Why laughter is not a perfect way of measuring the success of a comedian

From the stage at Towersey Festival, the planes fly. I have three helpers, Islay, Trystan and Eleanor (I am guessing five, seven and 34 years old). When I finish reading a poem, I hand them paper copies and they fold them up with great care and they are propelled through the air into the audience. At the end of the show, I am surprised by the joyous reaction. It is harder to judge a successful gig in the moment. 

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When I was predominantly meant to be a comedian, there was a sense of success based on the volume of laughter. Even then, the paranoia of the performer could psychosomatically dull the noise of laughter and amplify any possibility of derision. 

But laughter is not a perfect way of judging the effect of a comic. Thirty-one years ago, I watched a night of comedy at a club. One comic got big laughs throughout with some straight-down-the-line gags and another, Stewart Lee, received a more muted, but nevertheless respectful response.

In the bar afterwards, no one was talking about the comic who had generated the most laughter. They were all talking about Lee. Still an unknown comic then, he had fascinated and intrigued the audience. 

As the comedy circuit became bigger and bigger business, being risk averse could seem like the correct financial decision. 

There was a risk of stagnation, but fortunately, there will always be enough performers who do it because they must. This year’s Edinburgh Fringe saw plenty of fabulous creativity. Caitriona Dowden creating a cult inspired by her fascination with nuns; Marjolein Robertson talking about blood, much of it her own; Hannah Platt on her self-awareness. Shows that are both funny and about something. Shows that will stick with you. Ideas that will not be easy to brush off. Off course, they are not for everyone, but what is?

• Robin Ince: ‘Living in a society where clickbait fuels paranoia, we can fear connection’
• Robin Ince: As a stand-up comedian, it’s best to not know what you’re doing

Every few years, the funniest joke in the world is revealed by some psychological research paper and it is always one of dull punning and maximum tedium. A joke that tells you nothing and doesn’t excite thoughts. 

I used to stand on stage with a voice that was constantly telling me I was on the cusp of failure. I used to try and follow the rules whatever they were.

I wanted to be a proper comedian but always felt like an imposter. Now I don’t care. This doesn’t mean I don’t care about the audience. I am far from ambivalent about them. I really want them to be enthused and delighted, but I have realised that “the rules” should not bind me. Most importantly, I don’t fear sincerity any more.

Performers can have a knack of hiding behind the phrase “a joke’s a joke. My words don’t mean anything.” We often grow up in an environment, especially the school yard, where we are taught to conceal what we love for fear someone will see that as a weapon to use against us. Sadly, I see people of my age and beyond still moulded by the playground rules, still hiding behind banter. 

On that stage in Towersey, I felt no definite in how my show was going, but I felt no fear in just expressing what was in my mind at any given moment, sometimes funny, sometimes a little sad. At one point, I noticed the red dusk visible at the back of the tent and we all turned to appreciate the vividness of it. 

As the last plane flew and I finished my final poem, I could see we had connected. Afterwards, people came up to me and said they had no idea what to expect because they had never seen me before. If they don’t know what they are going to get, why should I presume I must give them some fixed product passed by the entertainment council as “licensed to entertain”?

There is something very exciting about all of us not quite knowing what is going on but being open to the ride and its unexpected turns. 

At the end of the night, I drank rhubarb cider with my friend Gavin and waited for the autumn. 

Robin Ince is a comedian, writer and broadcaster. His book Bibliomaniac (Atlantic Books, £10.99) is out now. You can buy it from The Big Issue shop on Bookshop.org, which helps to support The Big Issue and independent bookshops.

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