Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life
By Steve Martin
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About this ebook
In the mid-seventies, Steve Martin exploded onto the comedy scene. By 1978 he was the biggest concert draw in the history of stand-up. In 1981 he quit forever. This book is, in his own words, the story of “why I did stand-up and why I walked away.”
Emmy and Grammy Award–winner, author of the acclaimed New York Times bestsellers Shopgirl and The Pleasure of My Company, and a regular contributor to The New Yorker, Martin has always been a writer. His memoir of his years in stand-up is candid, spectacularly amusing, and beautifully written.
At age ten Martin started his career at Disneyland, selling guidebooks in the newly opened theme park. In the decade that followed, he worked in the Disney magic shop and the Bird Cage Theatre at Knott’s Berry Farm, performing his first magic/comedy act a dozen times a week. The story of these years, during which he practiced and honed his craft, is moving and revelatory. The dedication to excellence and innovation is formed at an astonishingly early age and never wavers or wanes.
Martin illuminates the sacrifice, discipline, and originality that made him an icon and informs his work to this day. To be this good, to perform so frequently, was isolating and lonely. It took Martin decades to reconnect with his parents and sister, and he tells that story with great tenderness. Martin also paints a portrait of his times—the era of free love and protests against the war in Vietnam, the heady irreverence of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour in the late sixties, and the transformative new voice of Saturday Night Live in the seventies.
Throughout the text, Martin has placed photographs, many never seen before. Born Standing Up is a superb testament to the sheer tenacity, focus, and daring of one of the greatest and most iconoclastic comedians of all time.
Steve Martin
Steve Martin is one of today's most talented performers. He has had huge success as a film actor, with such credits as Cheaper by the Dozen, Father of the Bride, Roxanne, Parenthood, L.A. Story, and many others. He has won Emmys for his television writing and two Grammys for his comedy albums. In addition to his bestselling novel The Pleasure of My Company and a collection of comic pieces, Pure Drivel, he has also written a play, Picasso at the Lapin Agile. He lives in Los Angeles.
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Reviews for Born Standing Up
1,306 ratings112 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5In this fascinating autobiography Steve Martin reflects on his childhood, his family relationships, his early jobs in California theme parks and, following his early days as a magician, his developing career in stand-up comedy. Although he was still drawing large audiences, this was a career he walked away from in 1981 because he felt he had done as much with it as he could, didn’t want to become stale and wanted to pursue his film career. Using rather spare, elegant prose he reflects on how, and why, he developed and honed his acts over the many years he remained on the comedy circuit. He reflected on how he coped with the contrast between performing in small, intimate clubs, in front of tiny audiences when he first started out, to performing to audiences numbering in the tens of thousands in huge, cavernous venues. It soon became clear that his approach to comedy was in many ways very analytical and professional and that his apparently rather zany, spontaneous persona was a careful construct. One of the fascinations of his reflections was being able to trace how disillusioned and constrained he began to feel over the years, and why he eventually decided to step away from this particular outlet for his talents. It felt sad, although not altogether surprising that, whatever his successes, he suffered badly from anxiety attacks, hypochondria and phobias over the years. He wrote of his estrangement from his family, his very strained relationship with his father and the gradual building of bridges which took place over the years. However, I felt that his analysis of these fractured relationships was, for the most part, lacking any real emotional input. He comes across as a rather shy and very private man, one who is prepared to go only so far in sharing who he is. There were times when I was reading that I felt he was yearning for more intimacy in his relationships and yet the professional demands he put on himself ensured that he couldn’t achieve this. The book features lots of photographs, from early family ones to those taken when he was performing. Apart from being a very enjoyable addition to my reading, many of them added an extra layer of insight because they seemed to capture the man behind the mask of comedy. I also enjoyed the way in which he so evocatively captured the rapidly changing world of the 1960s and 70s – so many memories came flooding back of the “peace and love” and “flower-power” culture of the time! I’m not usually inclined to read celebrity autobiographies but read this one because it was given to me by a friend who was aware that I enjoy Steve Martin’s work. I’m very pleased that I did, even though I am left with a sense of sadness about this highly complex, talented performer who gives so much pleasure to so many people.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This was a very well written and entertaining memoir. I enjoyed it very much.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Contemplative, yet fun - hilarious lines here or there, but not aiming to have me rolling on the floor, I enjoyed this memoir from Steve Martin. What was it that made him give up his stand-up act at the peak of his career?
