The show was baptized at the Edinburgh Festival where the home-made careless irreverence of the world’s greatest arts festival gave the show the rocket fuel it needed to hit the ground running when we came to London. The Edinburgh Fringe is a place where anything goes and we took some of that misrule spirit with us to the West End and ruled the streets while the show was on. Barber and Slater were like a Royal Family with an unusually large court of funny man (and woman) jesters.
I remember the first night in the Gielgud set the scene. I played one of the nurses, which was a good speaking part (although I played one of the bad guys and not one of the clowns). At the curtain call, Christian Slater and Frances Barber accepted the rapturous applause. But, as a kind of joke, my best friend came running down to the stage from the gods baring a bunch of flowers. Christian went to take them, only for my mate to cheekily brush him aside and give them to me instead! I have to say that even though I didn’t steal the scenes I was in, that night I certainly stole the show (sort of).
Being a comedian I didn’t take it all that seriously and was just having fun. I was unaware of the serious rules of the theatre. You have to turn up an hour before the performance; you can’t drink until the final curtain; you can’t leave the theatre; and you mustn’t wear your costume outside. All of which are sackable offences. I managed to commit them all in one afternoon, when I decided to go and meet my friend during the interval at the Samuel Smith’s pub next door. I only realized something was wrong when the company manager came running into the pub shouting ‘Amos! Get back on stage!’ I’d actually missed my cue. I had to apologize to my fellow cast members using the Tannoy system backstage. I couldn’t resist the chance of another funny. So I said over the system, which relayed to every dressing room, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to apologize for missing my entrance as I had visited the pub. I can honestly say this may never happen again.’
Still, for six months, that crummy rundown pub was the de facto West End green room. Once it became known that Christian Slater and Frances Barber were frequenting it, suddenly you couldn’t move for people like David Schwimmer, Patrick Stewart, Dennis Hopper, Donatella Versace or whoever else was in town for the night. You’d catch them at the bar trying to figure out if Alpine Lager for a quid could really be a good idea to order in public (if you’ve been to a Sam Smith’s pub you’ll know what I mean). I think Donatella took one look around at the hookers and ancient winos who were the traditional customer base and turned it into her shabby chic collection for the spring.
Playing in the West End meant that suddenly we all had membership of all the members’ clubs and we abused our newfound stardom to the max. When you’re with famous actors you can pretty much get in anywhere and do anything. We even found those few strictly exclusive bars that are open very late and don’t have a barman. They call them ‘honesty bars’ and they just expect you to take what you like and leave the money. I was so impressed that I left a tip. I wrote on a piece of paper ‘Get a barman!’ as I tucked into a fourth bottle of champagne.
Most of the cast being made up of comedians, we even put on a special late-night comedy show involving all of the actors, including the serious ones. Christian was nervous about it and so one of the other comics cheekily gave him one of my lines to use just before he went on stage. I don’t think he even had time to read it beforehand. He marched on and said, ‘I love performing in front of you good people. But really, this isn’t all that. What I really want is my own TV show. But the BBC have a very strict diversity policy. Apparently, I’ve got to wait for Lenny Henry to die first.’ Now, coming from me, that’s a very funny joke. But coming from Christian Slater it sounds like he has an unnatural urge to murder an innocent black man, who he’d probably never even heard of. Still, we couldn’t help laughing.
Probably the most rewarding part of doing the show was getting to do the matinees for school groups from disadvantaged areas. These youths had never been to the theatre before and during some shows you’d hear them talking or texting on their mobile phones. After the performance, the organizers would arrange for a Q&A session, which to be honest was quite painfully forced. You know the kind of ill-thought-out event that none of the actors and none of the kids really wanted to do. You could see the teachers prodding the students to ask Christian Slater questions and we’d get stuff like ‘How do you keep your uniforms clean?’ and ‘Did it hurt at the end when they electrocute you?’ They clearly had no idea who I was as one of them asked me, ‘Hey, can you do the Ezekiel bit from Pulp Fiction?’
