Bridgetown Comedy Festival co-founder and comedian Matt Braunger talks about the good times, bad times and the Portland he remembers
Though now a successful comedian, actor and writer living in Los Angeles, Matt Braunger hangs onto his Northeast Portland roots. He grew up here and his parents still live in the City of Roses.
Braunger left Portland when he was 17, almost two decades ago. He’ll tell you that, corny as it sounds, life is a journey — not a destination. He should know. Braunger has spent years in the Chicago and Los Angeles comedy scenes and he’s lived on the road doing stand-up comedy. That journey took him from open mics in Chicago to Letterman’s couch, and landed him a gig playing the role of Gene Martin on NBC’s “Up All Night” where he played opposite Christina Applegate and Will Arnett.
Braunger is also a co-founder of the Bridgetown Comedy Festival, an annual event in Portland since 2008. The festival puts Portland “on the map” in the comedy world – and in light of Portland’s most recent über-cool status, lots of comedians want to do the festival. The event includes hundreds of comedians – many of whom are unknown, incredibly funny people, right here in Portland.
Matt Braunger will be in town for the holidays and is hosting the first official, “Coldest and Darkest Time of the Year Comedy Spectacular” with Ron Funches and Ian Karmel on Dec. 27 at the Mission Theater.
Sue Zalokar: It seems like you have been on the path to performing since the beginning. When did you realize you were a stand-up comedian?
Matt Braunger: MADtv might have been the thing that made it real. Sitting on Letterman’s couch was definitely a peak. It’s getting people to trust you and kind of believe in you. And then they give you their money.
One of the best compliments I ever got was when I was in high school or college. I was doing plays and somebody told me they were glad to be on stage with me because I feel like you’ll handle it no matter what’s going to happen. If somebody drops a line, I’ve always been such a goof that I was never afraid to be in the moment.
S.Z.: You said sitting on Letterman’s couch was a pinnacle moment.
M.B.: That was huge. I was the last guest of that year, for the season. He had Tracy Morgan on before me and Tracy was being really nuts. I could tell that David was not into his shenanigans. It was really fun to sit there with him and make (Letterman) laugh.
The thing is, when they say “cut,” you’re not allowed to move. No one gets to move or talk to Letterman, so you just sit there. And then he goes up the stairs and shuts the door and they’re like, “OK, everybody.” And then you can get up.
When I was sitting there, they called “That’s cut” everything went dark and I heard him get up and walk behind me and he put his hand out and he said, “You’re very funny.” I shook his hand. I said, “Thanks.”
I didn’t even turn around. He was over my left shoulder and my right arm went back to where he was, like, “I’m not allowed to look at you.”
S.Z.: You just did “Just for Laughs” (a Montreal comedy festival) in November. You opened for Dave Chappelle. That must have been amazing.
M.B.: Yes. We hung out that night a little bit. He is very private. Audiences in Montreal are just incredible. It’s actually a lot like Portland where audiences really like to have fun, but they’re also really smart. They’ll let you experiment and fool around. There are certain towns where you play and people expect you to talk about how much your wife and kids annoy you.
S.Z.: I watched a YouTube video where you recently rapped "Big Daddy Kane’s “Aint No Half Steppin’” in its entirety. That was at Just for Laughs as well.
M.B.: Yes. My manager pulled aside Robbie Praw — one of the guys who run Just for Laughs — and asked to get me into the Hip Hop Karaoke. My manager told him I was in a rap group in college. And Robbie looked at her and said, “Get the fuck outta here.” People don’t look at me and go, “Oh yeah, that guy raps.”
I’ve always been a huge fan of hip hop. I used to go to 2nd Avenue Records (in it’s old location, two doors down – right by the Morrison Bridge) when I was a kid. I would literally walk in and all of the vinyl to the right was all hip hop. And I would just buy whatever they put out. That’s how I discovered Big Daddy Kane, NWA, Eazy E, Public Enemy, you name it – all the greats.
That night at hip hop karaoke, I was so nervous. The room was “8 Mile-ish.” There was no teleprompter. You had to know the whole song. It ended up being the most fun night ever. People did everything from Biggie to Macklemore and everyone was really good.
S.Z.: You’ll be at the Mission Theater in December for the First annual Darkest, Coldest Time of the Year Comedy Spectacular.
M.B.: I figure, I come home for Christmas every year anyway, so why not have an event every year? Last year I played the Hollywood Theater with Ian Karmel and Ron Funches — who both have a Portland connection — and this year we wanted to do it again.
S.Z.: You hold claim to Portland still, though you have lived in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles for the past couple of decades. What was Portland like when you were growing up here?
M.B.: Now, it’s a thing. For instance, wherever I go people are like, “Oh! You’re from Portland. It’s so cool. Why did you leave?” I always think, It wasn’t that cool when I was a kid. That’s not to say it wasn’t great — it really was fantastic. It was a great place to grow up. Chuck Palahniuk wrote a book about how Portland is basically a place for refugees. People who don’t fit in other places end up here. And in a sense, it’s really like that.
You can make your own thing in Portland, and that’s always been true. My parents are teachers. A series of laws were passed in Chicago and then California that basically cut the public school system wages to the bone. They were young teachers at that time, so they moved to Portland where it was still a good place to be a teacher. That was how we ended up in Northeast Portland when I was 4 years old.
S.Z.: You went to Grant High School. Were either of your parents teachers there when you were there?
M.B.: No. I also went to Fernwood Middle School, which I think is now Beverly Cleary. My dad was what you call the “student management specialist” – basically the disciplinarian. He worked there, but he left the year before I went there. My parents and I had an unspoken agreement that I would never go to a school they worked at.
