Memories of performing a 'stand-up comedy routine' at a stagehand job interview

I once had an interview for a 'stagehand job at Yoshimoto Shinkigeki'.
It was the dead of winter, even in Osaka where it rarely snows, and snow was fluttering down.

The reason was that I was born in Osaka, the holy land of comedy, and I thought it would be great to work on the stage of the Shinkigeki I was so familiar with, plus I also liked crafts.

But this is a super popular job.

So the interview was a group interview, and there were about 3 to 4 groups of 10 people each.
Since these were people who had passed the document screening, the number of applicants was quite something.

If you've ever seen Yoshimoto Shinkigeki, you'll know that it's a job that involves building quite authentic stage sets, so many art students apply for it too.
There are also girls who are 'oshi-katsu' fans, as we call them now, full of ulterior motives like 'maybe I can get close to the comedians?', and people like me who apply out of pure curiosity or just looking for a job.

But the biggest enemy here is the aspiring comedians, the eggs of comedians.
They can get close to senior comedians and make connections, and they can watch their seniors' performances from behind the stage while getting paid.
Yoshimoto's pay is famously known among the industry and the general public as being as small as a sparrow's tears, so being able to work on the stage you admire is the best.

I still remember the extraordinary atmosphere in the waiting room at the interview venue.
It was a unique space, different from high school entrance exams or English proficiency test interviews.
There were people muttering to themselves facing the wall, people re-tying their ties over and over, and people dissolving throat lozenges in hot lemon.
I feel like half of them were involved in comedy in some way.

I was called in as the 10th person in the first group.
Folding chairs were lined up at long conference tables arranged in a U-shape, and I was told to take a seat.
There were three interviewers.
In the middle was a woman in a suit with glasses, and on both sides were a skinny man and a chubby man who looked exactly like interviewers, sitting at a table slightly away from our U-shape, looking at a stack of copied resumes.

The instructions were given: 'Since there are many people, please stand up one by one clockwise and give your self-introduction, reason for applying, and your strong points. When you finish, sit down, and that will be the signal for the person to your right,' and the interview began.

'Please!'
The guy at the far right stood up vigorously and started his self-introduction.
His voice was coming from his gut, and I thought he sounded used to this, and then he said, 'I'm an NSC student of the XXth generation...' He was an aspiring comedian.

At that moment, the air in the room became tense.

What had been a game of cat-and-mouse like in Quentin Tarantino's movie 'Reservoir Dogs' suddenly turned into 'Et tu, Brute!'.
He barely finished his self-introduction before moving on to his strong points, saying, 'I'll do a one-shot gag!' and performed that thing where you raise your hand and hide your armpit, which has already been overused 500 billion times, and showed off his signature bit.

He bombed.

No, there was a bit of laughter because of the mismatch with the venue, but maybe because everyone was frustrated, there was an air of forced composure like, 'Hmm, Brutus, you're pretty good.'
Since I was in the middle of an interview, I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress my laughter.

When the unfulfilled Brutus finished, the next person stood up. I wondered if this one was Caesar, and he said, 'I'm in a university comedy club.'

Brutus! Is he the second one?!

You might have realized by now, but everyone in this first group I was in was an aspiring comedian.
Comedians are often very competitive; you can't make a living in comedy without that kind of mindset.
Besides, you can't do it if you don't have a good sense of humor.
So, the 'let's do a gag' that Brutus started was being passed on to the next person.

Moreover, going clockwise, I was the grand finale.
In the Kamigata Comedy Awards, that's the position of veterans like the All Hanshin-Kyojin masters; there's no way I could handle that.

I was completely swallowed by the unique atmosphere and pressure of the venue, which felt like I had come to an M-1 audition.

The turn was steadily approaching, and the 7th pin comedian was getting a lukewarm response.
Wait, a bit? Did I have any bits I could do on the spot by myself? I searched my memory hard, but I couldn't find any.

Well, of course I didn't have any bits.
I'm just a regular, energetic guy with glasses who has never aimed to be a comedian.

The 9th person was doing a flip-chart gag, but since I didn't have a flip-chart, when his physical one-shot gag ended, I steeled myself.

I've never aimed to be a comedian, and I'm not the class clown, but I love comedy and I've been watching Yoshimoto Shinkigeki every Saturday while eating chicken ramen.
I know the basics of comedy better than some newcomer who knows nothing, and I've watched the great masters of comedy do their thing.

I can do this.

I don't know how to win, but I can at least play a game where I don't lose.

I fought.
I kept my self-introduction mild, declared loudly in my reason for applying that 'I am not an aspiring comedian' to take the pressure off the people around me, and then delivered a full-blown stand-up routine in one minute.
I don't remember the content.

It's said that the players and staff who were at the scene of the famous 'Agony of Doha' in soccer had their memories completely wiped due to the shock.
It seems that when humans experience excessive stress, they erase that event from their memory (though not completely).
Perhaps this stand-up routine was such a huge stress for me that that part of my memory has been completely wiped out.

When the interview was over, I was sent back to the waiting room.
I was told, 'Only those who can proceed to the third interview will have their names called, so the rest of you please go home,' and names were called one by one.

Naturally, my name was not among those who passed.

Of course, I did a stand-up routine at a stagehand interview; my strong point was completely counterproductive.

Thinking 'it can't be helped,' I put on my coat to hide my slumped shoulders and left the venue, when someone tapped me on the back.

'Good work, too bad about the interview.'

It was Brutus.

'You were the one who made the interviewers laugh the most, it's frustrating but it was great. If you'd like, why don't we form a duo?' Naturally, I refused.

At that time, I completely blamed my defeat on Brutus, thinking that he was the root of all evil and that if he hadn't done that bit, our team might have had better results.

But when I think about it, a group interview isn't a team sport.
The ground was already prepared for me to win alone if I had just seriously appealed myself as a stagehand.
So, I should have said, 'Brutus, thanks for being a decoy,' but everyone had tied their legs together like a three-legged race and we all fell down together.
It was the result of me being swallowed by the atmosphere, losing my cool, and forgetting my purpose, and that's why we failed the interview.

As Brutus and I were talking, the others came out, and I was invited to do comedy by a total of three people, saying, 'You're good! Why don't you do comedy?'

'Losing the battle but winning the war' might be exactly what this is.

Since my formation was perfect, it's clear that by using the decoy of not aspiring to be a comedian, I was able to outsmart the interviewer and score a comedic goal at the end.
I didn't get the job, but I definitely gained something important to me in that match.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded by the group that didn't make it (everyone had failed).
And so, near the subway entrance in Osaka, just before the last train, with a rare dusting of powder snow falling, we talked about our dreams like idiots and laughed.

We teased the few people heading off to their late-night shifts as we saw them off, and the most senior member of the NSC bought us sweet red bean soup from a vending machine, and we formed a sort of huddle, saying, 'But man, this is frustrating!'
Since the guy who works at a karaoke place started singing Koji Tamaki's 'Melody,' we all teared up a little and dyed the Osaka night sky white with our frustration and the sighs of youth.

The interview was a total defeat, but the time I spent with those guys talking about unity, ability, and our inner potential wasn't a waste; it was a plus. Thank you, really.

By the way, including myself, not a single one of those people I recognize is currently working as a comedian.
That's what you call reality.

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