So, I’m standing on a stage in front of 700 people and beads of sweat start trickling down my back. I can feel the grip of my fingers tightening around the microphone as I stand there staring out into an audience. The lights are bright and it’s hard to see past the first few rows, but I know people are in the room. I can feel them awkwardly staring at me and I can hear them breathing. My mind is in full panic mode, just grasping for a word, a sound, a way out, anything. I’m in a deep cavernous hole and I’m just grasping at the walls to pull myself out, but this time, I don’t know if I can. In comedy, this is called bombing, and if it’s anything like the real thing, then I can tell you that part of me died that night on stage in Toronto.
I’ve been doing stand-up comedy off and on since 1998 and in those years, I’ve never truly bombed like I did on that March night in 2014. I was the producer for a comedy show that I created called “The Most RACES Show on Earth!” A show that featured the best multicultural comedians from across North America. It was my baby, my passion, and the thing I was most proud of, and now I was bringing it to the city where it all began. It was a homecoming of sorts, since the last time I produced the show in Toronto was in 2007 when it sold out 3 shows and was the hottest event in the city.
Producing a show is hard. Especially since the team involved consisted of me, my friend Ryan and my wife Megan. That was it. We were the ones behind a show that brought comedians together from New York, L.A. Atlanta, and Chicago, and my duties included finding the talent, negotiating contracts, financing the show, marketing, selling tickets, sponsorship, booking hotels, and transportation. Why I thought I could perform a 10-minute set, on top of those other duties, was beyond me. I put myself on a show with comedians who lived and died stand-up comedy. In fact, for many of them, that’s all they did, day-in and day-out. During my day, I worked as a Real Estate agent selling houses in order to finance this passion for comedy, which unfortunately, left very little time to do the necessary things that great comedians are able to do, namely, write material, practice material, and most importantly, perform material. Needless to say, I was not prepared, and I was kidding myself if I thought I was.
So, the day of the show, I found myself worrying about everything at the same time. While I was selling last minute tickets, making sure the media got credentials, wrangling up the comedians, feeding them and getting them to the venue on time, I also had to find time to create a setlist for myself with the jokes that I wanted to say. I decided to use some of my tried and true material, jokes that I have said thousands of times before and should know like the back of my hand. The problem was, that night, was when I found out that I really don’t have any idea what the back of my hand looks like.
For three months, I was hyping this show on social media. The big marketing push was that I was coming back to Toronto from the U.S. after 7 years away and this show was going to be a triumphant homecoming in front of family, friends, and loyal fans of the show. I stood in the lobby of the theater as people started filing in, my parents, my younger sister, who brought all her friends, my childhood friend and his family who hadn’t seen me in years. They were all there, excited to see me and what I put together. I hugged and kissed them, and let them take their seats. The rest of the audience steadily came in until it was a packed house. Sold out. There was nothing left to do, except perform. It was showtime.
There were 8 comedians, all doing 10 minutes each. I put myself 2nd in order to get my set out of the way and let the other comedians get the limelight. I’m standing backstage behind the curtain as the first comedian goes up on stage. I hear his voice and then the roar from the crowd as they laugh in approval. Good crowd. They don’t seem tight. They want to laugh. I stare at my crudely put together setlist and slide the piece of paper back into my pocket and wait to the side of the stage. I watch the first comedian, and he’s killing it. 5 minutes, 7 minutes…10 minutes…15 minutes…the comedian on stage is going way past his time limit, which makes me irritated as a producer. Finally, after 18 minutes, he says “Thank You,” and the audience loves him and he leaves to thunderous applause. It’s now my time. My heart skips a beat. It’s too late to be nervous. I hear the host say, “Our next comedian, he’s the brainchild of this event, he put this all together, start putting your hands and welcome Neil Bansil!” A DJ onstage plays some intro music and just before I start walking on stage, I close my eyes, say a little prayer and then…go. There’s no turning back now.
The applause dies down, and it’s just me, the mic in my hand, and the sold-out audience. The DJ takes a seat behind his turntables to my right, I glance over at him and smile and he smiles back, then I look out to the crowd and just soak it in. It’s a lot of people. I take a deep breath and go right into my first joke. It was something about how I recently got my U.S. citizenship. You see, in the U.S., people would usually clap when they hear me say I got my citizenship, because there, it’s something to be proud of, but the problem was, I was in Canada, and no one gave shit. I said the punchline…crickets. Joke 2, I said something about being confused as Mexican in the U.S. That equated to maybe a handful of laughs, at most. By this time, the sweat was visibly forming on my brow. I just quickly went into Joke number 3. Joke number 3 is a joke I’ve told so many times, I’ve lost count. It was about going to church and noticing in the church bulletin that they would now be offering a “Gluten-Free” option during communion. That’s right, a Gluten-Free Jesus. The premise is funny by itself, except when you forget the punchline, like I did. I don’t know what happened. I just froze. I stood there, not knowing what to do or say next. This time there were no chuckles, not one smile, not anything. Just awkward, uncomfortable silence. I can just remember seeing these two guys in the front row looking at me confused, wondering if this was part of the act, but it wasn’t. It was me panicking in sheer terror. I turned to the DJ and looked at him, desparation in my eyes, but the DJ didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know my jokes. He just shrugged and there I was alone. Utterly alone. So, I did the only thing I could do. I put the mic to my lips and said, “Ok. Thank you, Good night!” and I walked off the stage to a smattering of confused applause. The moment I got past the curtain and out of sight from the audience, I went to the center of the backstage area, laid on the ground, and just stared blankly at the ceiling. The host went back on stage and after a long pause, I just heard him say, “He made us put him on,” and the audience just erupted in laughter. It was the biggest laughs of the night and it was because of me. The host proceeded to roast me for the next 10 minutes in front of this sold out audience, in front of my friends and my family, and each laugh was bigger than the other, and all I could do was just lay there and stare at the ceiling.
The rest of the show went amazing. The audience forgot all about me because everyone else was so good, and by the end of the night, I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t bare to show my face in public. I just hid in the bowels of the theatre until every last person left. It was the worst feeling of my life, and it still haunts me to this very day.
The very next night I got back on stage and made people laugh again, but ever since I bombed that night in Toronto, it taught me a very valuable lesson. If you’re going to do something, and do something well, you better be prepared. You can’t half-ass it. You can’t expect to be good at anything if you haven’t worked for it. Maybe one day, I’ll get back on stage and perform in front of a sold-out audience, but I know one thing is for sure, the next time, I’ll be ready.
Thank you.
