arts & entertainment
Andrew Miele
Monday, July 12, 2010
Swift’s tragic genius is marginalized,
but that’s probably because Swift’s genius isn’t cool. Big Perm is. Perm, a new
face on the Philadelphia comedy scene, stands at that nexus between genius and
comedy. The confederacy is there too, poised either for acceptance or
dismissal. Perm’s has the necessary charm and braggadocio but his best weapon
is himself. Comedy is about delivery and timing and strong material, but you
need more than that; you need respect. If an audience doesn’t respect a comedian,
then they’re laughing at them and not their joke. No matter how silly, how
embarrassing or self-depreciatory their act might become, fans respect the
Lenny Bruce’s, George Carlin’s and Bill Hick’s of the world; they don’t respect
the Carrot-Top’s. Few who’ve seen the stand-up of Big Perm, could honestly say
they don’t respect him. Perm is a young, Philadelphia comic on the rise. He has
not just the jokes and the delivery necessary for fame, but most importantly,
he has the character. No matter where he is or who he’s with, Perm becomes the
epicenter, and the rest of us just become conduits for his personality. “I’m
big with swag,” he says. Confidence like his is contagious; you believe him
because he believes so much in himself. He
holds with the maxim that in comedy as in life, “You gotta speak about what you
know.” So what does he know? Just those same things everyone else: sex, money
and drugs. Too many institutions led by too many false prophets try
complicating humanity’s ills. People are basic creatures. This wisdom underlies
Perm’s act. It is visible in his face, it’s written on his arms, and it’s heard
in the hacking cough borne of smoking too many Backwoods. It shines like the
princess-cut bracelet on his arm, so luminous if hung up there would be a
senior prom held beneath it. Only a few seconds around him is enough to know
you’re in the presence of an honest to goodness, red-blooded iconoclast. This
isn’t hyperbole; Big Perm lives up to the hype (and probably adding as much to
it through his own insistences as anyone else). He can’t help it; his genius is
loud, lecherous and undeniably funny. He doesn’t see it as arrogance however, “I
just have high self-esteem,” he says. Who could argue? More specifically, who
would?
Perm doesn’t win over an audience, he
conquers them. Taking over the stage armed with a presence as big as himself,
he squares off against the rows of the expectant confederation. He is a comedic
juggernaut; forcing your approval and your laughter. The confederacy doesn’t
stand a chance. From turning the tables by making his audience the butt of the
joke to lamenting his experiences with a less than endowed former flame, “she
was a SpongeBob SquarePants”, Perm is at his best when he’s onstage holding
court, either dispensing his wealth of carnal knowledge or waxing philosophical
on the simple joys of beautiful women and weed. Though his material is of a
more mature nature, Perm is honest about it. He accepts who is he and how he
might be viewed. “I don’t wanna be no kids hero,” he says with mock gravity,
then adding with an infectious smile, “Because I’m not a nice guy.”
But, the amazing thing about Big Perm
is that sometimes, when he wants to be, he is
a nice guy. Perm can not only make you like him, but he can make it easy. According
to him, his appeal is partly because “I look funny.” Yet, ‘funny’ is a
malleable concept. When Perm’s onstage or hanging out, he is hilarious and
welcoming. A bad mood? That’s a different story. Then he is as intimidating as
his 300-plus pound frame implies. He emanates the aura of the street with its heart-breaking
grey-eyed sadness. This dichotomy is essential to his appeal.
Even though he sometimes emanates it,
Perm is quick on dispelling any false notion of a cliché anti-climatic ghetto
opera. “Privileged,” is how Perm refers to his childhood. Two parents, two
cars; a little of the gangster smoke dissipates. Although, the time came when he
realized mom wasn’t paying for any new Nikes, so he figured he’d have to. “I
chose that,” he says, referring to his past. Perm is someone in control of his
fate. For better or worse, his decisions are his own. “I did some bad shit,” he
says carelessly, “but then I found comedy.” There is unmistakable joy in his
voice when he discusses his art. He smiles like one who has found his true
calling. There can be no turning back, his past is behind him, and all that’s
ahead is a bright future.
Describing his onstage persona, some
have compared Perm with Andrew Dice Clay. While other comedians might shudder
at any reference to the -infamous Dice Man and their act, Perm relishes the
crass tradition he somewhat embodies, “I wanna get paid to be the asshole.” Perm
has no qualms about the pursuit of fame and glory, saying he respects comics
like Andrew Dice Clay and others of similar milieu because, “they took it to
the top.” He states this simply, yet with conviction. The hustler in him
acknowledges the worth of the business model to going out each night, filling
stadiums and getting paid for it. Why not? Talent should be rewarded. It is a
ruthless mentality, one without room for purism, but before criticizing him, understand
his approach has been influenced by an environment where far too many are in
desperate conflict for far too few opportunities; where talent means you’re
“either slingin’ crack or you got a wicked jump-shot.” In such a climate, possibilities seem limited
by how well you hustle on the court or how well you hustle off it. Such narrow
expectations are not for people like Big Perm. He’s looking for option number
3. “Besides,” he says, “I’m too fat to play ball anyway."
There’s more to Perm than sex jokes;
he is a street-corner Socrates in the tradition of a Pryor or a Chappelle. He’s
only doing what comes naturally, “it’s what I’ve done my whole life.” Instantaneously
there materializes in my mind’s eye a montage of countless days spent days
sitting on a Philly stoop busting on a pair of broke-ass sneakers. He brings
those days up on stage with him. Much of his act is culled from his past. It
provides ample material. At his disposal is the entire spectrum of a life that
has seen the good and bad, the wrong and right. There are the hilarious memories,
like the story of the police raid thwarted by fleas. “Jumpers,” as he calls
them, which descended on the invading cops and dogs alike, who had no choice
but halting their attack so they could scratch themselves. But there are also the
stories of sadness, and the desperation and violence he carries with him. These
are recollections unavoidable in the neighborhoods he calls home. In a few days
he’ll be attending an annual cook-out held in honor of those lost to the street.
After first complaining, albeit slightly tongue-in-cheek, about how carrying
the meat back and forth was ruining his car’s backseat, Perm began talking
about the fallen soldiers. His smile vanished as he spoke of the mistakes made and
tragedies witnessed. It only adds to his mystique, his depth and impact on an
audience.
What ties all these conflicting sensations
and experiences together is Perm himself. Doing so isn’t easy, but Perm is more
than ready. He stands at the center of this universe he has created and the
rest of us are pulled into orbit by his charisma and charm. He is poetically
and undeniably real. When he talks you listen and take it for what it’s worth,
humorous or not. Most entertainers are arrogant enough they consider themselves
original or perhaps even “larger than life.” They create an undersized image
which shatters under the slightest pressure. There is no experience, no life
behind such frail illusions. But not Perm. He is always himself no matter what
the situation. His presence fills up the stage, the audience truly becomes
‘his’ audience and they cannot help but buy into him. Drawing them to him, he
transcends that gap separating the stage from the crowd. He has all the makings
of a star. If you doubt me, just go to any of Big Perm’s shows and you’ll see Mr.
Swift’s dogma holds true, because gathered around, laughing uproariously, are
the marks of a true comedian.