Like myself, he had a difficult relationship with his dad. Is there redemption for them, at the end, or does his dad always remain distant?
Read this if you are interested in learning about the life of a comedian/showbiz star, or are looking for a quick, engaging read about this man.
Read it to be saddened by parents who disappoint their children and what children have the ability to do in order to rectify the situation.
NOTE: there are a few places with bad language and adult situations that are referred to (although not in detail and not gratuitous.) - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Steve Martin is a strange and funny guy...still. I was surprised at the beginning, that the book wasn't all about laughs. I wasn't expecting a serious book from the king of laughs. But by the end, I truly appreciated all the more the work, the really hard work, that Martin brought to the stage with him.And, by the end, as he recounted so many classic moments, I found myself smiling along with him.Martin read the book himself, which was also a treat. And the banjo riffs were priceless. For everything else? Dunno. Did you know Martin has never charged anything?? Good heavens!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Extremely dedicated to his craft.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This wasn't super funny, because it turns out Steve Martin doesn't have a very funny voice - this was more a retelling of his experiences than a fun reflection on his life. He does play his banjo between sections and chapters, so that was a fun addition to the audio version, but, perhaps because Steven himself is shy, it was tough to connect to him. It was more about how he thought of comedy, rather than telling his life story in a funny way (the way Tina fey did). Tina's is still the funniest, though perhaps tied with Jim gaffigan's dad is fat
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5If you find Steve Martin remotely interesting, you'll enjoy this quick, pleasant, well-assembled memoir of his youth and early career.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Great biography!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Steve Martin's memoir of his stand-up career has the perfect balance of eloquence and simplicity of his novellas, short essays, and plays. He has a knack for making himself comprehensible, even somebody with whom one can identify, in spite of the fact that his readers must be nearly 100% lacking in life experiences that truly mirror his. (For that matter, has anybody really had a comparable career to Steve Martin's?) The revelations of where little nuggets of absurdity such as "happy feet" came from delight, and even reading brief snippets of his material will have you laughing out loud at them all over again.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5So funny and interesting. Such a complex man indeed. K
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I have always been a fan of Steve Martin. He wore his heart on his sleeve when he wrote this. It was sad to read about the relationship he had with his family, especially his dad. I enjoy success stories and I enjoyed the struggles he had but kept plugging away to reach the top.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5An easy read. Well chronicled. You get a real sense of Steve the human being, not just comedian. All his bits are here. Brings back fond memories.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5An enjoyable read; short, sweet, and in the end, moving.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Surprisingly heartfelt book. I came along after Steve’s comedy but enjoyed his movies growing up. This is a very sincere epitome of his early life and career that was as enjoyable as it was funny.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Man of many disciplines tells us about his start into comedy. Starting with magic and working at the magic shop in Disneyland and moving on from there he tells his story. From a distant and critical father to the heights of stardom his climb was not one of an overnight success but a slow methodical climb.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Covers childhood to the end of his stand-up career, with a small post-script (not labeled as such) to wrap up aspects of his family life that didn't end neatly with the end of stand-up. Real effort got put into this autobiography, setting it apart from too many autobiographies written for (take your pick): (a) the money; (b) to 'be funny'; (c) to ego-sooth. This book comes across as a real attempt at self-reflection.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Struggles before and after fame
Although the book is short it is full of details. At one point I was getting tired of his listing one small venue after another. I couldn’t see the point. But when at the end he describes the transition to super stardom, to easy work and lonely life, I got it. And I got why he missed the early difficult years where he could be himself even as very few liked that self. It really is hard to be entertainer. - Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Steve Martin, one wild and crazy guy!
