No viral videos. No interviews. No recycled breaking news. No TV recaps. No ass-kissing. No bias. No mercy.
Just honest, unfiltered, long-form reviews written by professional, knowledgeable comedy critics.
He has always touted himself as the smartest guy in the room, pointing out the things no one else could see or had the guts to point out. But the ideas now aren’t very deep, and sometimes they are downright hostile to the idea of enlightenment.
Figuring out what makes Hamburger so magnetic is part of the masochistic fun. Is it his carnie inflection? His abusive, unpredictable rage and profanity? His spot-on critiques of consumer culture that have made him a must-follow on Twitter? Ultimately it’s all in service of the mood he creates.
It’s an amazing feat that the concept album benefiting OneKid OneWorld assembled such a diverse and wide-ranging roster of talent (Dick Cavett and Margaret Cho on the same track, anyone?)
With long hair and a scraggly beard, his aggressive comedic style is complemented by a distinctive look and an endearingly self-effacing presentation. But on his first album, something is lost in the transition to audio.
Kaplan proves himself more than just a linguist deft at manipulating meaning; he’s able to take common items and everyday thoughts and concoct alternative theories that spring from a grain or two of truth and are magnificent to behold simply for the logic in which they’re grounded.
Roy has earned his comparisons to noted ranters Lewis Black and David Cross, who like to rip limb-from-limb the same societal idiocies and personal failings, so it’s also satisfying to listen to Roy further differentiate on No Enlightenment.
The talent of 30-year-old New York comic Hari Kondabolu is undeniable: he’s cerebral, witty and occasionally daring. Waiting For 2042, however, is not as uniformly distinguished as its author.
Recorded in his hometown of Atlanta before a very energetic crowd, Me the Whole Time is everything a first album should be: packed with strong material from start to finish, filled with the type of memorable bits that will make people take notice and completely accessible to newcomers.
Kilgariff’s a fine singer, with a wavering, vulnerable voice that falls somewhere between coffee shop balladeer and demented children’s entertainer. Her saccharine delivery complements the murky timbre of her acoustic guitar and sells the jokes against the often bleak, angry lyrics.
Burnham is very self-aware, of his image as the nerdy theatre kid who was once picked on in school, and of someone for whom fame came quickly. And he uses all of that in his show.
He’s unapologetic about using voices, and he’s more than willing to detour around his material to play off the crowd. Those tactics make Scovel a unique talent, but it’s fair to say they might not make him the proper type of comic to record a one-off show.
