The author of the article, a six-page profile of Zach Galifianakis, is John Wray.

Here, he downshifts into the first turn of the piece with this tired bit:

Perhaps more than anyone else in the business, Galifianakis embodies the rebellion against the outmoded Comedy Club circuit– the exposed brick, the two-drink minimum, the indifferent audience, the “regular guy with an attitude” routine– which has come to be labeled the “indie comedy” movement.

In this, his setup paragraph, Wray inserts the obligatory dissing of the “outmoded Comedy Club circuit.” It’s something we’ve come to expect from the hackiest of newspaper reporters. It’s now in the Paper of Record.

And it fits the modus operandi of nearly all those who attempt to write about the alt or indie “movement” or “revolution”– it tears down in order to build up. It paints the comedy club as a dreary place, each one just like the other, each packed with patrons who are variously drunk, hostile or, in this most recent example, indifferent.

Trouble with that characterization is that it’s not true. It may well be a somewhat accurate description of a bad, poorly-run comedy club. But it more accurately describes a bad one-nighter. And the distinction is worth pointing out. Good, capable comics– indie, alt or otherwise– eventually stop doing such dates. It’s partially a matter of economics, but it’s also to preserve sanity and self-respect– and to eliminate some of the more egregious barriers to the continuous honing of the art and the craft of standup. So one of the main badges of honor among the alt/indie crowd– that they absolutely had to seek out venues other than Comedy Clubs — is actually somewhat misleading.

We’ve seen Galifianakis– he’s funny, he’s clever, he writes great material and he possesses a certain playfulness and unpredictability that would go over very well in almost any venue. Including those of the outmoded comedy club circuit.

The same is true for (alt saint) Patton Oswalt and others in their cohort. When we hear their lamentations that they had to seek out venues that were more accommodating, more hospitable, we are unmoved. It’s something we all (or most of us) do to a certain extent. And when, on their way out the door, they heap scorn on the clubs and the audiences that we find to be perfectly acceptable, we take issue.

And when we see their willing accomplices in the MSM swallowing whole their version of events, we are doubly frustrated. It’s all so unnecessary.

This quote, from Galifianakis, is particularly egregious.

If you’re going on right after a guy with suspenders and a skinny, 1980’s-style comedy tie, who’s been striking crazy poses– doing the same type of material that worked in 1991– there’s no space for trying unconventional stuff.

To which we reply, when you’re painting a picture of a comedy club using clichés that were dated twenty years ago, you had better get some new material.

Doubly ironic is that Wray, when laying the foundation for Galifianikis’ hagiography, cites Steven Wright and Andy Kaufman, a valid comparison and one which we’re certain Galifianakis wouldn’t quarrel with and neither would we. But those two comics were at their most influential more than two decades ago. Wray also says that Galifianakis incorporates slapstick and “solemnly tacky musical interludes” into his act. Perhaps he should have cited Victor Borge, Ernie Kovacs, Ed Wynn and Steve Allen as influences.

Our point is that Galifianakis, despite his contempt for comics “doing the same type of material that worked in 1991,” is doing the type of material that worked in 1991… and worked in 1981… and worked in 1951. And, if we were to be hyper-catty and youth-oriented and cyber-savvy about it, he’s using “flip-board messages,” so he’s using material that worked in 2001. (See here.)

Comedians, more so than almost any type of performing artist, are adaptable, pragmatic. And they have a blank canvas to work with. We’re fortunate in that we can do anything we want to get a laugh. We can do several things at once, we can do two different things, we can narrow it down to just one thing and do that one thing very well. As long as it makes a roomful of people laugh. Our motto should be: “You do what you can, you do what you want, you do what you have to.”

We’re baffled by the revolutionary label and we’re baffled by the refusal to appreciate “conventional” (or non-revolutionary) comics. We’ve often considered writing a parody of a New York Times article– about ourselves, of course– which is just as fawning and obsequious as this one and which invokes the late masters of the craft and delves into the “psychological subtext” of our acts. It’s easy! Try it at home! Extra points for working in the term “zeitgeist!” Double plus extra points for describing your beard as “an organizing principle for (your) career, a useful dividing line between (your) formative and mature periods.” We maintain that we could write such an article without trashing any of our contemporaries.

Another troubling aspect of this piece (and of nearly every other piece every written on the alt scene) is the dredging up of stereotypes regarding standup comics.

Since the early ’60s, a multitude of clichés have accrued around the professional comic– the drug use, the womanizing, the fits of self-destructive rage, the angry-clown persona– that a few prominent talents, like John Belushi and, more recently, Chris Farley, seemed to embody. But none have been more tenacious than the belief that the gift of comedy is developed, or at least refined, by a traumatic childhood.

Uh… Belushi and Farley weren’t standup comics. (Galifianakis is, primarily, a standup comic, so the distinction is worth making.) We’re puzzled as to why Wray didn’t cite Richard Pryor. Or Lenny Bruce or Jonathan Winters or Freddie Prinz. Or, if he really wanted to make the reference even more pointless and ridiculous, Joe E. Lewis. And we hasten to point out that those examples are all 25 years old or more. Perhaps, in an article about a standup comic that mentions the standard stereotypes, the reason that Belushi and Farley are cited is because there are no recent examples that can be cited.

Odder still is the fact that Galifianakis goes on to say that he had a happy childhood. So, bringing it up in the first place was just for the sake of bringing it up… it must be mandatory. It’s a companion to the opening of the first paragraph, which describes the TriBeCa venue as…

…host to a stand-up comedy show, but you’d never have guessed it from the goings-on backstage. The only people in the modest, disconcertingly spotless greenroom were the opening acts: two smartly dressed, well-spoken, polite comedians in their early 30s, both of whom could have passed for architecture students, or graphic designers, or even grass-roots organizers for the Obama campaign. No entourage was in evidence; marijuana was alluded to, but never actually smoked; gourmet hummus and He’brew ale were partaken of, but only in moderation.[…]

Why, we’ve never been so surprised in our lives! Every green room we’ve ever been to has been a shit mess populated with comics dressed like homeless dudes, smoking dope, drinking Old Milwaukee and eating fried mozzarella sticks! These alt comics, they sure are smart… and they eat healthier! And they insist that the venue stock beer that even has a funny name!

You get the idea.