Comedy at the Edge by Richard Zoglin

Standup comedy in New York has gone the way of everything else that was cool in the city in the 1970s: expensive, mainstream, and rigidly branded. But if you go to Comic Strip Live on the Upper East Side, on a Friday evening around 6, you see something different from the bland, two-drink-minimum efficiency of Caroline's in Times Square.

A pint-sized whirlwind of wry energy, simultaneously busting chops and betraying a motherly pride, Gladys introduces the lineup of unknown comedians waiting for their chances at the open mic. Dressed in a blazer and jeans, and in the spotlight glare against a brick backdrop, Gladys suggests these are young Dave Chappelles or Jerry Seinfelds--not just a ragtag assortment of stockbrokers, cab drivers, and real estate agents who want to turn funniness at parties into sitcom deals. There's nothing pretty or efficient about it. These guys, with lots of honing to do, are not likely to be on Comedy Central anytime soon. But there's an authenticity to it. With the rare joke that hits in the sparsely filled showroom, you feel a buzz of upward mobility--not the packaged, institutionalized mediocrity we've come to expect from these clubs.

That sense of raw potential is why I enjoyed reading Richard Zoglin's Comedy at the Edge: How Standup in the 1970s Changed America. It's basically a review of the major comedians who came of age in the 70s. After Lenny Bruce. Before "what's the deal with ____?" became a catchphrase. Guys like Carlin, Martin, and Pryor. And for someone who wasn't even born until these guys were safely into the sellout phases of their careers, it's good to get a glimpse of their edgier days.

The material itself isn't so novel, but the anecdotal nature makes it interesting. Each chapter goes in-depth with a comedian (except the cop-out chapter called "Women," which halfheartedly shouts out Joan Rivers, Lily Tomlin, and Elayne Boosler). Some are more interesting than others. For example, Richard Pryor's meltdowns are pretty well-known by now. Ditto Andy Kaufman's bone-deep wackiness. My favorite parts--by far--were the chapters on guys you don't really think of anymore as having been standups. Like Albert Brooks (always a favorite of mine). Has anyone else managed to be so funny while taking himself so freaking seriously? And I found myself mourning the also-ran career of Robert Klein, who I hadn't even known was a comedian before becoming one of those character actors who show up everywhere.

The problem with the book is that there's no cohesive timeline or structure. You don't really need a narrative thread here, but something to tie it all together besides "Hey, look, the 70s" would have been appreciated. But Zoglin is a snappy writer, and good at picking anecdotes, so the aimlessness is easy enough to forgive. If, however, in 30 years he decides to write a book about Dane Cook, I will be considerably less lenient.