So why did I find this book boring? I'm not quite sure.
With a serious tone of voice, dryly recounting his childhood and his difficult relationship with his father, Steve Martin goes on to relate the story of his comedic life. But it was all so serious. There are very few funny asides, and there's very little information on his skits on SNL or his relationships with the cast members.
I usually adore autobiographies in audiobook form, especially when they're narrated by the author. David Spade's and Betty White's were great. This one? It was just okay. - Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5This was boring. How is that even possible?
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Interesting in the sense that it helps one understand the work necessary to be a stand-up comedian. Not so interesting in the lack of stories about the people along the way. People are mentioned but seldom is their interaction really explored.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A fun and interesting read for anyone who is interested in stand-up comedy or just Steve Martin in general. It is a very quick read and I wouldn't have minded it to be a little longer.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I enjoyed this autobiography particularly since Martin focused more on the development of his craft than on his personal life, although he does spend some time talking about his parents. He is a thoughtful writer, intelligent and I didn't feel like I was a reading a hack. The prose is akward at times, but never so akward that it threw me out of the tex significantly.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is a memoir of Steve Martin's career, chronicling his early life and beginnings in stand-up, right up until he made it big and moved to film. Hint: it took a lonnnng time. For example, he mentions how it's perceived that once a comic appears on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, then they've made it big. In his case it took over a dozen appearances on the program (mostly with guest hosts) before he got that ever-sought-for approval from Johnny himself.I had heard that Steve Martin was actually a pretty shy fellow, but I don't think I realized just how or how uncomfortable he really is with fame and attention. It sounds a bit ironic, considering his profession is so attention-grabbing, but it's true. He talks of jokes that worked and jokes that didn't (which still generally made me laugh). He includes his first jobs at DisneyLand, where he learn the art of perfuming magic, which he would later incorporate into is act.I listened to the audiobook, which Steve narrates, which always makes the story more immediate. Had there been any other reader, I would not have chosen the audiobook format. I listened as I walked and frequently giggled, which had to have confused anyone within earshot of me.I think anyone thinking going into stand-up should read this, not only for inspiration but to learn just how hard it is to really make it in that business. For those of us who do not wish to stand on a stage and tell jokes, it's still an excellent read, full of laughs and a few words of wisdom.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This was just a joy to read, and laugh out-loud funny. I definitely remember my grandfather getting an 'arrow through his head' for a gift, putting it on and giving us his best WELL EXCUUUUUUSE ME! I sought this out after seeing Martin and Seinfeld together, getting coffee. The descriptions of his bits, and the thoughts that went into them, are fascinating.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Come on Mr. Martin--this book is boring. But you got it off your chest. Now go do something interesting.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Steve Martin's memoir of his stand-up career has the perfect balance of eloquence and simplicity of his novellas, short essays, and plays. He has a knack for making himself comprehensible, even somebody with whom one can identify, in spite of the fact that his readers must be nearly 100% lacking in life experiences that truly mirror his. (For that matter, has anybody really had a comparable career to Steve Martin's?) The revelations of where little nuggets of absurdity such as "happy feet" came from delight, and even reading brief snippets of his material will have you laughing out loud at them all over again.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5If I wasn't really old and madly in love with my husband, I would love to be Steve Martin's baby Momma. Just thinking of him makes me smile, and after reading this well written, thoughtful and very kind book, I think even more fondly of him. He obviously worked at his craft in a thoughtful and meaningful way and deserves every accolade he gets. Steve Martin is my sunshine in a bottle.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Very good book. Pretty fearless honesty throughout. There is so much more to Steve Martin than his shtick. It was interesting to read about his early experiences which he tells with candor and tenderness.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I still have Steve Martin's old comedy albums on LP. There is some brilliant stuff on there. And I actually have read Cruel Shoes, Pure Drivel, and Shop Girl. All really good books. Born Standing Up is interesting if you are a fan, but its a little dry and just a simple recounting of his life. Perhaps that is part of the charm, but it can get dull at times. There's just no real meat here, but a quick read; very funny and entertaining in parts.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Actor/comedian Steve Martin looks back on his life in stand up comedy, starting with his early years in California selling guidebooks and learning magician's tricks at Disneyland, to his wild success in the '70s and 80s.I picked the audio up because it was read by the author and I expected it to be something like Tina Fey's [Bossypants]. I was in for a bit of a surprise, since it was either a straight-up memoir or so tongue-in-cheek that I never got the joke. So I was wrong-footed from the start and quickly found myself not really the reader for this book, as I'm completely unfamiliar with Steve Martin's stand-up routines (his heyday was before I was born) and only interested in some of the material he covers. But since this is definitely a case of "it's me, not the book," please don't be put off. If you're interested in a behind the scenes look into what was going on in Steve's life during his time as a comedian, it's a forthright and personal picture of exactly that.
