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Welcome to another episode of the Comedic Pursuits podcast. We have a hell of an episode for you today.
When Kelsie Anderson and I started this podcast, we made a list of some of the top people we didn’t know a lot about but wanted to get some wisdom from in the DC comedy scene. Murphy McHugh was right at the top of the list.
Highlights from my interview with Murphy McHugh
Murphy McHugh owns and operates Dojo Comedy. In this episode, he talks about his upbringing, his trials and tribulations in college, training in New York City, moving to DC, working at WIT, starting Harold Night, the indie scene in DC, and his involvement with Brick Penguin.
This episode is a treasure because there’s so much good stuff in terms of history, nerding out on improv, and great words of wisdom. I hope you appreciate this episode as much as I do.
Without further ado the Murphy McHugh interview. Some of the questions and answers have been edited for clarity, but you can hear the full interview by listening to the podcast.
How did you get into comedy?
I wasn’t allowed to watch commercial television as a child, but I was allowed to listen to old radio programs. So the first dedicated comedy shows I absorbed were almost all radio shows, like Burns and Allen, Lum and Abner, Red Skelton, and Jack Benny.
When I was a kid, I’d read joke books in bookstores, but when the internet became a thing, I could look up jokes. A dial-up connection was fast enough that you could read a lot of jokes if you waited for the page to load. At one point, I assembled and compiled my favorite jokes and put them in a book so I could tell them to my cousins.
Then I went to college at Villanova, and I was miserable and lonely. I wasn’t ready to be a freshman in college. I was the odd one out by a long shot. My first job out of high school was working as a bouncer and waiter in Adams Morgan. When I got to college, all these kids were having their wannabe Animal House freshman year where they got drunk every weekend, but I’d spent three months at a bar watching adults get actually drunk. So the room parties were lame, and I didn’t drink. That was socially isolating, but I was also not the easiest person to get to know. I was an odd fellow, to say the least.
I remember talking online to a girl I had a crush on. She told me I was funny, and I realized I was funny. I decided that was my thing, and I was going to try to be funny. I wrote some original material and started doing open mics on campus and in Philadelphia my freshman and sophomore year.
At some point, I realized I needed to change schools. Villanova wasn’t a good place for me, so I transferred to Georgetown.
How did you get involved with improv at Georgetown?
In my second year at Villanova, The Upright Citizens Brigade touring company had come through and done a show and a workshop on campus. I did the workshop, and when I transferred schools, I decided to audition for the Georgetown Players Improv Group. I hadn’t done any improv aside from that workshop, but I auditioned, got through to callbacks, and made it onto the team.
I realized as soon as I got on that all these other people were really good. I didn’t know why they’d taken me. I knew that I was funny enough, but I didn’t know how to communicate what I did into improv. A lot of what I teach now came from writing notes after every rehearsal about what went well, what didn’t go well, choices I made, moments in scenes and asking myself what I could do to get better.
That group meant the world to me. I got to find people who would put up with my weird exterior to get to the fuzzy caramel center or whatever. Improv 100% changed my life, I believe in a positive direction.
During college, I couldn’t get enough of comedy. I rehearsed with the Georgetown Players two nights a week and ran a voluntary rehearsal for them, as well. I was running a practice group for a meetup group I’d started. I was still doing stand-up and running a stand-up club on campus that had a weekly joke writing check-in. I was writing sketch with my roommate. I was writing screenplays and trying to finish my Chinese major. I was also consuming comedy, buying DVDs and watching them. I worked at the DC Improv answering phones and doing the door on weekends.
It was a lot, but I loved it. It was a prolific, wonderful time.
Three years later, I left Georgetown after changing my major from Chinese to English so I could graduate. I needed to get out, and the only clear thought I had was to move to Chicago or New York to do improv. I wanted to quit school, but I talked to my folks and the dean, and they told me to stay and finish my degree. I figured out how much I could transfer over to another major so I could graduate as soon as possible.
How did you decide on New York for comedy training?
