Last month, Dr Michael Jensen, the rector at St Mark’s Anglican church, wrote an opinion piece for the ABC in which he decried the “self-righteous prophets of liberal pieties”.
“Is it just me,” he began, “or have the comics of Australia turned into preachers, moralisers and puritanical do-gooders, whose mission in life is not to make us laugh but to tell us what to think?”
In some respects, he’s right. Comedians do tend to be politically liberal, as shown by the Herald Sun report that “Cory Bernardi, Malcolm Turnbull and Tony Abbott [are] the hot targets” of the Melbourne international comedy festival, which runs until 17 April. Liberal feminism, immigration and the fights for marriage equality and transgender rights are issues that loom large on the Australian progressive consciousness today – so it’s no surprise that these topics also dominate the program.
But Jensen’s argument overlooks a key point: only bad comedians come across as preaching.
Setting politics aside, and looking at each show as a window into another person’s world, it’s hard to think of a medium with more potential to increase tolerance, to facilitate empathy and to change attitudes than comedy – the medicine’s hidden in the sugar.
For every hour of straight white men communicating their ambivalence about airplane food – or, you know, women – there’s a show holding up a mirror to society and finding it cracked. We caught three of them.
Nazeem Hussain, Hussain in the Membrane
Easing into his hour-long show at Melbourne’s Acmi on Thursday night, Nazeem Hussain asks a couple in the front row how they met. “Through family,” comes the reply.
Hussain reads between the lines faster than anyone else in the room. “You’re not a biodata couple, are you?” he asks.
Many in his audience have no idea what he’s talking about, so Hussain explains that some relationships are formed in south-Asian communities after the exchange of “dating CVs”.
“It’s like Tinder, except your parents do the swiping for you,” he says. “I see there are some white people looking confused.”
You’ve got to assume that Hussain’s show does not open most nights with such a striking illustration of cultural difference, with an arranged couple sitting right there in the front row. When Hussain in the Membrane begins in earnest – with a bit about white people’s universal affection for dogs – the culture shock is taken down a notch.
But you’ve got to start with the small stuff. Hussain has told Guardian Australia that the success of his show depends on “the ratio of brown to white people” in the audience: as both cop their share of ribbing, both need to see the other laughing before the ball gets rolling.
In a show about racial identity, how gags land depends on the perspective of each audience member. His retelling of his mother’s somewhat embellished “migrant story” smacks to me of a generational difference, à la Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen sketch; others’ point of reference would have been far closer to home, if not sitting next to them.
Hussain returns to this theme of being “othered” again and again, good-humouredly but with bite. His description of how his broad ‘Strayan accent is received in Sri Lanka, where he otherwise feels at home, is particularly effective: picture a white Australian who speaks with a thick Sri Lankan accent, coming home to Melbourne to reconnect with his roots.
But Hussain is at his strongest on the “love it or leave it” catch cry of the far-right and the virulent opposition to the Bendigo mosque – which, when narrated by the comic, remind us just how ridiculous racism can be if you can afford to laugh at it.
Axis of Awesome, Won’t Ever Not Stop Giving Up
Of course, thoroughgoing racists – those for whom an application for planning approval for a mosque represents an “invasion” – are probably not going to go to Hussain’s show.
For every pocket of society that understands and accepts the full spectrum of identity, there are more that have either no interest or impetus to learn.
Julia Baird wrote in Saturday’s Age that it was not the job of those who have lived experience of marginalisation to educate others who don’t. But how do you bridge the gap? Her suggestion for countering transphobia in particular was that we “must be able to say stupid things and ask stupid questions”.
My suggestion is that everyone see Axis of Awesome’s new show.
The three-piece – Lee Naimo on guitar, Benny Davis on keyboard and Jordan Raskopoulos on lead vocals – does big, dumb, fun musical comedy. An octopus loses a leg with hilarious results; the “I’m more than a bird / I’m more than a plane” refrain from Five for Fighting’s Superman yields to an enormously silly pronouncement. It’s easy, accessible and inclusive stuff, which for the most part doesn’t step on toes.
But it does push the audience to think a little harder. The group has been together a decade but Won’t Ever Not Stop Giving Up is their first show since Raskopoulous’ announcement that she is a transgender woman. At the time, she made it clear that it would not affect her work with the Axis – and if there are any who doubt that in the rowdy crowd at Max Watt’s, Axis of Awesome swiftly, smartly shut them down.
Shortly after taking the stage, Raskopoulous acknowledges that, yes, there has been a drastic change to the band and that it’s probably best to get it over with and straight-up acknowledge “the elephant in the room”.
We won’t spoil the punchline but the audience loves it – one man is literally doubled over laughing, a physical shape that I realised I had only read about before tonight. Not only is it a genuinely funny way to undercut a loaded moment but it’s a straightforward and effective vehicle for some gentle Trans 101.
Then it’s on with the show, with parodies of Will Smith, Johnny Cash and the earnest, reverb-heavy modern rock peddled by OneRepublic and Bastille – as well as off-kilter originals about Kentucky Fried Chicken and buckets.
With his fawning interjections of “you go, girl!”, Naimo’s again the butt of a recurring gag about earnest but patronising responses to Raskopolous’ coming out – but, apart from that, it’s barely referenced.
The message is clear: there’s no reason to expect any different from Axis. And perhaps that’s the most powerful statement of all.
Sara Pascoe, Animal
If Sara Pascoe were prime minister of the United Kingdom, the first thing she’d do would be to cut the defence budget and make nurses – all of them – “sultan of Brunei-rich”. But that presents its own problems, as she goes on to explore in a rare show of empathy for politicians and the tough decisions and trade-offs they have to make. How do you start trying to make the world a better place?
The Lewisham stand-up is a regular at the Melbourne festival with her mile a minute, intellectually rigorous shows, which are oddly educational in their reflection of her interests: her last was described as “as much lecture on sexual anthropology as it is comedy set”.
Animal, billed as an exploration of the limits of empathy, continues in this vein, fuelled by her insatiable curiosity and quick wit. At times it risks crossing the line from educational to lecturing, as she seems well aware: “I’m a fun lady!” she says, in a tone to indicate the opposite.
But it’s hard to argue that her flare-ups aren’t justified. Early on in Friday’s show, she shuts down an audience member who, in a misguided attempt to go toe-for-toe with her, pretends the man he’s sitting next to is his lover.
You’ve got to assume that either he knew nothing of Pascoe’s comedy, or he was in the wrong room. She sternly calls him out for “making everyone uncomfortable”, before cutting the interaction short with a neat rejoinder: “This is why I don’t do crowd work.”
Pascoe’s sly, mile-a-minute mind means her audience has to keep up but the pay-offs are worth the effort. In fact Animal is at its weakest when Pascoe’s sweating the small stuff, with standard comedy gear. Not because it isn’t funny but she’s got such a sharp intellect that you want to see it flexed to its limits.
“I’m going to say something that makes me sound like a seven-year-old,” she says. The following statement – there should never be any wars, in any circumstances – is almost devastating in its simplicity. You wonder: why is that funny?
In an hour, Pascoe makes demands of the world around her – why can’t it be better? Why is that too much to ask? – and leads her audience to do the same.
- The Melbourne international comedy festival runs until 17 April
