His set begins with choppy non sequiturs. He is slight. His demeanor
is deadpan and detached à la Steven Wright; he seems content not
to relate with the audience or even to appear the least bit
comfortable. Sometimes, more like Zach Galifianakis, he forces
awkwardness upon the audience deliberately. He is almost wholly without
affectation. And fucking weird.
But Brent Weinbach’s slot at last year’s Bridgetown Comedy Fest was
gaining momentum. The San Francisco-based comedian must’ve sensed it:
The crowd was ready go with him just about anywhere. (It was, after
all, a tribute show to Andy Kaufman, and Weinbach, like Reggie Watts
before him, is a recipient of the prestigious Kaufman Award).
From his dry, colorless delivery Weinbach launched suddenly into
frenetic, screaming ghetto drawl (remembering his days as an
Oakland-area substitute teacher where the kids made fun of his tight
pants). From there he bounced to an extended bit as a frail sociopathic
creep (deliberately creepier than his own onstage persona), before
splashing in bits of physical comedy, pre-recorded bits, 1980s Nintendo
references, and god knows what else. Traditional punchlines were rarely
relied upon nor necessary in Weinbach’s stunning act. The palpable
strangeness and surprise are alone enough to make one cringe, cry, and
howl. It was as if Weinbach began putting around in first gear only to
jam the shifter immediately up to fifth, then continued lurching around
without gradation—from third to reverse, to fourth then jamming
on the breaks. It was a thrilling, if not dangerous show, and somehow
it never stalled.
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