The progressively expanding artistic community of Ferndale is one that steadily rings with the clinking of pint glasses in any number of hip hangouts; and it's a city that often reverberates with the sound of clanging guitars and beating drums. But for the last few months, a new sound has been added into this mix: the sound of uproarious yucks. Or guffaws. Or how ever else you snort with laughter. And it emanates, of all places, from a remodeled Secretary of State office (not a destination known for inducing mirth) on East Nine Mile Road. This is the home of Go Comedy! Improv Theater.
As I walk into the theater for the first time, I'm skeptical – I've been burned by bad bar improv before, spending most of my time flagging down waiters and trying to lubricate the laughter out with liquor. This crew is going to have to bring their A-game in order to shake this chip from my shoulder. So I grab a Jack and Coke from the theater bar … just in case.
PJ Jacokes, 31, one of the clowns in charge of this comedy circus, describes Ferndale as "a really nice mixture of community and culture." He adds, "I just felt like this would be a really nice place where we could fit in. And from the earliest stages, the city's been very welcoming and very helpful with everything."
And this sense of community also extends itself into the smaller microcosm that is Go. Because not only is this cast of 40-some performers a group of good friends, but in true super-group fashion, they've come from the casts of Second City, Planet Ant and the now-defunct Improv Inferno from Ann Arbor to assemble into a veritable Voltron of comedy – gigantic robot battle still pending.
The focus at Go is almost purely improv. There's the occasional written show, like Sunday night's Timeless: The Dancical, and a sketch comedy show coming in March (entitled Missionary Accomplished: The Audacity of Hump – just try and tell me that title hasn't piqued your interest), but Go Comedy! mines nearly all of its nuggets of witty gold from the mountain named Improv.
"For a long time," says Jacokes, "there's been a wealth of talent and a void of anywhere to perform, so for us to have this stage that is specifically for improv, when there's so many improvisers in town, is refreshing. If you do improv at a Coffee Beanery on a Wednesday night there might be four people there to watch improv and then there's eight people working on a thesis that don't want to hear what you have to say."
But how, in a time when all you hear about are the nation's financial woes, and a person is most likely to get their giggles from ridiculous viral videos online, do you fill the 100 seats of an improv theater?
Hopefully the name is able to fulfill its purpose as a "not so subtly subliminal" call to action. "Come Comedy didn't quite have the ring that we wanted," Jacokes jokes.
Yeah … fair enough. But what of the recession? Well, as Jacokes points out, history has shown that in times of depression, theaters and bars generally continue to flourish. "And we've got both: a theater and a bar," says Jacokes. So is this place recession-proof? Jacokes pauses, considering and concluding, "I will not jinx myself by saying that out loud!"
With an empty Jack and Coke in my hand, I start perusing Go's drink menu … and it holds a few surprises. All the requisite beers and beverages are in place but what exactly is a Chai Hard With a Vengeance? And why does the Tart Raspberry Beret Martini make me feel like changing my name to a symbol? Then I stumble across the list of "dare shots," and a little masterpiece called the BLT grabs my attention. Composed of house bacon vodka, tomato juice and fresh juiced lettuce, apparently the BLT shot tastes like barbecue potato chips – I'm willing to take Jacoke's word for it. He adds, "You can get it with or without mayonnaise."
Show time saves me from the dare shot list, and I happily take my seat. This 100-seat theater, at the risk of sounding cheesy, is full of great energy. It's not dingy, it's open and accessible; intimate but far from cramped. And the crowd (which is fairly varied: composed of parties and couples, both young and old) is in high spirits before the show's even begun.
Tonight's show: the weekly All-Star Showdown, a Whose Line-style game show format competition between two teams of three improvisers that happens every Friday and Saturday night at 8 & 10 p.m. I've spotted Jaime Moyer, the funniest woman in Detroit, on one of the teams, so the imrov chip on my shoulder has already begun to lose a little bit of its grip.
Jacokes hosts tonight's show, rapidly choreographing the teams from one improv game to the next, utilizing the ideas offered up by the enthusiastic audience and incorporating only those people into the show who so volunteered themselves on a form filled out upon entry (which really does take the unwelcome pressure of involuntary participation out of the atmosphere – thank you for this!). Within minutes, the chip that sat resolutely upon my shoulder as I walked through the door less than an hour ago lies in pieces on the floor beneath my table. This is not only the funniest improv I've ever seen in my life, it's about the hardest I've ever laughed during a live performance.
As I leave, with cheeks so legitimately sore it makes it hard for me to smile as I congratulate the performers responsible for my facial fracturing, I acknowledge the fact that I will definitely be back. Jacokes wasn't kidding earlier when he told me "the people that come, come back. And it's starting to be people that I don't know, which is nice!"
Been a while since you've laughed like this? Here's one word of advice: Go!
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