When I was Kevin Hart, none of the bits that I did as Lil’ Kev the Bastard were funny. Kevin Hart was dull compared to crazy-ass, loudmouthed, unpredictable Lil’ Kev the Bastard.
I was nothing without the name, and with the Def Jam show coming up in just a week, I needed to follow my own advice and not change up an act at the last minute. I didn’t want to bomb in front of thousands of people, so I ended the experiment and dropped Keith’s advice.
“So you’re back to Lil’ Kev the Bastard?” TuRae asked when I told him to announce me by my stage name at the next show.
“Yeah, I tried what Keith said cause he was so cocky about it. But that ‘Kevin Hart’ shit just doesn’t work for me.”
“Cause you would know, right?” He rolled his eyes. “You’ve been doing comedy longer than anyone here, so you’re the expert now?”
“I gotta be doing something right. I won the Def Jam competition.”
“That’s because you’re new and young. You don’t know who you want to be yet.”
I tried not to listen to his words. It was like dropping poison into my ears right before the biggest show of my life. Maybe they were jealous that the new kid was eclipsing them.
I’m embarrassed I thought that, but those first wins can go to your head. More importantly, I couldn’t afford to have any self-doubt and fuck my game up before the show. So I hid behind overconfidence and arrogance.
On the big night, I got a ride to the Liacouras Center with Torrei. Def Jam said they didn’t have enough extra tickets for me to give to friends, but they had my name on the backstage list plus one, which was even cooler. I’d spent what remained of my savings on a rayon shirt, dress pants, and black patent-leather shoes, so I was feeling on top of the world.
When we arrived, I saw security guards outside with walkie-talkies and tons of people rushing around backstage. It wasn’t just a show; it was a well-oiled machine run by what must have been a hundred people. At every other show I’d been to, the comedians had almost no support. Maybe there’d be a host, who was usually also doing sound and lighting, and sometimes a separate DJ. But at the Liacouras Center, I couldn’t even imagine what jobs all those people could possibly be doing.
I walked through the corridor looking at the names posted on the doors: D. L. Hughley, Earthquake, A. J. Johnson. But there was no door for Lil’ Kev the Bastard. In fact, everyone was ignoring me. Torrei and I just wandered around lost backstage.
I started to get nervous. Did they know that I was supposed to open the show? What if they’d forgotten?
I finally found Bob Sumner in an office, where he was talking with three other people. He greeted me without enthusiasm, then introduced me to someone he identified as a production manager and told me to stay close to him. Torrei and I followed the production manager around, still ignored and feeling like we were in the way, until finally we arrived at a little area just to the side of the stage.
“All right, it’s showtime,” the production manager said.
I stood there, waiting to be announced.
“I said it’s showtime,” he repeated.
All the house lights were on. People were still arriving, getting drinks in the lobby, and finding their seats. The host hadn’t even come on stage to announce the show.
I was totally confused. “What? Isn’t someone supposed to announce me or something?”
“Just get out there and do your five minutes.”
Okay, no one was announcing me. At best, I was warming up the audience for the show’s host. At worst, the contest was just a promotional stunt to boost ticket sales, and now they were stuck with an amateur comedian who they had to put on stage without ruining the show. I hoped they’d at least turned the sound system on for me.
All the confidence I’d gained from winning the competition drained out of me, leaving a trail of sweat from the backstage area to the center of the stage.
“Hey, everyone,” I began. So many people in the audience were talking to each other and making noise that I couldn’t hear the sound of my own voice in the arena. I felt tiny and invisible.
I pushed forward with my set and worked my heart out, doing all the material that had gotten me there. Some folks were looking at the stage, but in the same way people at movie theaters look at the advertisements before the show. I could count on my hands the number of people who laughed that night.
“Thank you, Philly,” I ended. “I love you, Philadelphia.”
I heard a smattering of polite applause as I walked to the wings of the stage, dejected. No one said a word except Torrei, who gave me a pity pat. Everyone else was running around getting ready for the actual show to start. I felt like I would have gotten more laughs if I’d just stood on a car in the parking lot and done my set.
My big moment was over. As much as I wanted to go home and hide from the world, I didn’t want the moment to end; I didn’t know if I’d ever be back there again. So I asked the production manager if we could stay and see the rest of the show.
I stood on the side of the stage and watched each comic kill on a level I’d never witnessed before. They were so tight, authentic, and comfortable that even when they paused to breathe, they had the audience screaming with laughter. I’d never seen, up close and in person, comedy at that level of mastery and control before. Even Torrei was dying with laughter. I looked at her doubled up and thought, sadly, She doesn’t even laugh like that at me.
In that moment, I understood that I had been given the slot I deserved. I wasn’t good enough yet. In the small bubble of the Laff House and the Philly comedy scene, maybe I stood out. But it was like standing out in a high school play. It wasn’t the real world of entertainment. The stage I was on at these tiny clubs was the size of a subcompact parking space. This was a real venue, with a stage the size of a barn. I was a long way from being able to perform on this scale and at this level of professionalism, even as an opening act.
As humbled as I was, I knew one thing: I needed to somehow get from here to there.
I wanted to be as funny, natural, and polished as the headlining comedians there. I wanted to be as successful as them. I wanted to be playing on stages that big every night. I wanted to make as much money as they were probably making. And . . . I wanted to make my girlfriend laugh that hard.
Watching the Def Jam show from behind the scenes filled me with an ambition that I’d never felt before. It raised the ceiling on what I thought was possible and where this all could lead. As we walked out, I thought, I gotta get it together so I can be here one day.
For the first time, I didn’t just have a path I was excited to be on. I had a destination.
39
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STAYING TRUE TO MY FAN BASE