The whole thing was an unforgettable experience with hundreds of people grouping around the stage door every night hoping to get autographs from Christian or Frances. We’d go out clubbing together and I remember there was almost a riot when I took Christian Slater to Heaven, London’s biggest gay club. He was totally mobbed. But fair play to him, he took it all in his stride and posed for pictures with the regulars. It didn’t do me any harm bringing him there because I had honorary VIP status for the night.
Years later, I still look back on that time and can’t really believe it happened. After it was all over, most of us comics went back to our day jobs: making people laugh in clubs. It was quite a head shift going back to the Jongleurs comedy circuit. I didn’t mind because when we were performing in all those shows and living that life it didn’t seem like real life at all. The acting bug has caught me big time. It was six months of total fantasy, during which anyone could be whoever they wanted to be and act in any way they wished. I suppose that is what being an actor is all about and, during my brief stint as an actor, I’m glad I at least learned that. If it had been real it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fun.
22
FOR A STAND-UP COMEDIAN it’s all about getting to play the Hammersmith Apollo. You’ve seen it on telly; you’ve seen the billboards of your comedy heroes outside; and you daydream of one day walking on that stage. When I was a kid I’d walk to school under the Hammersmith flyover and gaze up at the huge eight-storey tall awnings that hung along the outside and wonder just what Gloria Gaynor, The Police, Blondie or even Gary Numan sounded like live on that stage.
An androgynous, make-up wearing man who rarely smiled and quite clearly could not dance, Gary Numan was not a name you’d associate with black youths. The only reason he came into my consciousness was because Albert was a massive fan and I had to endure many nights of him playing the album The Pleasure Principle at 120 decibels until the early hours. Albert may have sailed through school and always had a new car or a new girlfriend but his taste in music was awful. Although looking back Gary Numan was indeed cool, as he ended up being a massive influence on American hip-hop stars Sir Mix-A-Lot (of ‘Big Butts’ fame), Puff Daddy and Kool G Rap. But I just didn’t get it.
I’ve always thought that coolness is a bit overrated anyway. Being cool isn’t funny and even as a young kid I knew I had funny bones – well, people would often point and laugh at me, but that was probably because Mum would dress me and Stella in the same outfits. Cool guys smoke cigarettes and scowl a lot; that’s not for me. Funny guys get the girls (and boys).
So when I first played the Apollo in 2007 it was like a dream come true. I never imagined, looking back at my days at Big Fish comedy, that I’d get to play the Hammersmith Apollo. I’d performed there before on gang shows with other comics, but this was my solo show. I’d managed to sell the place out (twice back to back!), so the champagne was going to be uncorked tonight. It’s normal for me to feel nervous before a big gig, but that day I was nervous as hell walking through the empty auditorium. It was buzzing with the kind of technical activity that always precedes a show and lots of big guys called Dave were rushing about carrying bundles of cables and looking seriously underdressed. Technicians like nothing more than hanging around in empty posh theatres eating chips and looking like they’ve just rolled out of bed. There is, in fact, something magical about an empty auditorium before a big show. It’s a bit like the feeling you get before a big
storm breaks. There’s electricity in the air. I felt the hairs on my forearms standing up on end and a static crackling by the sound desk. Was it anticipation? Or a faulty connection? I’d have to ask one of the Daves about it.
Stage fright is a funny thing. When I first started out in comedy I’d get it really badly. Experience has taught me never to eat less than three hours before any show. Let’s just say your body has a strange way of dealing with stress and we’ll leave it at that. It’s good to be nervous because you can use that energy. You can get behind it and push it into excitement and enthusiasm. Sometimes you can push the gig right into orbit and it’ll take hours to come down from the natural high – for me and hopefully for the audience. Adrenalin is like a drug and, once you’ve had it, you’re hooked. Live stand-up comedy can be an amazing experience and if you don’t believe me head down the London Comedy Store some time and see for yourself.
