“I’m still finding my comedy powers, whatever that means,” he says, “but it was a very tough show to follow up. I’ve reworked Not A People Person in the UK so I think I have something really great to work with. Primarily now it’s about hiring a sniper to follow me around and then assassinate me at my happiest moment.”
Simmons is bringing Not A People Person back to Melbourne this month. While he didn’t scoop up the 2016 Barry Award, there’s certainly demand for an encore performance. Comparisons to Spaghetti For Breakfast aside, what counts is that Not A People Person is itself a unique show, and a sign of Simmons’ commitment to continually developing his stagecraft.
“You have to evolve. I’m nearly 40 and I want my work to remain relevant and funny,” he says. “But comedy… that’s a big word. I guess I just want to be the best I can be – for me, that is. I’m selfish in that way; I make shows for me. One of my favourite comedians is Bill Burr, which people find surprising. The man is a machine and he just gets better and better, or bitter and bitter in his case.”
Simmons’ comedy is rooted in practices that could be perceived as risky and experimental – there’s a lot of audience interaction, destruction of stage props and an aggressive style of delivery. But despite the room for chaos and unpredictability that exists in his shows, he’s also something of a control freak.
“I have no mathematic equation when I’m building a show, but I do work backwards,” Simmons says. “I start with the answer then find out what the question is – always have. I’m difficult, I’m moody and I can’t change. I’m scared to medicate in case it changes how I think.
“I don’t try to be risky or experimental. It’s a way more organic process. I guess I just don’t respect the rules of comedy, especially how live stuff is manufactured and swallowed up by an audience. But I do totally respect traditional stand-up. I’m just not very good at it… yet.”
It’s perfectly apt for Simmons to present a show entitled Not A People Person, as he’s long been known to make audience members feel uncomfortable. That said, unsettling people isn’t his primary aim. Rather, it’s more or less an outcome of his personality being amplified on a big stage.
“I’m like this in real life, but I think I’m normal. I mean I live in me, so I have no benchmark into how I should behave. Also, I mean fuck it – you have one life and I’m just kind of going for it. I’m not obsessive, I’m really lazy, but I also love to create. I love what I do. I don’t want to make people feel uncomfortable. They do that to themselves. I’m hardly that challenging, it’s just some people have a difficult time getting their head around a form they see as only being delivered in one way. Also I’m an acquired taste. I’m not for everyone. I’m the Turkish delight in a box of Quality Streets.”
In a 2007 interview on Andrew Denton’s Enough Rope, Jerry Seinfeld argued that a fundamental distinction between comedians and actors is that actors tend to dissolve themselves into their roles, whereas comedians want to get out as much as possible – to extract every last bit of them self and leave it on stage. Sam Simmons’ comedy is nothing like Jerry Seinfeld’s, but the two appear to share some similar principles.
“You can always pick an actor doing stand-up, you know what I mean? It’s that little stench of, ‘Oh you’re acting like a stand-up.’ A comedian is pure, I feel, in voice – a uniqueness. That’s why some comedians make great actors. Not in a Meryl Streep or Daniel Day Lewis kind of way, where they inhabit character in a way a stand up can’t. They are too brilliant.
“But only Bill Murray can be Bill Murray, if you know what I mean. And he’s always just playing Bill Murray. I often wonder if Jack Nicholson was a frustrated stand-up?
He’s always Jack. Is that an answer? Even I’m confused.”
BY AUGUSTUS WELBY
