New York-based comic Hari Kondabolu preps for every stand-up performance the same way: drinking lots of water, peeing and pacing.
“It’s the same thing over and over, and I think there’s a comfort in that,” he said. “I’ve been doing this 20 years, and I’m still absolutely a mess until I go on.”
The Queens-raised, Brooklyn-based comedian is gearing up for the release of his latest special, “Vacation Baby,” which he will self-release on YouTube on Tuesday. Named for his son, who was born during the pandemic but conceived just before lockdown, the special’s nontraditional release is a gamble for Kondabolu, who is no stranger to betting on himself.
“It just felt like I had this major life thing happen, and I had so much to talk about from those two years of the pandemic,” he said. “And I’m just sitting on it waiting for what exactly? For a network to give me the right to say what I want to say publicly?”
Alongside the special, Kondabolu will release an accompanying album on the music streaming services and will self-release a digital album, “(Extended) Vacation Baby,” on Bandcamp.
The Times caught up with Kondabolu to discuss the comedy climate of today, performing in L.A. versus New York and the origins of his more political comic material.
What made you want to name your special ”Vacation Baby”?
The special is very much about having a kid during the pandemic. It felt like the worst time in the world, and yet me and my partner were bringing this child into the world. I thought about naming this special “Pandemic Baby” or “Pandemic Dad” or something like that, but I wanted it to be positive.
What made you decide to release this special on YouTube?
I feel like I just got sick of waiting. With comedy specials, there’s a handful of people at a certain level who can say, “I want to make this special,” and then one of the streamers or the networks makes it because it’s good business. There was this era where [corporations were] really investing in stand-up. And it feels like we’re starting to see a decrease in that again as maybe there are fewer streamers, as things are consolidating, as the industry is in flux right now in a lot of ways.
The idea of waiting some indefinite period to release material just didn’t sit well with me. I do stand-up because I like to record hours. That is a fundamental part of the job for me. I don’t feel like I’m developing unless a new hour comes out and I clean the slate and start fresh with the next one. And I started seeing all these other comics start to release their specials on YouTube, which really initially didn’t sit well with me because it means you as a comic are taking the financial risk. You’re gambling and saying, “I’m betting it on myself,” and stand-up is a lot of that already. It’s a lot of risk, and 1681829560 we have to make it ourselves as well? But at the same time, I’m like, it’s freedom. Like I’m literally doing what I want and it’s in a forum that anyone can get to. You don’t need to pay to watch it, you can pass the link around. And so part of me is like, “Well, maybe I need to try this.” I feel like I always end up seeing something happen and I get in too late. And instead of waiting on an industry stamp to say, “You can make this,” it’s betting on yourself and saying, “I trust my instincts, I trust the people that like me, and I feel like more people will like me if they see this.” Whether I will go for it again is dependent on how this does, but I definitely am proud of this hour. I think it’s smart, I think it’s unique, I think it’s a personal and creative progression.
Do you have a favorite joke you’ve told?
Of all time, it’s probably my white chocolate/white Jesus joke. I love that joke. I think it’s the first joke on my first album, “Waiting for 2042,” and the joke covers racism, religion, pop culture, food. It’s like a perfect review of everything I talk about in one joke. So that one would be my favorite, probably of all time.
Do you have a pre-show routine?
Yes. I pace a lot. I talk to myself, especially if it’s the first show in a run. Like if I’m doing a bunch of shows, the first couple are where I’m the most nervous. I’m always pacing, always thinking about getting the joke order right, remembering the new jokes I added to an old joke.
I don’t like when other people are in the room talking when I’m pacing; I want it to be quiet. I just want to be in my head. I hate when the bathroom isn’t in the greenroom so if I have to pee, I have to be with the general public. It ruins the illusion because all of a sudden it’s like, “Oh yeah, the guy that I saw pee is onstage.”
Named for his son, who was born during the pandemic but conceived just before lockdown, the special “Vacation Baby” is a nontraditional release and a gamble for Kondabolu, who says he’s no stranger to betting on himself.
(Ali Imam)
What made you want to do comedy?
I knew I wanted to do comedy when I saw Margaret Cho on TV. Seeing an Asian American person do stand-up, even though she wasn’t Indian, was incredible to me. She had command of an audience, she was sharing her stories, people were laughing. I didn’t think that was even possible. There was no reason to assume that we were allowed to exist that way because the country very much speaks in a binary of Black [and] white. So when you’re not those things — especially in the late ’80s, ’90s — to see her be so confident and share her stories like that made me want to do it. And I’ve been hooked ever since.
When did you first consider trying stand-up?
The first time I did stand-up was at a comedy night that I started at my [high] school. I just wanted to scratch the itch, and so I got to perform in front of my class. The material was terribly unoriginal, but I got to do it and that was the important part. I figured that was that, and then I went to college up in Maine, and I did not necessarily love that. My decision there was, “Well, if everyone’s gonna look at me [anyway], at least I’m going to control how they view me.”
It wasn’t until after I graduated and moved to Seattle to work as an immigrant-rights organizer when I decided to make stand-up my full-time [job]. My boss at the time was Pramila Jayapal, who’s now a congresswoman out of Seattle. It was just that post-9/11 era, and I was working with [people] whose family members were being detained and deported, victims of hate crimes. It was a lot. So I did comedy at night, and it was this incredible stress reliever. And I somehow got discovered doing that while I was doing something that’s far more important than what I’m doing now.
Do you think that your experience there informed you becoming a “political comic”?
