Jerrod Carmichael doesn’t get the first word in Rothaniel. “We waiting for you,” a woman pipes up from the audience as he settles in and acknowledges the applause. “I’m happy you’re here,” he responds. Then another person calls out. “You can talk back to me. I want you guys to feel that. This only works if we feel like family,” Carmichael asserts, dressed in a long-sleeved red polo reminiscent of Richard Pryor’s 1979 Live in Concert.
Rothaniel is Jerrod’s third special, filmed on a snowy night at the Blue Note Jazz club in New York City. The club has hosted artists like Sarah Vaughan and Dizzy Gillespie; Robert Glasper is a current main act. Where most comedy routines are written and rehearsed countless times before packaging the final presentation for distribution, Rothaniel feels like jazz. The performance does have prewritten bits and jokes, mostly up front as Jerrod outlines his family’s history with secrets and infidelity. It begins to lose form as he delves deeper into his experiences coming out as gay to his friends and family. As he says in the beginning, the crowd in the Blue Note is a part of that family. Their questions, observations, and affirmations shape the back half of the special.
The surreality of Rothaniel comes from the fact that Jerrod, effectively, comes out to the world on stage. You can sense his apprehension during the 6 seconds of pin-drop silence before the crowd begins to clap and cheer him on. “It means a lot. It means a lot and I’m accepting the love. I really appreciate the love,” Jerrod replies. There’s good jokes to be had in the course of the hour long conversation, and Jerrod Carmichael is talented and quick enough to find them. But Rothaniel isn’t that funny. The laughs begin to spread farther and farther apart among heavy contemplation of the difficulties and distance his identity has created between him and the people he holds nearest. At one point Jerrod apologizes for forcing a fake laugh. He’s chasing something else. “My whole life was shrouded in secrets, and I figured the only route I haven’t tried was the truth. So I’m saying everything. Here’s everything,” he announces to the hushed room.
It’s hard to think of a time where comedy was more controversial. Will Smith slapping Chris Rock at the Oscars over a G.I Jane joke punctuated years of exhausting debate on the subject. I’m not interested in debating the actuality of cancel culture; Louis C.K. just won a Grammy. Dave Chappelle decried his cancellation in almost all of his six Netflix specials, and was just contracted to host four more. What is interesting about the conversation is that the conflating of legal and financial repercussions, societal shunning, and internet criticism has driven many comedians to protest that comedy itself is “under attack”. The most recent cries are in response to the Oscars incident and the backlash to Joe Rogan’s use of racial slurs and misinformation on his podcast (Rock’s ticket prices are through the roof and Rogan’s Spotify deal was revealed to be $200 million dollars). Opinions poured in from all sides; you’ve already heard them. What the future of comedy boils down to is this: What is the role of the comedian? Philosopher? Activist? Habitual line stepper?
We’ve seen the center shift. Some of the most critically acclaimed comedy specials of the past few years have been projects like Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette and Bo Burnham’s Inside, which have won Emmy, Grammy, and Peabody Awards for breaking the format.
Gadsby came up as a stand-up comedian, and 2018’s Nanette was her crowning achievement. Most of the special is standard fare; “For a long time I knew more facts about unicorns than lesbians,” Gadsby jokes. “There are no facts about unicorns!” Nanette is fairly funny, when she wants it to be. But she doesn’t; as a matter of fact, the special is a proclamation that she is quitting comedy. “I’ve built a career off self-deprecating humor,” Gadsby declares. “Do you understand what self-deprecation means when it comes from somebody who already exists in the margins? It’s not humility. It’s humiliation.” She ends a strong section on Van Gogh and Picasso with a scolding of comedians for Monica Lewinsky jokes, suggesting they are to blame for Trump’s election. The theory is met with cheers, but not laughs. She goes on to recount in detail her traumatic, violent encounters with men growing up. It’s undeniably powerful. Its not funny at all. “This is theatre, fellas,” Gadsby concludes her sermon. She can’t find a way to tell her story with jokes. She just wants to be heard.
Burnham came up on YouTube, one of the platform’s earliest superstars. His brand of comedy is part folksy musician, part incelly internet troll, but, you know, in a clever satirical way. Following a 5 year break from comedy, Inside is a home video of the comedian losing his mind over quarantine. Interspersed with broad critiques of capitalism and parody songs about Instagram and Facetiming his mom, an increasingly haggard and spiraling Burnham struggles to produce the show alone amidst his suffering, confessing that severe panic attacks drove him away from live comedy. It’s unclear how much of the special is performative, but the performance is not in pursuit of laughter. “Is comedy over? Should I leave you alone, ’cause really who’s gonna go for joking at a time like this?”, Burnham sings at his keyboard. Inside is transformative. Its not funny at all.
“Traditional” stand-up isn’t extinct, of course, but only makes headlines over controversy; the most notorious transgressor (pun very much intended) being Dave Chappelle. Of the 25 specials released on Netflix in 2021, none were more discussed than Chappelle’s The Closer. This could be attributed to his level of fame, but recent specials from the likes of Aziz Ansari, Kevin Hart, and Jerry Seinfeld have barely made waves in comparison. The Closer spends its entire runtime reigniting Chappelle’s various internet feuds, often at the expense of the jokes themselves. When such an act is held as the defining work of the traditional genre, it’s not surprising that many feel we have no need for it.
“If I was doing a modern day comedy special; you know those ones, where it’s like more of a Ted Talk? Your friend asks you like, ‘Hey how was that comedy special? Was it funny?’ And you’re like, ‘It was… important,’” says comedian Moses Storm in his 2022 HBO special Trash White. “I do not want to do that.” The set is written around his history growing up in poverty, and how that fear and instability cripples your ability to escape it. It’s also really funny. That’s it – the role of the comedian is just to be funny. Humor changes over time, everyone draws the line somewhere different, and what may kill on stage one night may get you slapped the next. But. Just. Be. Funny.
Does that make Nanette and Inside not comedy? Perhaps. Neal Brennan, a veteran stand-up who co-created Chappelle’s Show, deconstructed the branching evolution of the medium in his 2017 Netflix special Three Mics. One of the titular three microphones was dedicated to one-liner jokes, one to traditional stand-up, and one to unpacking his depression and family trauma. Just because they’re different doesn’t mean many people didn’t find value in each. Following Nanette‘s success, Gadsby didn’t end up quitting comedy. Her second Netflix special Douglas released in 2020. Burnham directed Rothaniel, his first project since Inside.
Even the final punchline of Rothaniel isn’t kept private; it’s the title of the show. “I want to talk about secrets,” Carmichael began on that snowy night in the Blue Note. “I carried a lot of secrets. I feel like I was birthed into them. One of my biggest – one of my last held secrets – is my name. My name is not Jerrod. Welcome to the show everybody.” The show is phenomenal; unlike anything we’ve seen before. Is it the future of comedy? Yeah, probably. So is Nanette, Inside, The Closer, Three Mics, Trash White, and everything else, like it or not. Despite what trends on social media or wins during award season, you don’t just have to choose between important-but-unfunny and offensive-but-jokes. The lines between stand-up, improv, spoken word, Ted Talks, and fever dream ramblings are blurring, and new art is forming in their intersections. Find what you like. Laugh off the rest.
Here are a few other stand-up specials I enjoyed recently:
RISHI RAJAGOPALAN 
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