DAMN.
October 11, 1975.
New York City.
I'm in Manhattan for the very first time attending a high school journalism conference. There's a bunch of us, including my best friend Roy and my quasi-girlfriend at the time, Bib. We are all of us fresh off the turnip truck.
But that's another story.
The point here is that during a tour of 30 Rockefeller Plaza we're treated to a few minutes in NBC's cavernous Studio 8H to eavesdrop on the final rehearsal for something called "Saturday Night" scheduled to debut later that evening. There's George Carlin horsing around with a bunch of scruffy looking kids who can't be much older than us. Looks like a college drama class only with more chaos. Another guy's trying to keep things focused, but it's like herding cats. Lorne Michaels was just a kid, too. They're all kids - Radner, Curtain, Chase, Belushi, Morris, Belushi and Akroyd.
Our tour guide tells us to come back and hang out around the skating rink about 10 pm. We might get lucky and get picked to see the show. Roy, Bib and I make it in. I don't actually remember going up to the studio or how the audience was seated, but as we come to our senses we realize we're on the edge of the runway where Carlin was rehearsing his monologue that afternoon. There are stages scattered around the studio. The audience is buzzing, stage hands, floor managers, camera operators, prop people are all over the place. At some point this incredibly skinny, hawk-faced kid comes out to "warm us up." He does about ten minutes - none of which I can recall in detail - but because I'm a kid right off that turnip truck, I do remember it's the filthiest stuff I've ever heard, and therefore, great.
I am still a Richard Belzer fan.
The house lights dim, a voice counts down, then something happens off to the right on one of the smaller stages we can't really see, and somebody yells "Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!" The raggedy Tin Pan Alley band recruited right off the street during a musicians strike blasts away, and we're officially part of Broadcast History.
And then I'm eye level with Carlin's feet, looking up at one of my idols and at my friends - we must be in a dream.
And so we were. It all still seems very surreal. I talked to Roy last night after we got the news about Carlin's death. Neither of us have very sharp recollections of that night. I remember bits and pieces.
I vividly recall Andy Kaufman's "Mighty Mouse" routine.
He's on stage directly across from us and no one makes a sound for what seems like an eternity. I'm sure half the audience just doesn't get it.
Janis Ian
and Billy Preston are the musical guests. Ian performs the suicidally depressing "At Seventeen" and something I don't remember. Preston does "Nothing from Nothing" and something I don't remember. I do remember Carlin makes faces at Ian and cracks her up just before the end of the break and her cue. The stage manager scolds him like a child, "cut it the fuck out, please George. It's a serious song." Carlin reacts like he's been slapped by a nun.Bedlam breaks out after the wrap. I'm standing near Lorne MIchaels when somebody runs up with a huge bouquet of roses and gushes something like "we nailed it! We nailed it!"
We all walk with a copy of George's new LP, "An Evening With Wally Lando, Featuring Bill Slazo" which we secretly listen to over and over again in the school darkroom. If only they'd known...
I haven't seen that first show in many years, but I know we're still there at Carlin's feet. We're still 17 years old, gawking up at this subculture icon, wrapped up in an historical moment the significance of which we were blissfully ignorant.
Somewhere in the great beyond - against everything George believed (or didn't) - I'd like to think he's yukking it up in the celestial Green Room with Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor - maybe Freddie Prinze - waiting to go on Carson.
I think it's the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately. -- George Carlin
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