I think it developed into that. The same thing that made me want to work in immigrant rights is the same thing that made me want to write honest, confrontational material. It was this idea that things aren’t fair and I want to do something about it. And then after a while, you start to realize comedy is not going to fix anything. But initially, I just had this fire of “I want to say something.” Post-9/11, everything changed. Before that, I was a kid sheltered in the diversity of Queens, New York, and really didn’t question U.S. history as much as I probably should have. And after 9/11, I’m all of a sudden thinking about war critically. I thought a lot about racism and how that manifests. It made me rethink everything I thought about the country. And so that really spurred my intellectual curiosity, and that spurred my stand-up development.
How do you think history will remember the comedy climate today?
There are all these social movements happening at the same time at a much faster rate as a result of the internet, and people, for the first time, are getting their voices heard. And that comes with the power dynamics that come with any form of expression in this country. Generally it’s mostly a white audience in the mainstream who controls the studios, and it’s usually white people that have control of most of these things. There’s institutional racism in this country, and so everything you’re creating as an artist is always up against that background. And all of a sudden you’re seeing this period of great change, or at least great questioning. There’s growing pains in [that] people don’t know how to communicate with each other. They don’t know how to talk about critical things. And certainly Twitter doesn’t help, the internet doesn’t really help that. And navigating that is really hard, especially as an artist, especially as a stand-up who edits live. Unlike other art forms, we make mistakes as part of the gig. And so I think people will look at this period as one of great transition and like a tug of war of ideologies and also of opinions on how free speech works and how it should work.
As a comedian, do you feel like cancel culture is a true threat to your career? Does it impact you whatsoever?
Not really. I feel like who really gets canceled? Louis C.K. won a Grammy last year. There’s comics who fill out huge stadiums or at least 1,000-seat theaters, saying, “You can’t say anything anymore!” Like how can you say you can’t say anything anymore when you’re in front of 1,000 people, when you’re on TV and specials? So I don’t even think cancellation is a real thing. I think criticism is real. And I think people, particularly comics, aren’t used to accountability. It’s uncomfortable. Look, I’ve had people call me out, I don’t like it either. You always want to be the one that people think is funny and will make a good point. Nobody wants to be [told] “that was ridiculous” or “that’s offensive,” but that’s how it works when you throw your ideas into a public sphere. If anything, as a stand-up, the fact that people react the way they do is a sign of respect that what you say matters. Stand-ups always complain about “nobody cares about us, we’re never heard, we’re the workhorses of the entertainment industry,” and then when someone actually values the words that come out of your mouth, you get upset. Well, it doesn’t work that way. People love you because of what you say, but that also runs the risk of you stumbling and saying something you maybe later regret. To me, it’s like, if you believe something, stand by it, and if you don’t, apologize for it. Neither of those things makes you weak. And if you made a mistake and a joke didn’t hit right or you said something maybe you shouldn’t have said, then own that. Apologizing is just growth.
“I’m literally doing what I want, and it’s in a forum that anyone can get to,” Kondabolu says of his YouTube special. “You don’t need to pay to watch it, you can pass the link around. And so part of me is like, “Well, maybe I need to try this.”
(Ali Imam)
How do you think growing up in New York City has informed your comedy?
I see the way people talk about what they fear the country is going to become, with multiple languages and this mix of different races. “It’s not our country anymore, get the country back.” All they’re describing is where I grew up. That’s what Queens, New York, is. That’s what New York City is. It’s every language, every culture, every mix of human being. So it’s frustrating because it’s like, you like to visit but you don’t like to stay, is what I’m hearing. You like to come here and look, but you don’t want to live in it. It’s such a beautiful place to grow up. It’s not to say it’s perfect and there isn’t racism or homophobia or all the stuff that comes with any place, but everyone’s represented here and present in a way that you don’t get in other parts of the world. I feel really privileged, and I feel like that has definitely colored my view.
How does the comedy scene in New York compare to L.A.?
I think New York is a stand-up city. There’s so many shows in New York, and there’s such a tradition of it. And not to say there aren’t great comics who have come out of L.A. and that the L.A. scene isn’t a healthy one, but I feel like New York is … you get your butt kicked there, and you become a better comic. And I don’t know if the same is true for L.A., but I know with New York you go through fire. You become tougher, you become sharper. I think you see where the bar is. When you’re on the road having started in New York, the road feels so much easier because you’ve been through one of the hardest places to play.
And L.A. I think has a great scene. Largo is incredible, the UCB tradition, obviously there’s a great alt scene there. It has had a really great history, and there’ve been great comics that have come out. But you’ll see more comics in L.A. who clearly just want to be on TV and do acting work, and they build the material for the purpose of that. Which, look, that’s a way to do it. But New York is New York.
Do you have a favorite city or venue to perform in?
It’s either Seattle or Oakland. I recorded my first album in Oakland. It feels like Oakland audiences are as smart as San Francisco audiences, except they’re also more expressive. It isn’t just like, “I get the joke.” It’s like, “I feel the joke. It has resonated with me on more than just one level, and I’m going to let you hear it.” And that is incredible. And I started in Seattle, so I always have a loyalty to that city, and the Neptune Theatre is one of my favorite places to play. A beautiful theater where I recorded my first Netflix special and that is, without a doubt, one of my favorite venues.
What’s the worst part of the job?
Travel. Travel is hard. I think that’s [true] for any touring performer. I love performing and I love going to other cities, but the process of getting to those cities and staying in a hotel and stuff that was exciting when I was 28, at 40 it’s like, “I have a kid and I have a partner. I have a life. I want my kid to see me.” And I also take shows that don’t go well a little harder now because it’s just like, “I left my kid for this?!” It makes you more focused in a way. It makes you do the best you can with the time you have and not waste any time. But being away is not easy, and as much as I love performing, I think a lot of comics at a certain place feel the same way. I love this job, but it’s brutal. Brutal on the body, brutal on the mind. How many friends’ birthdays did I miss? How many weddings did I miss? That’s part of what comes with you going where the gigs take you.