When college ended, I was crazy about this girl, and she said she was going to be in New York for four days. She asked if was moving there, and I said, “Yes, I am.” I booked a bus ticket, took two duffel bags and my backpack, and went to New York without a place to live. I had a buddy who let me crash on his couch for two days. It was a hot, sweaty couch, so that motivated me to find a place to stay pretty quickly. I found a place, and by the time she arrived in New York, I had a room in a shitty apartment.
I took classes at UCB and The PIT. I did The PIT summer intensive, which was $900, but it got me levels 1–4 in improv and levels 1–3 in sketch. It was every day for four weeks, with improv in the afternoon and sketch in the morning. At UCB, I did 101 through 301 as intensives.
Then the summer was wrapping up, and the girl and I were dating. She was moving to DC for grad school, so I moved to DC. I took buses from DC to New York to finish classes at UCB and The PIT. I was taking a bus round trip two or three days a week sometimes.
I had a lot of great teachers. 101 was Shannon O’Neill and Kevin Hines. 201 was Neil Casey and Billy Merritt. 301 was Neil Casey, Joe Wengert, and Gavin Speiller. 401 was Anthony King. 501 was Charlie Todd, Kevin Hines, and Lydia Hensler. I did a class with Miriam Tolan. It was like the ’27 Yankees of teachers.
How did you get involved with Washington Improv Theater?
When I was in 501 at UCB, someone recommended that I try out for Washington Improv Theater. I didn’t care about it that much because I thought I was going to be back in New York in six months when Jen finished grad school.
I wasn’t sure if I should audition, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt. Auditions were on a Saturday morning, and I showed up. Onesixtyone, the original group that was Washington Improv Theater, which was Mark Chalfant, Topher Bellavia, Natasha Rothwell, Colin Murchie, all the big names of WIT, and Season Six were auditioning for new members.
I got an email from both teams asking me to come to callbacks the next day. But the next day was Sunday, and I had class in New York. I had to decide if was going to waste my time at a DC improv callback when I was just going to leave or spend my time at this class that I’d paid for at UCB, where I thought I was definitely going to be spending the rest of my life.
I told them I had plans, and onesixtyone wasn’t interested, but Season Six was. Mikael Johnson asked me to come on a Monday night as my callback. So I did, and I got a call after that asking me to play with them. That started a lot of it for me in DC.
Season Six was a WIT house team, which is different from an ensemble. There used to be a hierarchy of teams, and Season Six was an old indie team WIT had kind of absorbed. It wouldn’t have mattered except that ensembles got a little bit more money for festivals, and ensembles were allowed to go to the players’ meetings. Season Six later became an ensemble, and the group personality turned over. I’d say for a year and a half or two years, we were the strongest team at WIT. We did seven and a half years until we were officially disbanded. I love all of those folks.
Then I was in DC doing gig work, but I was unemployed. Since I wasn’t working consistently during the day, I started volunteering over at the WIT offices. For four or five days a week, I was putting in six hours or more a day volunteering, helping with classes, whatever. I did that for about eight months and I pointed out that I was basically working a job. I needed to figure out whether I needed to apply for a different job or if this was an actual job. Then I was brought on as program director at WIT. It was crazy, crazy days.
How did Brick Penguin get started?
Brick Penguin is now a loosely affiliated Dojo team, but it’s been around for eight and a half years. I’ve been on the team from day one and helped put it together.
We came up with the name when we were sitting behind Source in the alley. There’s a mural on the wall, which is just a bunch of penguins. We were bickering about what our name should be. I think it was JC Calcerano—and I don’t know whether it’s giving him credit or blaming him—who said, “What about Brick Penguin?”
We used to do a new hour of material every six to eight weeks. This year, though, we wanted to take a step back from live shows to focus on some video content. A lot of that is still in the works.
We’ve performed at Philly Sketchfest, Boston Comedy Arts Festival, New York Sketchfest, Chicago Sketchfest, North Carolina, Baltimore, and in DC at Fringe Festival.
How did you come up with the idea for Harold Night?
Harold Night came from me pushing and saying we needed to have shows and something other than runs that started and stopped and then started again. I suggested Harold Night, like they have in every other city.