Book preview
Born Standing Up - Steve Martin
Beforehand
I DID STAND-UP COMEDY for eighteen years. Ten of those years were spent learning, four years were spent refining, and four were spent in wild success. My most persistent memory of stand-up is of my mouth being in the present and my mind being in the future: the mouth speaking the line, the body delivering the gesture, while the mind looks back, observing, analyzing, judging, worrying, and then deciding when and what to say next. Enjoyment while performing was rare—enjoyment would have been an indulgent loss of focus that comedy cannot afford. After the shows, however, I experienced long hours of elation or misery depending on how the show went, because doing comedy alone onstage is the ego’s last stand.
My decade is the seventies, with several years extending on either side. Though my general recall of the period is precise, my memory of specific shows is faint. I stood onstage, blinded by lights, looking into blackness, which made every place the same. Darkness is essential: If light is thrown on the audience, they don’t laugh; I might as well have told them to sit still and be quiet. The audience necessarily remained a thing unseen except for a few front rows, where one sourpuss could send me into panic and desperation. The comedian’s slang for a successful show is I murdered them,
which I’m sure came about because you finally realize that the audience is capable of murdering you.
Stand-up is seldom performed in ideal circumstances. Comedy’s enemy is distraction, and rarely do comedians get a pristine performing environment. I worried about the sound system, ambient noise, hecklers, drunks, lighting, sudden clangs, latecomers, and loud talkers, not to mention the nagging concern Is this funny?
Yet the seedier the circumstances, the funnier one can be. I suppose these worries keep the mind sharp and the senses active. I can remember instantly retiming a punch line to fit around the crash of a dropped glass of wine, or raising my voice to cover a patron’s ill-timed sneeze, seemingly microseconds before the interruption happened.
I was seeking comic originality, and fame fell on me as a by-product. The course was more plodding than heroic: I did not strive valiantly against doubters but took incremental steps studded with a few intuitive leaps. I was not naturally talented—I didn’t sing, dance, or act—though working around that minor detail made me inventive. I was not self-destructive, though I almost destroyed myself. In the end, I turned away from stand-up with a tired swivel of my head and never looked back, until now. A few years ago, I began researching and recalling the details of this crucial part of my professional life—which inevitably touches upon my personal life—and was reminded why I did stand-up and why I walked away.
In a sense, this book is not an autobiography but a biography, because I am writing about someone I used to know. Yes, these events are true, yet sometimes they seemed to have happened to someone else, and I often felt like a curious onlooker or someone trying to remember a dream. I ignored my stand-up career for twenty-five years, but now, having finished this memoir, I view this time with surprising warmth. One can have, it turns out, an affection for the war years.
