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View ProfilesPublished June 7, 2023 at 10:00 a.m.
We all must play the hand that life deals us. So when Brooklyn-based comedian Ben Wasserman was dealt all death cards — he had three relatives and four friends die within a three-year period — he processed his grief in an unusually creative way: by mining humor from it.
Wasserman, 35, is by no means the first comic to incorporate death and dying into his act. The late George Carlin famously joked that comedians either "die" onstage by not being funny or "kill" their audiences by making them laugh. "So it's either me or you," Carlin said, "just like on the freeway."
Wasserman has taken his own grief-themed act, titled "Live After Death," to a new level by performing the interactive show in venues that normally aren't associated with laughter: cemeteries and funeral homes. That includes a performance this Thursday, June 8, at LaVigne Funeral Home in Winooski. Such shows reflect not just the changing face of the funeral industry but also changing attitudes about how to make death less of a taboo subject, especially among younger generations.
Wasserman's comedic odyssey into grief and loss began shortly after the death of his father, Howard Wasserman, from lung cancer on January 20, 2017. Almost a year to the day later, his grandfather died, just a few months after a comedian friend took his own life. Then three other friends died unexpectedly in rapid succession, as did Wasserman's uncle, who died from kidney cancer.
At the time of his father's death, Wasserman, a Long Island native, had a weekly standup gig in Brooklyn, which he canceled for a couple of weeks after his dad's funeral. Itching to get back onstage but not knowing how to broach the subject with an audience his first night back, Wasserman wore a T-shirt that read, "My dad died two weeks ago," but he did not mention the loss.
The following week, "feeling a bit like a coward for not bringing it up," Wasserman said, he decided to talk openly about his grief onstage. The challenge, however, was that his usual bits, which involved him playing a bunch of goofy characters set in absurdist scenarios, felt "forced and silly," he said.
"I didn't care to pretend that I was a British daredevil who got all his swords and flamethrowers taken away [at the airport] by the TSA," Wasserman said. "I didn't want to be the angry meditation coach guy. I didn't want to fuck around. I had a lot on my mind and heart, and I just started letting stuff come out."
Though initially unsure how the audience would react to such honest and raw emotions, Wasserman was blown away by the response. Not only were people laughing, but audience members approached him afterward, some teary-eyed, to thank him, offer him hugs and say how much the show touched them.
"I connected with people in a different way than I had previously," he said. "Beyond the fact that people I knew kept on dying, that sort of solidified [the idea] that, OK, maybe there's something here. And maybe other people can get something out of this, too."
In November 2021 Wasserman began workshopping his all-death-themed standup show, whose debut was briefly delayed by the arrival of the Omicron variant of COVID-19. But by March 2022, at the invitation of his friend Lily Sage Weinrieb, a New York City mortician, Wasserman was performing his first death-themed show at Sparrow, a Brooklyn funeral home. He's since done the show nearly two dozen times. His Winooski show is part of a New England tour that will also include a stop at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Mass.
Such unconventional venues pose obvious comedic challenges. Funeral homes and cemeteries aren't typically associated with knee-slapping belly laughter, nor do they serve alcohol, which helps loosen up crowds in comedy clubs.
Unsurprisingly, "Live After Death" also isn't your typical standup routine. Wasserman describes it as a mix of chaotic goofs and gags — including bits in which the audience helps him juggle and perform a séance — combined with what he's dubbed "vulnerable moments," during which he calls on audience members to talk about their own experiences with death, loss and grieving.
Wasserman hasn't found it difficult to engage audiences with the subject matter. If anything, he said, funeral homes seem to prime people to open up about death and dying, even in the company of strangers. All of it gets incorporated into Wasserman's set.
But that, too, is a high-wire act. While riffing on his own grief and loss is fair game, Wasserman acknowledged that it can be treacherous trying to glean humor from other people's tragedies. During one show in Philadelphia, two audience members brought up the murders of friends and family almost back-to-back.
"I thought, Oh, shit! I have no fucking clue how to make this funny," Wasserman recalled. "It feels less risky to me now because I've figured it out. But I never know what someone's going to say."
To be clear, Wasserman said he never pokes fun at how someone died — "unless it's some Road Runner, Wile E. Coyote kind of accident and they're already laughing at it." And though he calls on audience members during the show, Wasserman always respects someone's desire to not become part of the act.
"People do know that they're at a comedy show," he noted, "and so they're open to having a little fun being poked at them."
At first glance, it might seem irreverent, even disrespectful, for a funeral home or cemetery to host the event, since many people consider those places somber and sacred.
"The idea of inviting people into this space for a comedy show was a little jarring," admitted Rachel Currier, who was working at LaVigne Funeral Home when Wasserman found her through an online search and asked if the funeral home would consider hosting his event.
Though it took a little convincing, especially of the older staff, eventually they all warmed to the idea, said Currier, who is now a funeral director and manager at Kingston Funeral Home in Northfield. Kingston and LaVigne are co-owned by Jim Kennedy.
"Jim and I have always agreed that a funeral home can be so many different things to the community that it exists in, not just as a place for gathering for funerals," she explained. "We've been trying to find ways to open our doors to people, and this seemed like a really great way to do that."
Needless to say, there were practical considerations to factor in. For one, the show had to be booked so it would not conflict with a previously scheduled funeral, especially because spring is the Vermont funeral industry's busiest season.
Also, whenever Wasserman performs in a funeral home, he always agrees to the caveat that if the morticians or venue are needed that day for an actual funeral, the show will be canceled. So far, that hasn't happened.
The reaction to Wasserman's show among those in the industry has been overwhelmingly positive. As he explained, there's a new generation of end-of-life workers who are eager to connect with their communities in more robust, meaningful and intimate ways. Shows such as his are a way to make their institutions seem more modern, accessible and welcoming.
And while it might seem self-defeating for a comedian to make his audience sad — he has a joke or two about his tissue sponsors — Wasserman said his goal in standup isn't just to make people laugh.
"I make a point to say, 'I want you to cry,'" Wasserman said. "Comedy requires people to not only laugh nowadays, but you have to feel and cry and think. I wish I could just be funny. But that's not good enough for this business anymore."
The original print version of this article was headlined "Good Grief | A Brooklyn comedian brings his death-themed standup act to a Winooski funeral home"
Tags: Comedy, Ben Wasserman, Live After Death, LaVigne Funeral Home, Winooski, standup comedy, death, Video
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