I was told that I would need to find a place that would do it for a $100 per month or less, which was insane. But I found this Ethiopian restaurant that had a dance floor and asked if they’d consider doing a comedy night on Tuesday nights. The woman running the restaurant thought she could do the show, and she also told me they had a stage upstairs with seats and everything. I realized this was actually going to happen.
The restaurant didn’t even want money for the space, so I found the space for free. And the WIT offices let me do this thing and supported this thing happening by casting teams. There were all these students who were moving through the classes that didn’t have anywhere to go after. The ensembles weren’t auditioning, and WIT wasn’t creating new ones. But making the Harold teams gave them a place to go and gave a display of the art.
We had the first Harold Night in DC, and there were 93 people. We’d made two Harold teams. I think 19 people auditioned, and 16 people got on. Private Elevator and Uncle DiGiorno were the first two teams. It was amazing.
The second week we had 72 people, and the third week maybe 15. Then there were a lot of six-person, three-person, two-person nights. I was drinking the beers people weren’t drinking and leaving a $20 tip just so they wouldn’t shut the show down. After a year and a half, the restaurant said they couldn’t host us anymore.
We settled on the upstairs of Saloon, which was $200 a month for one night a week. I thought it was going well, but I have no idea how much money I spent there trying to make Harold Night seem like a good money-making program. At some point, the owner got frustrated with it and upped the rent from $200 a month to $200 a week. He said, “If everyone just bought a soda, it would be worth it.” But I was buying a meal and two beers from them and feeling like I was covering everyone.
At that point, though, we’d grown, and there were three Harold teams. So we shifted over to Source, and Source is free for everybody.
How did you start Dojo Comedy?
When I left WIT, I had a one year non-compete clause within 50 miles. I taught some writing classes and stuck with Season Six. I continued coaching the teams I was already coaching, but I stopped teaching.
Once the year cleared, I taught improv again. I rented a space called The Fridge in Barracks Row until the owner locked the doors one day before I had classes. Then I had to scramble around for a new space and opened the doors at Dojo in 2015.
The name for Dojo Comedy comes from the fact that I studied Tai Chi Chuan for five years, which is a combat application of Tai Chi. I started in high school and continued in college. I’ve done a lot of reading on martial arts, and I think there are some very similar paths with good improv and good martial arts. Both of them prepare for worst case scenarios. The worst case scenario in martial arts is getting attacked in a vulnerable position. The worst case scenario in improv is when you’re in a scene, and you really don’t know what to do.
Most of our improv, most of our “yes, and’s,” are for when we have nothing. When you have absolutely nothing on stage, “yes, and” will save you every time. So much of improv, I think, is like Tai Chi or Judo, taking the energy of the scene and moving it. It’s not that you’re fighting the other person, you’re trying to find out what this scene is.
What is this person giving me, and what do they want me to give them? Or they give me something, and I give them something back. So how can we keep playing our thing of “you give me something, and I give you something?” If that’s what the scene is, then we just have to keep giving each other things.
In that way, it’s not that different from certain martial arts exercises, where you’re working on that connection and maintaining it. As a team, you’re working on something greater than anyone could do individually. And finding the flow of that is what it’s all about.
I wanted my comedy space to be a physical space, a place where you went to learn, where you went to test, a place where you went to prove. And to me, that’s what a dojo is. It’s a place that is your home, but it’s also your school. It’s also a social thing. I thought that was a solid thing.
How has your experience running Dojo been?
It’s been great and terrible and all of it. It’s nerve wracking and scary, taking on not just the fiscal responsibilities but artistic, educational, all of that. Part of me really likes it. I like control, not in the sense of taking other people’s power from them, but I think one of the most frustrating things is when you’re counting on someone, and it doesn’t come through. I like being solely responsible for that stuff. Not that there aren’t people who are helping me, but sink or swim, this is all on me, which is scary and wonderful.
I teach most nights, and I’m here almost every weekend running shows. I’d love to teach more if anyone’s listening and wants to take a class. We teach some fun, weird stuff in both improv and sketch.
