Vegas Comedian and Ventriloquist April Brucker Shares What It’s Like Returning to the Live Theater After Covid Shut Down
April Brucker is a comedian and ventriloquist who recently returned to the live stage after a lengthy time out of work due to Covid shutdowns. She is currently the only ventriloquist performing in Vegas. She goes on stage for a COVID friendly theater revue called BurlesQ with 25 feet between herself and the audience. These are her experiences performing comedy under these pandemic times under the coronavirus guidelines, and what it was like that first night back on stage. April earned her BFA in Acting in 2007 from New York University Tisch School of the Arts and is a 2019 candidate for an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles. She has been a volunteer advocate for HIV/AIDS awareness, LGBTQ+ rights, cervical cancer awareness, anti-bullying, domestic violence prevention and body positivity. She authored “I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl” , which is available from bookstores and online retailers. Prior to the Pandemic, April was touring clubs and theaters with her one woman show.
Follow April at AprilBrucker.TV, and on Instagram or Twitter.both @AprilBrucker.
Setting: Las Vegas. One week before Christmas, 2020. In January, I moved to Las Vegas; my one-woman show opened in late February. Then the world shut down in March. Since that time, I had been performing comedy and ventriloquism on Zoom shows with my gold digging Valley Girl partner May Wilson, collecting unemployment and waiting for the world to open up.
Then the phone rings. It was none other than my manager , an old school showbiz veteran, who gets right to the point, “I have an offer for you?”
I say, “Is it East Coast time? Make sure they know I am on the West Coast,” vaguely making reference to a disaster that had occurred with a meeting for a project because the New York folks were unaware I was in Vegas. Like everything else, this was put on ice pending the end of shutdown.
My manager says, “No. It’s here in town. It’s a new all-female revue called BurlesQ which is looking for a variety act; they want you and May Wilson, your slutty gold digging puppet.”
I am thrilled they are excited about May Wilson, but have a few questions, “Is this in person? I thought showrooms were closed.”
He says, “The Governor’s orders permit showrooms up to a 50 person limit. Tables have to be six feet apart. There’s a 25-foot gap between the stage and the audience. And except when you are performing, you have to wear a mask; but your act might actually be better with a mask!”
I laugh. Part of me wants to go onstage, but it’s been about a year. I know I will be rusty as hell and the likelihood of failure excellent. My manager adds, “Oh, and the audience, except when they are drinking, are masked up too. So you might not be able to hear or even see them laugh. And if anyone goes between the stage and the gap the show stops. And just so you know, the opening weekend is already sold-out.”
“Fifty people a show?”
“Well, not quite; they sell by table. So if a table could have one person or four. You in?”
No, I am not in. My audience will be far away, masked, and I wont be able to hear them laugh. While I am admittedly Zoom showed out, the dogs and bird I live with will at least give me sympathy barks and chirps. “Maybe I’ll wait until the world opens up more.”
“That might not be for another six months or a year. You want to be a working comic or not?”
He has me at working comic, “Yes.”
“Great, let me square away the details; I’ll get back to you” CLICK. What the hell did I just agree to?
Cut to the following week: Friday night, Alexis Park Resort, 10:00 p.m. On my drive over, I saw empty roads and a desolate airport tunnel, a sight and idea alien to the City of Entertainment pre-pandemic. Despite the fact the roads have barely any traffic, the lights of The Strip are still as bright as ever. Billboards that are prime advertising real estate are dark and the ones that have ads flashing have the words, “SPACE FOR RENT.” If you want to know what Sin City looks like in the apocalypse, this is it.
Here I am in the green room, my nerves eating me alive. I have been told that unless I have to be backstage, stay in the green room. It’s another “COVID thing.” Before the show, I had a wireless mic put on me. When I suggested the emcee and I could use the same mic, the sound guy told me, “We can’t. COVID guidelines.”
As my anxiety festers and scenarios of us eating it horribly play in my head, everything from silence to sinister heckling, I look at the sparkling, gem stone laden, feathered Vegas showgirl headdresses around me. You can’t have stage fright when they surround you, right?
My manager’s pre-show directive was “as many sparkles as possible.” This was because the audience is so far away, so the more visuals the more likely they are to stay engaged. I am in my sparkling gold dress, and May has a crown and sparkling shoes. The self I left back in the whiskey soaked backrooms and basements of New York wouldn’t recognize me. Then again, this new self also stands to be paid regular money if this gig goes well, a reality foreign to my New York self.
The jeans, t-shirt, and ball cap wearing-self back in New York heard a lot of things from her comedy peers about her act with May Wilson, things playing through my head as I sat surrounded by silence and show girl regalia. There is the always welcome, “I love your act. It’s different and awesome.” Then there’s the kind but backhanded, “You’re brave.” Followed by the jealous slap, “The only reason you got booked was you’re a cute girl.” Finally the epic burn, “Are you sure the puppet act is a good idea?”