What I felt that day was not normal stage fright, however. It was pure fright. I’d just been told that I was having a couple of serious VIPs in the audience that night. My mum and dad were flying in from Nigeria to watch me perform. Once all the kids had grown up and moved out they’d gone home to Abeokuta to build a house and retire in peace. They keep saying they’re building it for all of us kids, but I happen to know that Auntie Yomi, who went on to have a big family of her own, is living there. I’ve been there to visit them once and, if anything, they’re trying to out-do Mama Ola’s bathroom fetish, except, because of Auntie Yomi, they have a permanent gbedu (sound system) hooked up to a generator in the garden. But of course Mum refuses to use the generator because of all the locals who will turn up with their mobile phones looking to charge them up.
But now they were heading to the Hammersmith Apollo straight from the airport. Damn! What do I do? Most of my show is based on their funny antics. Do I now re-edit? What about sex gags? What about swearing? I never swear in front of my parents! A grown man, I was taken back to being a child again.
Yet more stressful was the fact that I remembered how my parents were not supportive of my initial forays into stand-up comedy. Now of course I realize that in their eyes English comedy meant The Black and White Minstrel Show and they were only looking out for me. At the time I perceived their lack of support to be discouraging. I remember my dad had never been happier than when I worked for the council, and when I quit he would keep bringing me application forms for the other ‘jobs for life’ and dropping subtle hints like ‘When are you going to get a proper job?’ or worse still ‘Comedy? What is comedy? Are you a clown?’
It’s not that they didn’t get comedy or didn’t understand jokes. It’s just that in the seventies there were no comedians on TV that they could relate to. Coupled with Mum and Dad’s harsh experiences, that kind of comedy just didn’t speak to them. They spoke about them, using such words as ‘nig-nog’ or ‘sambo’. In all my childhood years the only production they ever went to see at the theatre was the hit South African musical Ipi Tombi. Although they never took us kids, they went to see it twice and my parents aren’t even from South Africa and they don’t know any South African people. They just liked the idea of seeing black people on stage being played by black people and not by white people blacked up. So the notion of them spending good money to go and see any live theatrical event was pretty much alien to them.
Dad: ‘Why go, spend money, sit down and keep quiet?’
Mum: ‘And why eat in a restaurant when there is perfectly good food in the fridge at home?’
Now they were coming to the Hammersmith Apollo to watch me do my turn on the stage. So to say that I was bricking it would be an understatement.
For the show I had decided to open with a big musical number and a choreographed dance routine. It was meant to be a parody of Beyoncé’s worldwide hit ‘Put a Ring On It’. If you know the song and have seen the video you know it’s a very sexy and suggestive routine when Beyoncé does it. When I do it, it only suggests that I can’t dance. I’d even tried to master the very dodgy splits manoeuvre in the middle. Conservative Nigerian parents don’t go in much for the splits. So I was running around backstage wringing my hands as the audience started arriving, hoping that Mum and Dad would make it, but also kind of worried that they might.
We had fifteen professional dancers limbering up backstage to join me for the Beyoncé number. If you’re stressing out about doing a big show and the imminent arrival of your disapproving parents then fifteen lithe young bodies in skintight spandex warming up in the wings can be a little bit … distracting. By the way, if you want to have a really good after-show party, then make sure to invite fifteen professionally trained dancers to come along – you won’t regret it. It gets things off to a flying start.
Timekeeping has never been a problem for Mum and Dad, what with juggling multiple jobs and kids. The same can’t be said of Nigerian Airways, who they were flying with. I was praying that the plane would take off in the region of on time and would land relatively near Heathrow Airport. I remembered the West African Airways flight we’d taken back when I was eleven with dread and the jokes that my sister and I had made about it years later. I’d do an impression of the stewardess: ‘Welcome to West African Airways, or WAA, as you will soon be calling it. Your captain today is Ikeme Funa, an experienced fisherman and amateur pilot. If you are looking for the parachute under your seat, there is no parachute under your seat. Please use the lifejacket. In the case of emergency, if you see me screaming and running, follow! Leave everything and run!’ I hoped that the Nigerian Airways flight would be wonderful. Not only did they have to land without incident but they had to get through baggage reclaim and customs. Like many people of the older generation, the concept of travelling light is a foreign one. I fully expected them to turn up at the theatre with a dozen huge trunks wrapped in cellophane as usual.