What are your thoughts on the DC improv scene?
It’s frustrating because I think everyone wants to get better at improv, and everyone wants to seem to be better. I think it can be more fun to spend 20 minutes on stage with your friends, feeling like a rock star in front of people who have never seen improv. Even if the work you’re doing is mediocre, they’ll love it enough that you’ll feel like it’s great. And then you get to have a beer and hang out with your friends all night. That’s great. You could also spend that night doing three hours of improv rehearsal with your friends and grab a beer after.
The time it takes to get ready for a show, go to the show, be at the show, and watch other people do their stuff is time consuming. If your whole group can agree to do that for a 20-minute show in front of their friends and other people’s friends, it’s very frustrating that those same groups, for whatever reason, aren’t able to commit to a rehearsal. Eric Clapton still practices. What does he have to prove to anybody?
If you’re doing improv in front of people who don’t know what improv is, who think it’s a novel idea, then you can say anything. But if you want it to be great, where it’s not just a weird, fun, wacky experience, but where people think it’s mind blowing and funny and amazing and they don’t know how you did it, you gotta put those reps in.
I think you can get better reps in three hours than you can in 20 minutes. And you can get better feedback from either an empty room, self coaching—which I’m not saying you should do—or a coach, than you can from an audience or people in a bar. Those people aren’t wrong to come out and support you, and you’re not wrong to look for stage time and look for reps. I would just encourage people to think more about practice or even classes.
What’s been your biggest aha moment in comedy?
There was a Billy Merritt intensive I took two years ago on multi-part opening work. There was this little mantra of “Suggestion is opening, and opening is form, and form is not form.” That was a hyper-rejuvenating thing. I don’t know that it’s the defining thing, but that’s definitely an aha moment. I thought the work he did was brilliant, and I thought it brought out good stuff in me.
What’s been your biggest failure in comedy, and how did you overcome it?
I don’t know if it’s a thing that I’ve overcome, but it’s time management and follow through. That’s a failure I have in a lot of aspects of my life.
I think I have pretty good ideas, but I don’t think I always follow through on them in the most efficient or productive ways. I’m aware of it, and it still kills me.
I’ll get in bed at 11:00 some nights when I’m not working or rehearsing until late. But I get this thing—I’m sure it’s a type of depression—where I’m just lying in bed, and I can’t stop thinking about the things I didn’t do and how many people I’m letting down from it. Then the alarm goes off, and I’m lucky if I got to sleep at 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning. But the alarm does goes off, and I have to get up and get after it again.
The one thing I can do is be as tenacious as I can.
We used to have shows at Dojo pretty frequently where, in a month, there’d be one or two shows with no audience. But that number has become rarer and rarer. To me, that’s what that tenacity is. It sucks, but you have to double down and get louder about it and stick it out.
Where can we find you online?
Check out Dojo Comedy on Instagram and Facebook. You can find show times and classes on the website. Brick Penguin is still doing shows.
Do you have any parting things you want to say?
I would challenge anyone who’s got an idea for a good show but doesn’t know what to do to make it happen to talk to me. I don’t claim to be all-knowing or all-powerful. But with the power that I have, which is running a space and years of experience, I’m happy to help.
Especially for improvisers, put in the work on your stuff so you think your friends would want to come back even if you weren’t in the show. Do the work offstage that you need to do to make your shows on stage undeniably good. They won’t all be undeniably good, but all you can do is your best. Put yourself in a position to succeed for yourself and for the art form.
You love the art form because you’ve had great experiences with it. Someone might come to their first show and not know anybody in the room. If your show is mediocre and hollow, it might make you and your friends laugh on stage, but you run the risk of alienating the audience. That probably comes across as a scolding thing, but I hope it comes across as a challenge to double down on this improv thing you love so much and make it as good for someone else coming in as it was for you when you got into it.
Thanks for tuning in!
I hope you enjoyed this interview with DC comedy great Murphy McHugh. Tune in next week for Adam Koussari-Amin’s episode!
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