Dave Fulton's "Based On A True Story"

Dave Fulton is a comedian who, similar to the likes of Bill Hicks, has an air about him that sounds constantly disgruntled and annoyed. It’s not part of his shtick, it’s just how he comes across (at least to me), even when he’s not disgruntled or annoyed, and it made it a little harder for me to get into the proceedings. That’s probably part of the reason why - comedy blasphemy, I know - I’ve never been much of a Hicks fan. Fulton, on the other hand, fares a little better (again, at least to me) and although I didn’t find myself laughing nearly as much as the live audience at the recording of “Based On A True Story” (they genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves and you can’t take that away from Fulton), there were some tracks that stood out to me as great bits.

Originally from the Midwest (which means he pronounces the president’s name “brocka-bamuh”), Fulton has lived in London for 10 years and has brought back with him reports of his adventures abroad. Life in the U.K. has taught him that folks overseas drive crazier, drink harder, and...well...drive crazier and drink harder. Residing abroad has also instilled in him a sincere and true hatred for Canadians (or, as he calls them, Mexicans with sweaters). 

There are a lot of things in life that have caused Fulton to become a bit jaded, and for good reason. After hearing how Medicaid screwed him over for life you can’t really blame him for being a bit bitter toward the program and being hit by a car while driving a motorcycle tends to make one wary of the London streets. Often times, though, the focus seemed to be more on the actual venting that comes with the relaying of events that unfolded rather than finding the humor therein. As a result, I spent the majority of the tracks listening without really laughing, feeling like I had been trapped by the guy at the party who’s had a few too many and needs to get some things off of his chest to whomever happens to be within earshot.

That being said, there are a couple of tracks I truly enjoyed, both of which appear in the second half of the CD. One of them is the tale of an Irish friend of Fulton who, as a child, was commanded by an elder to drown a bag of kittens. Yes, I know how horrible it sounds in black and white, but when Fulton explains how the Irish accent makes the story humorous, you can’t deny he has a point. The standout track recalls the time Fulton and his pals, coked up and ready for action, decided to install a peephole in the front door. It’s 12 minutes of great storytelling and really showcases Fulton at his best.

I’ll be the first to admit this album as a whole didn’t strike me like it did many others and it’s very likely I’m in the minority with my ho-hum reaction. I can recommend the “Ireland” and “Subsidizing My Career” tracks and encourage you to check them out. If you like them, go ahead and take the rest of the album for a spin. If not, that’s OK, too. 

Pete Holmes's "Nice Try, The Devil"

Even though we’ve never met, I feel like Pete Holmes is an old college buddy. Every time I hear he’s coming back into town (or, in this case, releasing a new CD), I get excited. I always have a good time hanging out with him, he makes me laugh, and his friendly good-guy vibe is nice to be around. Each time he visits he has a new weapon in his arsenal of “Pierce!!!” gags and even though Holmes himself admits they are stupid, they still crack me up. They’re so ridiculous, in fact, they crack Holmes up as well and it’s fun to watch him snicker at his own utter silliness.

“Nice Try, The Devil” is no different and another fun visit with the guy who likes to point out that we are indeed having fun (His declaration that something is “McDonald’s” is quite infectious and my friends and I have already begin throwing it at each other). Holmes has a wholesome quality about him that is inviting and welcoming. Perhaps it’s his “aw-shucks” approach to life or his overwhelming fear of The Rapture that has held over from his childhood. Because he is self-aware and realizes how comes across, he's able to squeeze some nice observations from it (most notably this being the only one of many alternate realities where he’s not a youth pastor).

Holmes has given us a thoroughly enjoyable CD that is packed with 57 minutes of solid laughter. The first time he mentions the show is coming to an end (I say “the first time” because after he makes this statement, there are still three more tracks to come), my inner comedy lover screamed “Noooo!” I wanted more. And I got it. The second time he hints that we’re almost done, I got sad again. And greedy. Yes, I wanted more and I got it but now that I got it, I wanted more more. And there is. Holmes generously continues serving up one hilarious anecdote (or group butt-clench) after another. 

You never know what Holmes is going to throw at you, so it’s best to expect anything. And everything. Breast milk? Check. The most off-key greeting at the pearly gates you'll ever hear? Got it. An amazing cake-baking/safe sex metaphor? Yup. Even when I didn’t get the reference, I got the joke. For example, although I had no idea which character from Street Fighter Haggar is (At first I kept picturing the viking from the Sunday comics), I was still able to keep up with and follow Holmes’s hilarious “what if video game characters went to the doctor” bit. 

