I'm NOTHING without Boston and without those comedians, all of whose names I hope you google after you read this.
There are two names that are vital to this story which I've so far left out. Barry Crimmins and Kevin Meaney. They were two guys from upstate New York who came to Boston and, among other guys, were the ones who made all of this happen. I don't know the whole story, or even most of it, because I was in Junior High when it happened, but Barry, Kevin, a guy named Mike MacDonald, and a bunch of the guys on the top list of this email, started the Boston Comedy scene about eight years before I dropped into it, in a tiny Chinese restaurant in Inman square called the Ding Ho. They did shows there every night and there was always a line around the block. By the time I started, the Ding Ho had closed down, (the owner had gambling debts) but the scene had exploded into what I discovered.
[...]
Kevin Meaney is someone you may have heard of. You also may have heard that he died on Friday. He was 60. Kevin was the gravity that pulled me into the scene.
Kevin was the most naturally funny comedian I ever saw. Every word he said was insanely hilarious. He had a funny voice, face and rhythm to his speech. But he had a childish courage that was goddamn inspiring. Whenever Kevin would bomb, and sometimes he would, he would start to sing a song "I don't care! I don't care! My jokes don't go over I don't care! I don't care! I don't care! IIII DOOON'T CAAARE!" I don't care! I don't care!" and he would sing this song, in Ethyl Mirman's voice, for sometimes 30 minutes. The crowd would be FURIOUS. I and any other comedian in the room would be literally on the floor, laughing, crying, gasping for air.
Kevin had a surge of fame right around the time that I met him in the mid 80s. He was given a shot on Letterman and it went so well that Johnny Carson demanded he come on his show and do the exact same set. I remember being at Play it Again Sams. We shut the showroom down and pretty much every comedian in Boston packed into the back bar to watch Kevin on Carson on a tiny TV that hung over the bar. We were so proud of him. Later he was on SNL and had his own show (Uncle Buck), and the whole country fell in love with his standup like I did. So he was also an example of what you could accomplish if you worked as hard as he did and were as wonderfully original and great.
Barry and Kevin were very close friends. They worked at the Ding Ho together. They built and shaped the Boston scene together.
I loved every comedian in Boston. I really did. I still do. But Barry, for me, created the idea that comedy could be great and mean something. And Kevin used to hurt my stomach and he made me believe there was NOTHING you couldn't do on stage if you have the SKILL. He was outrageous and obnoxious stupid and childish and it all worked because he was blindingly good and musical and smooth and perfect and joyful in every show he did.
Where Barry taught us that there was a smart, profound integrity to be mined in comedy - that you could speak truth and be funny. That Standup was an art, that it was a form of literature and political and social insurgence and still be just goddamn funnny and sound like that guy you love listening to at the end of the bar you go to after work.
Kevin taught us that you can reach down into your very babyhood and just be as silly and insane as you want, that you can smash the structure and just talk like your mother and sing Wayne Newton and scream and sing and if you carry that off with confidence and skill, the audience will follow you everywhere.
Another thing I learned from Barry and an element he brings to comedy that is very rare. This is important:
A lot of comedy is a defense. A shield or an arrow shot by a wounded person into a cruel world. A lot of comedy is about not giving a shit. Or trying not to. Or acting like things don't hurt. Or like it doesn't matter that it hurts when it does.
In Barry's very face as he talks you can see that life hurts. And that he's acutely aware of human suffering. Of lies and pain. And that it matters to him. He is angry because he loves human beings. And he gives you all of his feelings in all of his vulnerability even as he survives and laughs and makes us laugh.
So... it was really these two guys, Barry and Kevin, who shaped me as the comedian I am today and who gave me the opportunity to work at it and do it for myself. And I am ETERNALLY grateful to have gotten to call them both my friends. One of them I lost on Friday. The other one, I bring to you here.
I learned that Kevin died when I wrote Barry to ask him for some bio information that I could use to write this email to introduce his special. He wrote me back...
"No easy way to say this but I just received word that Kevin Meaney died, apparently of a heart attack. I will get to this ASAP but I just learned of this five minutes ago and he was one of my dearest, dearest friends and I'm pretty fucked up at the moment."
I was shocked and heartbroken. Yesterday, Barry and I discussed delaying the premiere of his special, which has been scheduled for today for a while. We struggled with what to do. Obviously, we decided to release it on schedule. The deciding factor was that Barry told me that Kevin, who he talked to frequently, was very excited to have this come out. He was excited for Barry and for people to finally see his friend in all his glory.
I'm also not regretful to have this opportunity, though it's messy in timing, to tell you how I feel about my friend and mentor who is gone at the same time I can tell you how I feel about my friend and mentor who lives on and to bring you his work and his voice and his greatness.
Goodbye Kevin.
