needed now, almost more than an act, was exposure. And we knew there was only one place to get it. Getting in there would require cunning, perfect timing, and above all, masterful deception.

  Budd Friedman had heard of our dinner theater, and we knew he’d expressed interest in getting into off-Broadway productions, as a backup in case his comedy venture failed. At that time he didn’t know what he had. But given Budd’s aspirations to branch out, we thought he might be interested in getting to know some guys who might be able to “help him” get into staging productions. Meanwhile, Dick owed us some money, so we threw a scheme at Dick in return for settling our wages, and he went for it.

  The next day, Chris and I went to the Improvisation and casually approached Budd Friedman to invite him, as “a fellow club owner,” for dinner at our little establishment. Budd readily accepted, and a few nights later we hosted him at “our club.” Wining and dining him as an equal was a change from most evenings, when we’d he busing that table. We so impressed him with our wit and style that he had become our new best friend by the time the after-dinner drinks came. We toasted, and as I swirled the liqueur in my glass, almost as an afterthought I spoke the sentence the entire evening had really been centered on. “You know, Chris and I have an act.”

  “Really?” said Budd. “What do you do?”

  “Oh, it’s just a little comedy thing. But it’s pretty good,” said Chris demurely.

  “No kidding,” said Budd. “Well, I’d love to see it. Why don’t we book you some night?”

  Chris and I looked at each other and shrugged. Attempting to look cool, almost uninterested, I nearly snapped the stem off my glass. “Sure, okay, why not?” I replied.

  We apparently did a hell of a job on Budd, as we were immediately given a top spot in the club’s lineup, sight unseen. Experienced comics can tailor their act to fit a bill, but the foundation of working stand-ups is what is called their tight twenty, twenty minutes of their best stuff, relentlessly honed material guaranteed to level any audience. “Albrecht & Zmuda, Comedy from A to Z” consisted of a tight twenty all right — twenty seconds. And it took Budd about that long to figure out we were masters of bullshit, not stage comedy. But instead of banishing us for our deceit, he admired our pluck and craftiness and welcomed us into the Improv family. Budd was becoming more and more involved in opening the Improv West in Los Angeles and soon made Chris the New York club’s night manager while I continued to cook, clean, and schlepp at the Little Hippodrome.

  Finally, poor Dick Scanga’s dream of bringing dining and acting to New Yorkers in one package failed, and, though I still had shelter, I was out of work. Meanwhile, Chris had made many contacts at the club.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” he said. “You’re not going to believe this, but it’s true. This job is unbelievable.”

  “You know what they say: If it sounds too good to be true …” I said.

  Chris shook his head. “I know, I know, but this job, this is for real.”

  What I am about to tell you may initially appear to be a sidetrack to my story about Andy Kaufman, but the nature of the man you are about to meet, and the events that transpired around him, not only had a direct bearing on bringing me and Andy together, but also had a strong influence on much of the comedy we would go on to create. I must warn you that I will refer to this man only as, let’s say, Mr. X or simply X. I have a strong motivation to do so: I believe that Mr. X is still alive, and, even now, more than twenty-five years later, I continue to be
terrified of him. If I were to use his real name he might come after me. Why? Because he is — without exaggeration — completely fucking insane.

  “This gig pays two thousand bucks a week,” Chris said matter-of-factly, “and you’ll be working with one of the top screenwriters in the world, this guy has Academy Awards.”

  My reality was thirty dollars a week, so my hearing stopped functioning after the word “week.” “Two thousand?” I repeated, thinking Albrecht had gone over the top in his cruelty. I searched his eyes for evidence of deception.

  “I’m not shitting you, Zmuda. This guy needs an assistant. That’s where you come in. You’ll learn how to write movies while making two grand a week.”

  “You’re making this up, you’re fucking with me.”

  “No, I’m not,” he insisted. “This is one hundred percent on the level. The guy’s name is Mr. X.”

  Chris then rattled off a partial filmography of my savior that included only big movies. I was beginning to believe him. But then again, that’s when you sink the knife with a good put-on.