When Holmes actually does wrap things up, he does so with the amazing story of his encounter with a telemarketer. It’s a great capper to an already-great set and yes...it made me want more (Don’t worry. If you spring for the CD/DVD combo package of this release, you’ll get it). The man in the audience during an awkward pause summed it all up best. This album is McDonald’s.

Dylan Brody's "Writ Large"

Dylan Brody is a humorist, not a stand-up comic. There is a difference between the two, as Brody explains on his new project, “Writ Large.” Mostly cuff links.

Brody doesn’t stand in front of a brick wall (well, maybe sometimes he does) spouting one-liners about his outrageous wife, his can-you-believe-this-guy boss, the female gender as a collective, or hurling good-humored racial insults at the crowd before him. Instead, he tells stories about life. Insightful, well-written (and well-spoken aloud), and reflective, Brody uses humor to enhance his tales like a chef uses a spice to season a dish and take it to the next level. 

If you’ve followed my writings for long, you know I’ve loved Brody’s work since the first time I had the pleasure to listen and review. Everything he’s done has struck a chord with me and this time around did not disappoint. He is someone with whom I’d like to sit down and share a pourover, mostly because I want to hear him tell more stories. (To be completely transparent, I also wouldn’t want to sit down with him and chat. He is so eloquent and well-spoken, even when he’s speaking off-the-cuff, I fear he would walk away from our conversation muttering, “Does that guy know about anything besides Muppets and Weird Al Yankovic?”)

Brody has a kind heart and, like myself, shares a romantic view of the world. When he is touched by something, he doesn’t want to merely tell you it touched him. He wants you to be touched by it as well. To say he succeeds is an understatement. 

When I listen to music, there are usually two different ways I take it in. The first is just to be used as noise, something to fill the silence in the background as I go about my daily routine. The second, though, is when I’m going for a specific mood or tone. When I’m sitting down to read or enjoy some coffee I’ll usually go for something like Miles Davis or Regina Spektor. On Friday afternoons when I want to just sing along and celebrate the weekend’s arrival, I’ll throw on the Billboard 1991 collection or my wife’s latest Pitbull-filled Zumba compilation.

Brody is my Miles Davis of spoken word. 

His comedy sets a specific tone and it’s perfect for those times you want to just kick back and hear a good story. On a recent road trip to Nashville I put on this album and my wife and I found it to be a perfect third companion. Together we smiled, laughed, chuckled, listened, savored, and “awww”-ed. We allowed Brody to transport us to the street outside of his Tae Kwan Do studio as he - and some local street “toughs” - learned a life lesson. We eavesdropped on Brody’s conversation with a sweet and kindly octogenarian at the 50th wedding anniversary celebration of his wife’s parents and we were both equally enraged at a couple of idiots in the crowd at the CD recording who laughed at a moment that was clearly not designed to be funny, but sentimental and sweet (I could go on about this if I let myself. It was a reaction so uncalled for, Brody was forced to pause and register it was actually happening. I’m glad he left it in though, if for no other reason than our visceral reaction showed me how much we connected with Brody and his process).

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I fell in love with this project. I have a man-crush on a CD and I’m not ashamed to say it. Brody makes me want to be a better writer. His humor makes me actively seek out the higher road of reacting to things in my own world and his way of savoring life’s little details makes me want to seek them out in my own. 

Tom Shillue's "In Defense of Bullying"

If you like comedy done via storytelling, then the new album from Tom Shillue, “In Defense of Bullying,” is for you. It’s a great example of how to spin a yarn, keep it interesting and relatable, and get some big laughs at the same time. Over the past few months as Shillue has been rolling out his “12 in 12” series, he has shown just how good he is at the long-form approach, proving that good comedy doesn’t have to be a series of foul-mouthed one-liners and offensive insults hurled at the audience. Shillue has taken a page from the Bill Cosby Book of Comedy and instead recounts one childhood adventure after another. There’s no need to come up with silly made-up scenarios and “what if” situations when you have such a rich arsenal of experience from which to draw. Being inducted into The Crap Club, turning in vocabulary assignments that one could only get away with in a pre-9/11 society, and constructing a rumpus room from a failed go-cart are all examples of firsthand accounts that are too good to not share.

Each album in Shillue’s year-long experiment has a theme and this time around, as the title alludes to, it is his theory that bullying isn’t such a bad thing. I tend to agree with Shillue that bullying is a vaccine for life and when he explains that he’s a little tired of how bullying has become such a buzz word, I couldn’t help but agree. That being said, the album isn’t about what side of the issue Shillue stands on; it’s about his experiences growing up that were a result of being bullied (or, in some cases, bullying the bully). 

