Sam Kinison

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 12/2/94
Comics Buyer's Guide

So one night, my pal Len Wein wanted to go to the Comedy Store. He was visiting from out of town and I, being the wonderful host that I am, took him to the Comedy Store. (Len has since moved to Los Angeles, which is good for me. Now that he's not a visitor, I don't have to do anything he wants.)

On the way in, I scoped out the list of comics who'd be performing…a pretty decent list, I noted, at least for the early evening. At some point, around 11:00, the names changed from the Known and Funny to the Unknown and/or Unfunny. "Let's split before eleven," I told Len, knowing (a) that an evening at the Comedy Store is most enjoyable if you know when to leave and (b) if left to his own choice, Len would keep us there until the comics had long since departed and the bus boys were inverting the chairs — with us in them — on the tables.

At 10:40, a comedian finished his act — the last comic I recognized on the list as definitely worthy of our patronage. "Let's go," I told Len. And I really thought we were going to leave: We were up and struggling into our jackets when Len noticed Sam Kinison.

Over by a wall, paying notable inattention to those who were going before him, was a stocky man with a head you could have traced in a circle template. He had long, unkempt blonde hair and was wearing a coat that suggested he had recently mugged the Nairobi Trio. And though he was talking in a whisper, you could hear him throughout the club, probably well down Sunset, as well. "Hold it, " Len said. "That's Sam Kinison."

I didn't know who Sam Kinison was. And I had a good excuse for this: No one knew who Sam Kinison was. He was just starting out in his career at the time.

But Len had seen the guy on his first HBO appearance. My outta-town guest quickly stripped off his jacket, sat back down at our table and announced that we weren't leaving until after Kinison. I sighed and sat.

We waited through another comic and then this guy Kinison took the stage, snatched the mike off its stand and started pacing back and forth, eyeing the audience like a lion tamer, talking about his life.

Funny? Not really. Not at first.

As I would later learn, Sam Kinison was not one of those comics who could hop on a stage and have you laughing from the first word. He needed time, which is why those who later knew him only from his bits on Letterman or  Saturday Night Live wondered what the fuss was. Six minutes of Kinison was a bore.

But half an hour…well, that was something else.

He also needed to be seen live, in a club…and not just because laundering/bleeping him for network TV obliterated half his vocabulary. No, you had to see him live for the same reason that you have to see any good death-defier live. When you see a guy juggling chain saws on TV, there's no sense of danger: You know he's taped, you know he's thousands of miles away, you know they wouldn't be running the show if the juggler had slipped and taken off his thumb. In person, when you see it live, there's a slight tension — maybe we're about to witness a guy kill himself, right before our eyes — that you don't get on TV.

That's exactly why you had to see Sam Kinison live.

And, that night, we did. Better, we saw Sam Kinison live before he made it, before his act was about his success…back when it was still about how miserable his life was. This may sound cruel but I have never laughed so hard in my life.

And it was a good laugh because it was about something: Kinison was pacing the stage, angrily telling all about the latest in a long procession of women who had taken — not necessarily in order of difficulty of replacement — his records, his money, his time and his heart. He talked about how he'd fallen for it again; how, time after time, he'd made the same, stupid mistake to think this was it, this was The One and how it had all suddenly done a Jekyll/Hyde on him and he was in hell once again, less furious at the woman who had put him there than he was at his own stupidity for falling for it the umpteenth time.

And then there was the scream…that scream that, for a time after Sam hit, every impressionist, professional or amateur, tried to duplicate without success. They tried but they couldn't do it…because, well, to them, it was just a scream. To Sam, it was something primal, coming not from his throat but from deep down in that small part of his soul that was so empty, it gave the scream that extra echo, that extra reverb. A genuine howl of pain it was, and he used it in the most effective manner…not to make statements but simply to punctuate them.

I often marvel at the professionalism of the best stand-up comics…that ability to plant themselves in the spotlight and deliver much the same material (often, the same material, verbatim) they've been performing for months. A good one makes it sound fresh and extemporaneous; like they're telling you their immediate thoughts, not reciting an act that took years to write. I've heard Robert Klein deliver lines that sounded improvised on the spot, even though I knew what he was going to say before he said it, from having heard the bit before. He's that good an actor.

Kinison wasn't acting. At least, I'd like to think he wasn't acting. Over the next few months, I saw him three or four more times, with me usually dragging along a friend I thought would appreciate his outspoken delivery. It was just like the way you take friends to a great restaurant you've "discovered" and beam with pride when they love the food, as flattered as if you'd cooked it yourself. Kinison's act was not something I could re-enact for them; they had to come and see it.

