MEMOIR OF GEORGE CARLIN

Comedian and fellow nerd Rob Paravonian remembers the comedy legend.

Over the past year, I had the great fortune to open for George Carlin in several venues across the country, and this has easily been the biggest thrill of my career so far. And, though I knew I was in the presence of a comedy legend, I felt really comfortable with him backstage, because he had such a laid-back demeanor. He and his support group never gave off the slightest air of pretension or conceit. I hope that by sharing my few but treasured memories from my experience working with Carlin, I can, in a small way, add to the memory and celebration of one of the world’s greatest comedians.

George Carlin was a comedian who, quite literally, needed no introduction.

Every night on the tour, I did a 30-minute set for the opening act, followed by a 15-minute intermission to give people a chance to buy a drink, have a smoke, or buy a t-shirt. When the lights went down for Carlin’s set, the audience buzzed, and a simple introduction sounded over the house speakers: “Ladies and Gentlemen, George Carlin!” Then the house erupted, often into a standing ovation. His mere name and entrance was enough to get a reaction bigger than most comics get at the end of their shows. It was an exhilarating first-hand example of what the man has earned over the years.

The best thing was, he didn’t stand on stage and soak up the adulation; he grabbed the mic and launched into his set. His new set. His new hour of material from his 14th HBO special.

One of my favorite moments from all of the shows I did with Carlin was at Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut, where there wasn’t any intermission – thanks to every casino’s policy of keeping people on the gambling floor as long as possible. As I walked off the stage, Carlin was standing in the wings, waiting to be introduced. He usually asked me how the crowd was and what they were like, so as I walked off I kind of shrugged, as if to say, “They’re o.k.” The crowd had been good, but not as over-the-top exuberant as they usually were for a Carlin show, so even though I had done well, there was less response than usual.

Carlin leaned in to me and said, “Don’t worry about them, it’s a casino crowd.”

I wanted to explain that they were o.k., just not great – but mostly I wanted to say that it was them and not me. I couldn’t bear it if he thought I tanked. But before I could make my point, he asked me if I had ever heard a jazz bass/monologue piece called “Failure.”

“I think you would like it, it’s a really smart piece set to music, your Pachelbel bit reminds me of it,” he said, while everyone backstage was looking at him, waiting to introduce him to the sold-out crowd. I told him I hadn’t heard of the piece, and he said, “Give me your address, I’ll send you a copy.”

In that moment I felt like the coolest person on the planet – 1,500 people are waiting to see George Carlin and the two of us are talking shop.

The next night’s show was at the Wang Theater in downtown Boston, the Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day, which apparently is some sort of religious holiday there. The crowd was over 3,000 people strong, and I performed one of the best sets of my life. As soon as I got to my dressing room under the stage, Carlin stuck his head in and said, “A lot better than last night, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s a great crowd,” I said, aw-shucksing my Midwestern humility to the hilt.

“You were rushing a little last night, I could tell. I was too. You gotta do it for those casino shows, just get through it.”

I couldn’t believe I was actually commiserating with a legend. George Carlin acknowledging the fact that I was in the same business as him was a bigger rush than the career set I had just had in front of 3,000 people.

That moment, to me, explains a lot about the man. Carlin at 71 was, above all, a comic, and that’s what impressed me the most. With the amount of success, visibility, and recognition he had earned, he could easily have set up shop in Vegas and made a fine living doing concerts of his greatest hits. Instead, he chose to work on all new material, fine-tuning it to the point where it’s not only funny but also says something.

Sadly enough, or perfectly enough, a lot of his recent material is about death and the euphemisms we employ to deal with it. It’s a great final bit of material, a practical joke on those of us dealing with his passing. We can’t use the usual bullshit we use when talking about a death, things like “We lost him,” “I’m keeping you in my thoughts,” or “He’s up there now smiling down on us.” We have to get past the superficial customs that keep us from actually thinking, we have to get to something real, which, incidentally, had been a Carlin theme for most of his career.

Working with Carlin was an honor and a thrill. It was an experience the likes of which will never happen again; I’m sure of that, because there’s just no one else like him.

Rob Paravonian