Shillue didn’t grow up with play dates in the park but instead had...The Woods. He learned firsthand that sometimes the best way to confront a bully is to get in the first punch. He also learned the worst way to confront a bully is to not run away after you’ve sucker-punched him. Shillue had to navigate the perils of Boy Scout camp on his own and although his instincts led him astray when it came to whether or not he should bring along his Pillsbury Doughboy doll, they definitely saved the day when it came to his reaction upon the other scouts’ encounter with the toy. The moral of the story, of course, is “Laughter at Boy Scout camp can only mean one thing: Someone is being victimized.”

There is a nice feeling that permeates each of Shillue’s tales of triumph and adventure that gives the entire album a sense of nostalgia. Even though I wasn’t there to experience the Armour Hot Dogs jingle (Yep, those are the real lyrics. I YouTube’d it), the pillow fights with girls in a strange, hot room, or the wonder and majesty of the aforementioned ill-fated Ruggy Buggy, Shillue is able to make me feel like I was. It’s nice, and I’m looking forward to his next installment. It reminds me of the old Steven Wright joke: “I like to reminisce with people I don’t know.” When it comes to Shillue, there’s no one I don’t know with whom I’d rather reminisce.

Trevor Moore's "Drunk Texts To Myself"

The more I listen to “Drunk Texts To Myself,” the new album from Trevor Moore, the more I like it. That’s saying something because the first time I listened I really liked it. A lot. There’s something here for everyone. In fact, there’s more than enough here for everyone. The ten songs on the album span a vast array of musical styles and Moore has mastered each of them. Hip hop and rap? Check. Dub step? Check. Metal, gospel, and country? Yep, yep, and yep.

“Drunk Texts” not only shows off Moore’s ability to make you laugh, it also showcases how good he is at composing a song (along with some help from The Elegant Too). You aren’t just laughing, you’re laughing and you’re not just listening to music...you’re genuinely getting into the songs. True enough, they’re songs about the founding fathers as straight-up gangsters (Imagine Jesse Pinkman as your American History teacher), foreskins, and the troubled heart of a bear, but still...this is good stuff.

On paper it might just sound like your average comedy touchstone being done for the millionth time, but when you consider the whole trouble with the Catholic church in rap form as written from the point of view as the Pope himself, you can’t help but feel like this is new ground:

“Mm, Look at the ass on him/he’s got a face that’s an 8 but an age of 10  

If a priest gets fresh and a complaint comes in/ Switch him to another city then game on again.”

The true inspired genius about Moore’s comedy is the way each song is approached. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a fan of country music (and that’s putting it lightly). After listening to “What About Mouthwash,” a song performed in the bass-iest good ol’ boy bass Moore can muster, I couldn’t help but do a little analysis. The song laments the fact that it’s Sunday and the local liquor store is closed so it’s time to stock up on mouthwash, glue, cough syrup, and Sherwin-Williams. If a song about getting drunk at any cost doesn’t make for a good country song, then I don’t know what does. In fact, to me, that’s what every country song is about: Let’s get drunk. Pick-up truck. More about being drunk.

And that’s when it hit me. 

Perhaps I’m reading more into things than Moore intended (See? Turns out I did learn something from my 9th-grade English teacher after all), but it seems that every song was written from the point of view of someone who doesn’t like whatever genre is being tackled. To a country music hater, all country music is about getting drunk. To those who aren’t into metal (Hi, mom!), all metal songs are about moms being bitches and flipping them off when they’re not looking. And there are so many We Are The World-style protest songs, they all seem to run together and end up being about - or against - everything in the world.

It’s brilliant, really, and Moore should be commended for being more than a writer of silly songs but a writer of silly songs with layers. In the first couple of minutes of “Help Me,” the target seemed obvious. Skewering Bieber-esque teen pop is nothing new but when Moore makes his appearance as the overbearing record label exec horning in on the fun, I couldn’t help but think of Patrice Wilson, the producer behind such train wrecks as Rebecca Black’s “Friday” and the even-worse Thanksgiving song who is a more than deserving target. Things just got real.

Another highlight comes on the title track as Moore reads off various random drunk texts that make no sense only to have them sung back to him (and commented on) by the always-hilarious Reggie Watts. It’s proof that not only can't Watts not make me laugh out loud, but when presented with an already-fun premise he takes it to the next level and beyond.

This CD is extremely foot-tappingly enjoyable and I must admit it also taught me a few things: 

1. Before now I never knew how much Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln hated the fourth guy on Mount Rushmore (Calvin Coolidge, right?).
2. I had no idea something like a metzitzah b'peh existed (My Jewish friends have been holding out on me).
3. Man, that Tom Hanks is an asshole.