I grew up knowing guys that didn’t do so well in life who were in and out of correctional facilities. They said, “You’re dad was always cool.” My dad would sit them down and ask them what was going on with them. Anytime I tell my dad that, he gets kind of sad, like he failed a kid.
The prison system dilemma – it’s so plainly obvious what needs to happen and people just don’t want to deal with it. They don’t want to understand that there are reasons for things. It’s like, just punish the hell out of them. If a market for building prisons that profit certain individuals happens along the way, whatever.
I got a DUI 10 years ago. I went through the deferral program and I haven’t done that since and it was a massive life lesson. I was pulled over for driving too slow. I was driving and I was like, oh man I’m wasted.
I went to AA as a part of the program — the thing that stuck with me is that generally speaking, alcoholics don’t say I’m never going to drink again because that’s way too much to even fathom. What you say is, I’m not going to drink today.
Just think about all you have, which is today.
S.Z.: I read that you do therapy every Monday. What kind of therapy?
M.B.: I have a therapist. We took this week off, but I feel like we all have issues and I’m lucky enough to have health care through the Screen Actors Guild. If you have access to help, you should take that opportunity. People think of it as a weakness sometimes, but I just think we all have issues we don’t even realize we’re dealing with. It’s better just to confront them head on.
I’ll put it this way. It’s kind of like getting on stage. There are times when it’s the last thing I want to do. And I think, “I don’t want to go to fucking therapy. I don’t want to talk to this dude. I hate it.” But I always leave feeling better.
Anytime I don’t want to do a show and I think, “Uh, why did I say yes to this bullshit show in this bar?” You always learn something. It’s always worth it.
S.Z.: We talked about your DUI. You’ve written a screenplay about the time that you were here in Portland working on the deferment and living with your parents.
M.B.: I just finished the fifth draft and all my reps think it’s good enough to take out, so now I’m looking for financing to hopefully come back to Portland and shoot it there.
It’s about the deferment. The thing is, I thought it was like the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I left Chicago and went home for two weeks and was off to L.A. to seek my fortune and then did a boneheaded thing like drive drunk.
I was basically stuck there (in Portland); I was sentenced by the courts to live with my parents for four months as an adult. I left home when I was 17 or so. It was a massive blow to my ego. I felt like such an idiot. But I got to know my parents in a way that I never did when I was a kid. That’s the heart of it. Obviously there is nothing funny about drunk driving and I don’t make that funny.
But afterward, for instance, I was left in a holding cell by myself, still cuffed behind my back and I tried to snake the cuffs over my feet. I, of course, got as far as my knees and I was stuck. (Laughter) The cop came and opened the cell and said, “Well, what happened here?”
S.Z.: You co-founded the Bridgetown Comedy Festival. Tell me about how that came about.
M.B.: Andy Wood and Kimberly Brady came after a show and said, Hey we’re thinking of starting a comedy festival and I was all the way in. I like coming to Portland and doing shows and being with my folks. I had a friend who used to book rock clubs. The bands didn’t start until ten, so I would ask to have the club from eight until ten. My job with the festival for the first couple of years – I’m way more involved now – but my job for the longest time was just to ask my famous friends to do it.
S.Z.: I dare say that you and your co-conspirators have marked Portland as a spot on the comedy map. What is it like to foster that in your hometown?
M.B.: It’s kind of a no-brainer. Just for Laughs is the SXSW of comedy. It’s so industry heavy.
The cool thing about Bridgetown is we get the famous people who want a free trip to Portland and want to be in Portland. We take them on field trips to various Portland things. But we also get people, who no one’s heard of, that are so funny!
We watch a lot of online content. We book them because they’re funny not because they are going to be a big draw come pilot season. It’s just really funny people. The only thing we run into that is ironic is that there are way too many white males doing comedy. I come up against that all of the time. We have to kind of have to Affirmative Action that shit. So much comedy is just white dude, white dude, white dude, white dude.
The great thing about Bridgetown is we do whatever we want. We don’t have anybody’s agent breathing down our neck saying, “Oh you’ve got to book this guy,” or whatever. It’s just great. It’s just about Portland and about the audience.
S.Z.: Have you any connection to homelessness?
M.B.: I grew up always knowing that homelessness exists. It wasn’t that idea of a cartoon hobo idea that most people think of. My parents are very active in social issues and they actually operate a food bank out of the church I grew up in. Now that they’re retired, that is kind of like their vocation.
S.Z.: Which church do they work out of?
M.B.: St. Andrews in Northeast Portland. It’s a pretty sweet church. It’s the most progressive Catholic church I’ve certainly ever heard of. The church was actually burned down in the 1930s because they welcomed black parishioners. It was rebuilt, of course.
It just doesn’t get any worse than being homeless. It’s one of those things that people really should think about, especially in this economic climate. To me, it’s immoral. If any property is costing upwards of a few million dollars, that’s just gross.
I think people think homelessness is something that, like when you get a sickness like a cancer, you always think it’s not going to happen to you. And you just never know, you know.
S.Z.: What is the value of comedy as you see it?
M.B.: It lets us theme out. My job is to make people not concentrate so much on their troubles. It’s almost like when you have a headache and you pinch a nerve in your hand and you feel pain in your hand and your headache goes away.
Comedy is a break. Anytime you laugh, you are letting go of stress and you are getting closer to where you should be which is a state of well-being and a state of enjoyment and love.
Everybody likes to laugh. It feels good and it’s a natural human response.
