When I was in college in the 1970s, Richard Pryor was the king of comedy. Pryor's albums were near the top of the record stack in our dorm room, along with LPs by Peter Frampton and Earth, Wind & Fire.
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Pryor's humor was raw, profane and (to my then-20-year-old brain) insanely funny. Pros still rank him near the top in the stand-up comics' hall of fame. (Pryor died of a heart attack in 2005 at age 65.)
His humor was so far removed from my fundamentalist Christian upbringing that buying his albums counted as an act of rebellion. All I know is that I could — and still can — recite some of his bits verbatim.
Part of Pryor's virtuosity was that he was a storyteller, not a joke dispenser (a la, Jerry Seinfeld). Pryor grew up in a brothel in Peoria, Illinois, run by his grandmother, and his stage act was full of characters pulled from the stoops of his childhood.
Oddly, I'm not sure if I could enjoy a Pryor show now. Something happens to your brain between 20 and 65 (the "something," I think, is children), and profanity no longer works as a delivery system for humor, even if it's authentic to the material. I tried to watch a Chris Rock special on Netflix the other day, but turned it off halfway through. I wasn't offended so much as bored.
Which brings me to the topic of today's column. Two of today's most successful American comics are Tennessee-born Leanne Morgan and Nate Bargatze.
Morgan booked Memorial Auditorium for a night in June, but ticket demand was so high that her visit here has been stretched to three shows over four days. With seating for 3,866, that means maybe 10,000 tickets sold. Some of the best remaining seats were going for $300-plus on Ticketmaster last week.
Morgan grew up in a tiny Tennessee town where tobacco farming was the leading industry. Her husband is a mobile-home company manager whose idea of a date night meal, she says, is an egg-salad sandwich and a tall-boy beer from Pilot.
Morgan speaks in an exaggerated Tennessee drawl — "car" becomes "cawr" — and covers such midlife topics as Spanx, health insurance, thick ankles and the devastating effects of white flour. She went to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville and marvels at her transformation from hot girl on campus in the '80s to a middle-age mom who hates back fat and loves spray tans.
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She never ventures into politics — nor does Bargatze — yet I would vote for either of them for president of the United States. In fact, put Morgan and Bargatze on the same ticket representing the Comedy Party and I believe they could win. (I have no idea what their politics are, which is the thrill of it.)
The Washington Post says of Morgan: "(Her) jokes are about being too tired for intimacy with her husband, failing Weight Watchers nine times, fatigue about almost everything. She calls her audience 'my precious darlings.'"
In her late 50s, Morgan, who grew up in Adams, Tennessee, appeals to Gen X and boomer demographics that are often left out in the urban comedy-club scene.
Meanwhile, Bargatze is from Old Hickory, Tennessee, and has been called "The Nicest Man in Stand-up Comedy" by The Atlantic magazine. He brought his comedy tour to Chattanooga last year.
CBS says of Bargatze: "His jokes are clean, politics-free, even comforting — and that's exactly what a lot of people seem to be craving right now."
A sign of his popularity, Bargatze was a host of "Saturday Night Live" a few months back, and his skit about George Washington bemoaning the world's confusing "system of weights and measures" lives on as a YouTube classic.
Bargatze's simple observational humor and self-deprecating tone make him instantly likeable. The fact that he sometimes swallows syllables — like many of us in the South — makes him even more relatable.
He tells stories about dog bakeries, church basketball games played on carpet and the joys of Walmart, which he says is actually a mom-and-pop store that got its act together.
Together, I think the popularity of Morgan and Bargatze may signal a cultural turning point. A pair of popular comedians who make fun of themselves — with no need to ridicule others — is just what America needs.
If you don't believe they could really be funny, check out tons of clips on YouTube and Netflix and judge for yourself.
And take a pen on Election Day to cast a write-in vote. Order the comedy ticket either way you want. Both of these folks, in my humble opinion, would be better than the alternatives.
Contact Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6645.