The other person who would be onstage that day was my support act, Seann Walsh. Seann was looking very pale. Very pale indeed. So pale in fact that I was worried that under the bright lights of the stage his face would blind the front four rows. But looking at him, I thought, if he can handle the pressure then so can I goddamn it! Seann’s a great comic, but he was still in his twenties at the time, drifting along at that magical age when you’re living alone for the first time. Most people choose a house share but he’d gone for a canal boat anchored on the Thames just off Rotherhithe docks. They say adversity breeds comedy and he was having a lot of adversity at the time, trying to figure out how to install electricity and empty the chemical toilet. For some reason the girls absolutely loved him for all this. Young people! That’s something that I’ll never understand.
The other stalwart of the show was Nigel, my tour producer: totally stoic even in the most distressing of circumstances. He is probably so unflappable because he has poor eyesight. If you can’t see the danger coming then you don’t worry about it and so Nigel is very calm under pressure. He also has an outrageously beautiful female assistant, which makes me question just how blind he is. As far as I can tell, her main role is to answer his important questions like ‘Oi! Where’s Amos?’ or ‘Oi! Where’s the stage?’ She’s very popular among the other comics as she mixes beauty with great disdain for all men: think Marlene Dietrich meets Grace Jones with the caustic wit of Bette Davis.
For this night, I had invested in a great new suit. I didn’t ask Nigel his opinion. There’s something to be said about feeling comfortable in what you’re wearing that gives you an air of confidence. You know how some people say they have bad dreams about going back to school without any clothes on? Well, my nightmare is turning up on stage in front of a packed auditorium wearing last season’s Vivienne Westwood. As if I would ever do that! (Please don’t Google any of my fliers pre-2006. Let’s just say I had a thing about bright colours and big lapels.)
One of my rituals as a stand-up comedian is standing backstage, listening to the excited murmur of the audience. Their voices are a bit like the instruments in an orchestra and in a few moments I
would be taking up the conductor’s baton. You always know it’s going to be a good show when you can hear them whooping even before the show has started. Tuning their voices. It’s hard to describe but the buzz created makes the room come alive. It reminds me about a ‘true’ story I heard about Haile Selassie, the great Ethiopian leader. He went to see an opera in London and at the end his friend asked him what he thought of the performance. He said he liked it very much but his favourite bit was at the start before the music really began and when all the instruments tune up together. It’s the same for me in comedy with the audience chatter just before the start of the show.
At one minute to show-time we got our beginner’s call. I peeped out from behind the wings and watched as the art deco interior and red velvet curtain, flaming under the stage lights, dimmed as we faded to blackout. The thudding base line kicked in. An anticipatory hush seized the crowd. The curtains parted and fifteen confident bodies swarmed the stage. I could hear the audience howling. I made my entrance.
Each and every one of those dancers were working their arses off. Thank God when I joined them I was in time. I threw in a couple of funny moves and the crowd went ballistic. The tenor reached fever pitch and I got goosebumps. The feeling was incredible. Then bam! The routine ended. The roar of the crowd was deafening. We’d caught them by surprise and we’d nailed it. As the lights changed to focus on me, I thanked my dancers and, looking down into the auditorium there, leading the applause, were my mum and dad, smiling from ear to ear.
The next hour and a half was surreal. I was so in the moment and the audience were with me all the way. There was absolutely no way I was going to throw this gig. The words were rolling out of my mouth and the laughter was coming back to me. The audience was participating with their minds, bodies, voices. It was just one of those magical nights when I could do no wrong.
I Used to Say My Mother Was Shirley Bassey Page 21