Coffee and Confusion
ON A HUMID MONDAY NIGHT in the summer of 1965, after finding an eight-dollar hotel room in the then economically friendly city of San Francisco, I lugged my banjo and black, hard-shell prop case ten sweaty blocks uphill to the Coffee and Confusion, where I had signed up to play for free. The club was tiny and makeshift, decorated with chairs, tables, a couple of bare lightbulbs, and nothing else. I had romanticized San Francisco as an exotic destination, away from friends and family and toward mystery and adventure, so I often drove my twenty-year-old self up from Los Angeles to audition my fledgling comedy act at a club or to play banjo on the street for tips. I would either sleep in my VW van, camp out in Golden Gate Park, pay for a cheap hotel, or snag a free room in a Haight-Ashbury Victorian crash pad by making an instant friend. At this point, my act was a catchall, cobbled together from the disparate universes of juggling, comedy, banjo playing, weird bits I’d written in college, and magic tricks. I was strictly Monday-night quality, the night when, traditionally, anyone could get up to perform. All we entertainers knew Mondays were really audition nights for the club.
The Coffee and Confusion, ca. 1965.
I walked past Broadway and Columbus, where Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s ramshackle City Lights Books was jam-packed with thin small-press publications offering way-out poetry and reissues of long-ago-banned erotic novels. Around the corner on Broadway was Mike’s Pool Hall, where bikers and hippies first laid eyes on each other, unsure whether they should beat each other up or just smoke pot and forget about it. Steps away was the hungry i, a nightclub that had launched a thousand careers, including those of the Smothers Brothers, the Kingston Trio, and Lenny Bruce, but I had to trudge on by. Just up Columbus, I passed the Condor, the first of a sudden explosion of topless clubs, where Carol Doda, in a newfangled bathing suit that exposed her recently inflated basketball breasts, descended from the ceiling on a grand piano that was painted virginal white. This cultural mélange—and the growing presence of drugs—made the crowded streets of North Beach simmer with toxic vitality.
The Coffee and Confusion was nearby on Grant Avenue, a street dotted with used-clothing stores and incense shops. I nervously entered the club, and Ivan Ultz, the show runner, slotted me into the lineup. I lingered at the back, waiting for my turn, and surveyed the audience of about fifteen people. They were arrayed in patchwork jeans with tie-dyed tops, and the room was thick with an illegal aroma. In the audience was a street poet, dressed in rags and bearded like a yeti, who had a plastic machine gun that shot Ping-Pong balls, which he unloaded on performers he didn’t like. I was still untouched by the rapidly changing fashion scene; my short hair and conservative clothes weren’t going to help me with this crowd.
Ivan introduced me. My opening line, Hello. I’m Steve Martin, and I’ll be out here in a minute,
was met with one lone chuckle. I struggled through the first few minutes, keeping a wary eye on Mr. Ping-Pong Ball, and filled in the dead air with some banjo tunes that went just okay. I could see Ivan standing nearby, concerned. I began to strum the banjo, singing a song that I told the audience my grandmother had taught me:
Be courteous, kind, and forgiving.
Be gentle and peaceful each day.
Be warm and human and grateful,
And have a good thing to say.
Be thoughtful and trustful and childlike,
Be witty and happy and wise.
Be honest and love all your neighbors,
Be obsequious, purple, and clairvoyant.
Be pompous, obese, and eat cactus.
Be dull and boring and omnipresent.
Criticize things you don’t know about.
Be oblong and have your knees removed.
Be sure to stop at stop signs,
And drive fifty-five miles an hour.
Pick up hitchhikers foaming at the mouth,
And when you get home get a master’s degree in
geology.
Be tasteless, rude, and offensive.
Live in a swamp and be three-dimensional.
Put a live chicken in your underwear.
Go into a closet and suck eggs.
Then I said, Now, everyone,
and I repeated the entire thing, adding in:
Ladies only!: Never make love to Bigfoot.
Men only!: Hello, my name is Bigfoot.
Not many people sang along.
I thought I was dead, but I wasn’t. And now,
I announced, the napkin trick.