So I saw him those three or four times and he was always brilliant…and always wonderfully spontaneous.

The Comedy Store loved him. One night, I dropped in to catch another friend in the Original Room and noticed that Kinison was scheduled to appear in about half-an-hour in the Main Room. I strolled over there and found that the room was packed for the comic performing…but there was a line of people waiting to see Kinison. I whispered to the host, "There aren't any more seats…why are these people waiting?"

He whispered back, "Don't worry. It'll work out. With Sam, it always does."

And, sure enough, when Sam emerged and started his act, just enough red-faced patrons walked out so that there were empty seats for everyone waiting in line. The Store got to collect twice on the same seats. Why shouldn't they love Sam?

Over the next year or so, much of the world came to love Sam. I was delighted by his success while, at the same time, lamenting the fact that he was no longer my "private find." He made records, did cable specials, visited Letterman, hosted Saturday Night Live, did concerts. Mostly, he did concerts and, insofar as I can tell, they were usually very good, even though they lacked the intimacy of those nights at the Comedy Store…and even though enough of Sam's life was starting to go right that it halved the number of topics he could yell about. Unfortunately for him, fortunately for us, his love life got no better. He was still able to speak/scream with great authority and total honesty about Broken Hearts and Wrecked Relationships.

At roughly the same time, a comic who called himself Andrew "Dice" Clay was rising to prominence. On stage, Clay portrayed an aging Greaser who told the audience how women were good for sex, cooking, fetching beers and not much more. Reporters frequently mentioned Clay and Kinison in the same clause and discussions about one inevitably segued to the other…to me, a total misunderstanding of what Kinison, at least, was all about.

Sam Kinison was as unlike "Dice" Clay as two men of the same occupation could be: Clay's act is about all women…about how alike they are, at least in the categories important to him. Kinison's rage, such as it was, was directed to the few, specific women he felt had wronged him…and only because he had loved them first. (There is no trace of anything resembling "love" in Clay's act) More to the point, whatever Kinison said, however outraged or hostile it may have seemed to some, it was earnestly meant, honestly felt, born out of genuine pain. Whatever Clay says, he says because he or some gag writer thought it would get laughs. At least, that's the way he comes across to me. I don't believe he believes a thing he says.

Hollywood discovered Sam and scripts were thrown at him. One of them was by me…though, now that I think of it, "thrown" is too harsh a word. Maybe "gently lobbed" would be more applicable in this case. Nevertheless, I got a report that he had read mine, liked it and would like to meet with me to discuss it, especially if I could fly to Las Vegas, where he was performing.

I'll go to Vegas at the drop of a chip. In no time at all, I checked into the hotel where Kinison was performing and dialed up his suite. "Sam is asleep," a man told me so I gave him the whole story. " And he's expecting you?" the voice kept saying, as if that was somehow outside the realm of possibility. "Okay," he said. "Why don't you check with me in about an hour?"

Fine. I went to the buffet, played a little Blackjack and then called the room again. Sam was still asleep.

I called again in an hour. Sam was still asleep.

I called an hour later. Still asleep.

And an hour later. Same thing.

Finally, whoever I was talking to said, "We have to get Sam ready for his show." He was to go on at Midnight. "Come to the show — I've already arranged a seat for you. Then come back afterwards and you and Sam can go get coffee or something." Okay, fine.

Fine except that there was no seat reserved for me at the door and the maître d' got nowhere by phoning backstage, trying to find someone in the Kinison entourage. I managed to talk my way into having him find me a seat. I also managed to talk my way into paying full price for it, plus tipping him twenty dollars.

Sam was preceded by a number of other stand-ups billed collectively as "The Outlaws of Comedy." Good stuff…hard-edged, some of it a hair more in the "Dice" Clay tradition than the Kinison mode. The audience — in which I may well have been the only sober individual — howled at everything.

Around quarter to one, Sam Kinison stalked out on stage to an ovation they could have heard in Utah. Dressed pretty much the same as he was back when I'd seen him at the Store, he clutched the microphone and began pacing back and forth, waiting for the cheers to subside. It took a few minutes. Then, when he finally had relative quiet, he gave out with a loud Sam Kinison scream and the whole place cheered and screamed back at him. He let the house scream itself silly and then, when they'd finally stopped, he screamed again and they started cheering all over again and imitating him.