As I wait for the opening number to finish, the music traveling from the showroom, through the empty kitchen into the greenroom, May Wilson and I are aiming for different and awesome. We are probably going to be brave, because not only might we get eaten alive, but we are performing comedy in the middle of a global pandemic. Being a female comic did help us get booked on the show, and maybe if we are cute enough the audience will let us slide if we suck. Finally, is the puppet act really a good idea? Is this even a good idea? Aside from death onstage, I am fearing death from corona as I know four people who died, two who were otherwise healthy. After the show, I am sanitizing everything, especially May Wilson. Slutty puppets are always carriers.
The first musical number ends and I make my way through the empty kitchen past the pipe and drape leading backstage. With May on my arm, we make our way through the darkness, past the curtains and then backstage. The showgirls give me a nod, their faces obscured by masks as they do quick costume changes between numbers. One signals to another to close the curtain as they are in states of undress and don’t want the audience to get a free skin show.
Onstage, the emcee, Sean E Cooper (“Coop”), the resident comic in Fantasy for nearly 20 years and the only male in the show, does a bit that includes a spot-on Sammy Davis Jr. impression. The audience laughs. This is a good sign. Coop then introduces the next dancer, a busty blonde in a cowboy hat. As her country music number starts, Coop is standing by the curtain. As he sees me approach with May on my arm, he cracks a smile. I say, “How are they?”
“Good,” Coop says. “There’s a bachelorette and 21 birthday. Have your dick jokes ready.” I give a sigh of relief. Perhaps the self here tonight is not so different than the self I left in New York. This is music to my ears, and May Wilson’s ears especially. Maybe the world isn’t going to hell after all.
The music concludes, and the audience claps. It’s time to turn on my mic pack and take off my mask. Coop carries my stand onstage, and the busty blonde dancer exits. Coop cracks a few jokes and the audience is still laughing, which is still good. Then he gives my intro with my television credits, which make me more nervous than I was before. Right now, in a circumstance that I could meet my comedic demise, my credits in a way feel fake. Maybe they are all fake and this is a surreal dream. Right now, tonight, I am in a sci-fi horror film. It would have just been sci-fi but I have the puppet so we are mixing genres. This could either go well, or this could be The Thunder Dome in Hell. I am about to find out. Goal: Not to get slaughtered.
May Wilson and I walk onstage. The audience is clapping which means there is still hope. The room is dark and I see shapes of people that are 25 feet away. A pinkish blue light shines in eyes. Inches in front of me is a big pit helping establish the 25 foot gap that the dancers have been using to throw costume pieces in as they tease the audience. In my panic, I nearly step in dying in a whole new way. (May Wilson says it will be the funniest thing I have ever done).
In the stage light May’s crown looks more bedazzled than ever, which means at least she will look good for our upcoming funeral. All eyes are on us. Now the true test begins. May delivers her opening line. Laugh. Good.
We do a few more bits: laugh, polite laugh, soft laugh, silence. I start to panic. While I am not dead yet this isnt good. Yes, some of this is them, but some of this is my rustiness and nerves. Advice a veteran headliner once gave me echoes through my head, “Don’t let them see you sweat. When you get silence, just keep going.”
May throws out her next line, solid laugh. Good. Equipped with her best dick jokes, May Wilson roasts the 21st birthday boy and bachelorette. The audience loves the crowd work with the puppet, but they also love May’s would be sugar baby character. We are now on a roll. These people, who have been starved of live entertainment and human interaction for months are not only laughing, but they want to laugh. Suddenly, I don’t notice the 25 foot gap and neither do they. The audience doesn’t feel far away, and masked or unmasked their joy fills the room. My ego enhancing credits cease to exist either, because May Wilson, myself, and the crowd are having a good time. Whether I am in jeans or a gold dress, New York, Vegas, or anywhere else in the world, this is what live comedy is about.
We finish strong. Coop comes back onstage, asks the audience to give us additional applause, and they oblige. I get a nod of approval from the showgirls, but I know the true test will be the room operator. Putting May back in her suitcase, I replay my act in my head kicking myself for my timing mistakes, and kicking myself for a line I didn’t use with the crowd work. The ride home has the same empty roads and dark billboards, reminding me that while I had a decent night onstage, we are still in a worldwide dumpster fire.
I get home, spray May down with alcohol, put our clothes in the washer, make myself ice cream and put on Netflix. On Facebook I exchange notes from the front with a comedy comrade who did a show in a tent with heaters. He tells me a comic cracked an incest joke and two people got offended and walked out. As my pal is getting to the good part, my phone rings; it’s my manager. “How did it go?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Good news and great news. The good news is, the room operator LOVED your act and wants as a permanent part of the show. The great news is, right now, you are one of the few variety acts and the only ventriloquist working in Las Vegas. You’re welcome.” CLICK.
I shriek with joy, scaring my dogs, waking up the bird and almost making May Wilson come to life. The good news is I am (for the moment, but not really) cool and live comedy is (almost) back.