Unfolding a paper napkin, I grandly displayed it on both sides, held it up to my face, and stuck my wet tongue through it. I bowed deeply, as though what I had just done was unique in the history of show business. No Ping-Pong balls came my way, only a nice curious laugh that perked up the rest of my show and seemed to make the audience think that what they were seeing might be okay.
I got word from the club’s owner, Sylvia Fennell, that the Coffee and Confusion would like to try me for a week as an opening act. Sylvia was a tough but likable New Yorker who had moved west to enter the nightclub business and whose width, height, and depth were the same measurement. She didn’t know much about show business, having once told a ventriloquist to move the dummy closer to the microphone. She was, however, savvy about the bottom line, as evidenced by a sign in the kitchen that said: ANYONE GIVING MONEY TO JANIS JOPLIN BEFORE HER LAST SET IS FIRED! AND IF THEY ARE A CUSTOMER,THEY’RE 86’ED! Later, I found out that the main reason I was hired was because I was a member of the musicians’ union, which I joined only because I thought I had to be in at least one performers’ union, and the musicians’ was the cheapest. Sylvia had been told that if she didn’t hire a union worker, pronto, the place would be shut down.
The night of my first appearance, Gaylord the bartender—the separate syllables of his name correctly described his sexual orientation and his demeanor—came to me and said it was time to start. But,
I said as I waved my hand to indicate the stone-empty club, there’s nobody here.
He pointed to the large window that looked onto the sidewalk, and explained that my job was to be onstage so passersby could see a show going on and be lured in. I said that I wasn’t a singer, I was a comedian, and doing comedy for absolutely no one posed a problem. So? he implied. Dave Archer, the amiable doorman, seconded him, telling me that this was the way the evening always began, so I went onstage and started talking. Talking to no one. The first couple who walked through the door did a whiplash scan of the vacant room and immediately left. But more than a few came in, looked around, saw nobody, shrugged an Oh well,
and sat down, especially after Dave offered them a free coffee.
The cheapness of the place gave me some opportunity for laughs. The lights were controlled with wall switches just behind the performer. Saying I wanted a mood change,
I gave an imperious order to the light man, who, the audience soon realized, was me. I reached back and twiddled the rheostat while feigning indignation.
One night I started a serious banjo tune and, sensing the audience’s boredom, stopped and said, I like to keep the laughs rolling even while I’m playing….
I reached down to my prop table and put on my arrow-through-the-head, purchased on a whim at a Hollywood Boulevard magic store, and finished the song. Then I forgot to take it off. Every earnest thing I said was contradicted and deflated by this silly novelty. Sylvia Fennell’s advice about the arrow—which was to become my most famous prop—was Lose it.
I had a strong closer, an absurdist version of a balloon-animal act in which all the balloon animals were unrecognizable. I would end up with the balloons on my head, nose glasses on my face, and bunny ears. The point was to look as stupid as possible, then pause thoughtfully and say, And now I’d like to get serious for a moment. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Oh, this is just another banjo-magic act.’
I was contracted to be onstage for twenty-five minutes. I had a solid ten minutes, and the rest of my material was unreliable. If I got some laughs, I could almost make it, but if the audience was dead, my twenty-five-minute show would shrink to about twelve. Afraid of falling short, I ad-libbed, wandered around the audience, talked to patrons, joked with waitresses, and took note of anything unusual that was happening in the crowd and addressed it for laughs, in the hope of keeping my written material in reserve so I could fill my time quota. The format stuck. Years later, it was this pastiche element that made my performances seem unstructured and modern.
That week at the Coffee and Confusion, something started to make sense. My act, having begun three years earlier as a conventional attempt to enter regular show business, was becoming a parody of comedy. I was an entertainer who was playing an entertainer, a not so good one, and this embryonic notion drove me to work on other material in that vein.
After my last show on Sunday, I walked a few doors up to the Coffee Gallery, another Grant Avenue folk club, and sat alone in an empty showroom. On the jukebox was the haunting voice of Frank Sinatra singing …When I was seventeen, it was a very good year.
Each successive stanza advanced the narrator by a decade, causing me to