I looked at my watch. He'd been on stage for ten minutes — or more than a fifth of his allotted stage time — and he had yet to say an intelligible word.

Finally, around 1 AM, Sam began talking. He talked for the next half-hour, apart from the occasional moment when he screamed. What he said during that half-hour was funny enough, I suppose. The audience sure wasn't disappointed but then, they were all drunk. Compared to his sets at the Comedy Store, giving them grades of 100, I'd peg his Vegas appearance that night at around a 60. That's deducting ten points for the lack of intimacy in such a big room, ten more for Sam's fame and success making his "Pity me" routine ring a tad hollow, ten more for the audience cheering in so many unnecessary places as to break his flow and cost him time…and ten more for a fractional lack of sincerity. I doubt anyone could stand on a stage in Las Vegas before that kind of crowd paying that kind of cover charge, and maintain complete candor.

The Outlaws returned and joined Sam in a musical finale and then it was over. I made my way backstage.

Sam welcomed me in his dressing room, though it took a minute or so for him to remember just who I was and why I was there. "Just sit right there," he said, steering me to a sofa. "Let me take care of a few things and then we'll go get some food." I sat and waited as seemingly half the audience filed in and out of Sam's room. He seemed to know every one of them. He joked with them, posed for photos with some, scribbled out a few autographs…

And I just sat there, quietly wondering if William Goldman had to do this to get his movies made.

Around 2:30, Sam suddenly became aware of my presence . "Let's get out of here. You feel like a walk?" I said fine, anywhere. "Good, I need the exercise," he announced. Several of Sam's friends made motions to accompany us but he waved them away. "This gentleman came all the way from Hollywood to meet with me," he said, singing "Hollywood" as in, "Hooray for Hollywood."

"The coffee shop here stinks," Sam muttered as he led me from the dressing room and through a maze of corridors. "Let's go to the hotel next door!" We went through door after door, hallway after hallway…I felt like I was trapped in the opening titles of Get Smart.

"I know the way," Kinison kept yelling as he led me through the bowels of the hotel. Clearly, he did not know the way: We finally emerged, completely on the wrong side of the hotel. Sam wasn't about to walk all the way around so we crossed the street and settled in at a coffee shop worse than the one we'd been trying to avoid. We sat and talked a little about Vegas and the audiences and cheap shrimp cocktails and such. At his request, I gave him a two-minute rundown of who I was and what I'd written in the past.

"So what's this movie about?" he asked me after we'd ordered. Whoever told me he'd read it had apparently fibbed.

I got about eight words into the explanation when two young ladies approached the table. Their names were either Kimberly and Candace or Candace and Kimberly; whatever, they were in town seeking work and simply couldn't pass up the chance to meet the great Sam Kinison. He invited them to sit and they giggled their way through the most expensive items on the menu at Sam's expense and quizzed him on what David Letterman was really like. No more was said about the movie.

At the close of our meal, Sam declined the further company of Kimberly and Candace (or maybe Candace and Kimberly) and we hiked back to our hotel. Once out of the ladies' earshot, I made some comment about women who need a bookmark to finish reading a Scrabble tile. Sam laughed and said, "Five years ago, I'd have arm-wrestled you for the one with the biggest chest." (He actually used a different word than "chest.") "But today, I have too much to lose and too much to live for." Then he promised to get in touch with me back in L.A. and went off to his hotel room and, I suppose, to bed.

I knew at that moment that I'd never hear from him again. The person who put us together got a call from one of Sam's people saying that Mr. Kinison didn't feel my idea was "right" for him, which was amazing since most folks wait until they actually hear one of my ideas before turning it down. Still, I'd expected that.

What I didn't expect was to log onto a computer network a few months later and see a bulletin: SAM KINISON KILLED IN CAR CRASH. I felt very sad for him and his close ones, especially when I recalled that line about "too much to lose and too much to live for."

At least, I think he said that. I didn't recall the quote until I heard he'd died and it's possible my mind was embellishing on something a bit less pithy and ominous.

But if he didn't say that, he should have…because he had so much more to give us and so many more rewards to collect. In no way, shape or form did Sam get as much as he gave, nor give as much as he had to give. For one who spoke so much and so eloquently about the way life should be — that car wreck on the road to Laughlin was the kind of Injustice of Life that Sam Kinison used to denounce so magnificently.

The trouble was that, after it, there was no one left to scream.