Explosions In The Skype

A grandmother, two rock stars, and a laptop walk into Jackpot! Recording Studio—is Keep It Like A Secret some new kinda joke?

Inside the guitar-laden central chamber of a sound-baffled workshop painted a bright shade of honeydew we'll call Weezer Green, a dressed-down cross-section of upper-echelon indie Portland sat expectantly as Larry Crane balanced a laptop on music stand near large microphone. Watching the Tape-Op publisher and legendary recording engineer nimbly fiddle with A/V cords arouses certain masterclass thrills, but first time visitors to comedy showcase Keep It Like A Secret might've figured he was the world's most over-qualified roadie for a tech-themed prop comic. This wasn't entirely untrue.

Since the monthly comedy showcase debuted last spring, each Keep It Like A Secret has opened with a touring comedian's remote performance. One routine was phoned in from the comic's cell after computer crash. And, while the inevitable distancing effects may feel too strange any ordinary stand-up bill, the rarefied environs of KILAS encourage a forward-thinking approach.

And so rising comic Kate Berlant began a set streamed directly from her Los Angeles hotel. She gleefully exploited the format's inadequacies: freezing in place to pretend glitches had stalled transmission, and willfully mumbled a joke's set-up before a non-sequitur punchline, constantly referencing the wayward motions of unseen hands. 

The second incarnation of Jackpot! Recording Studio lacks perhaps the ramshackle charms of the Buckman original, an indie rock mecca where a host of artists laid down foundational albums (Deathcab, Decemberists, Richmond Fontaine), and Elliott Smith stored his gear between tours. But it has a cozy functionality; it looks the sort of place to hold panel discussions for the Grammy powers-that-be, and Crane seems the sort of guy to skip the ceremony and live-tweet coverage with his wife, Keep It Like A Secret hostess and emcee Jenna Zine.

A former marketing director for the Crystal Ballroom, Zine became immersed in the burgeoning local comedy scene upon returning to Portland after the couple's ill-fated move to Arizona a few years ago. "I loved the music scene so much," she said, "but, when I came back, I didn't have the same energy to participate the way that I used to. I was searching for something else and comedy was this nice compromise. We started going to Helium all the time, and I started reading up on all these people and researching all these shows. After a while, it kinda dawned on me to combine all my interests.” 

Borrowing an idea from the "Live @ The Apt" micro-shows held at Brooklyn walk-ups (the series' creators Skyped their approval during the first KILAS), she invited a few friends over to the Southeast Portland apartment she shares with Larry, and, once the number of guests grew unwieldy, he offered the studio. "It's a fun way to do an event together," Zine said. "I have my niche, and he has his.  It's a way for us to blend our worlds.”

Some nights, of course, blend worlds more than others.  At January's showcase, Herman Jolly—Sunset Valley frontman and recent graduate of the Brody theater comedy workshop course—was followed by Thermals frontman Hutch Harris, who has recently made something of a second career in stand-up and now hosts his own open mic night. Unfurling well-crafted routines that played upon innate rhythms and heightened natural personae (addled irreverence for Jolly, hyperagreeability for Harris), these weren't dabblers.  And aside from the silly tune closing Jolly's set and Harris' self-introduction as "Sleater-Kinney", there was little hint of their day jobs, though subtle differences still arose. 

Where the bill's designated comedians mined romantic misadventures for varying tweaks of the sexless shtick seemingly unchanged from vaudeville, Harris' misanthropy arose from a decidedly distinct perspective. He less moaning about an undateable future than worried about past relationship failings. If squarely within broader traditions of fanciful self-loathing, the boundless narcissism of the not-altogether-unhappy seemed a relatively fresh target and lent an air of aspirational whimsy in tune with the locale.

Aside from the sheer frisson of gracing the studio that's welcomed R.E.M. and Eddie Vedder, the underlying atmosphere of Keep It Like A Secret's informal structure (interested parties must join guest lists of the "attended recording sessions") carries an addictive whiff of VIP privilege. 

Complimentary beer tastings have been provided by Jack Houston of Royale Brewing since day one, and the comedians occasionally enjoy neck rubs from a licensed massage therapist eager to integrate her own services. Folding chairs aside, the space seethes comfort, there's no distraction from waiters or drunken hecklers, and acoustics are about as peerless as you'd expect. After appearing at the third KILAS last summer, Dax Jordan returned to record his second album of stand-up, and next month Jackpot! will host a slew of local comics for the PDX Comedy Mixtape compilation. 

If this seems rather a waste of energies for the globally-renowned studio, Crane insists "it's a different kind of recording challenge. You can do a little bit of editing, but you don't coach people the way you would a rock band or songwriter. The comedians have to keep going with their sets and maybe do a whole other pass if they don't like it. As an engineer, it's kind of cool because you're assuming they're gonna go for broke, but it's not on your head to make it great. They have to deliver the goods, so to speak."

WWeek 2015