Chip Chantry

Chip Chantry is a Philadelphia-based standup comedian and television writer who is not only a high-volume joke generator but also a veteran educator: he taught 4th grade for 14 years before going all-in on comedy in 2015. Now, between performances, podcasts, and writing, Chip applies his teaching background to coach aspiring comedians at Standup 101 classes. I chatted with Chip about his trajectory away from teaching grade school into a successful writing career and if he thinks any comedy student can be funny onstage.

That phenomenon of, sometimes one person you respect says you’re good at something and it changes everything – did that happen to you? When did you start thinking this could be a career?

There were people both in and out of the comedy scene that were very supportive. It wasn’t one person in particular. I wasn’t great at first – I came in fairly strong and people recognized it, I think. It came easier than maybe it did to some other comics, here’s something I’m actually good at. I would get people inside and outside the community saying I was funny. One friend, the only one not in comedy, who was two years older than me – I knew him in high school. We were roommates, we taught in the same school for almost 15 years; he was super-supportive.

When I was teaching, most principals I had were former teachers that I was friends with as teachers that had moved up. I was lucky; I started in 1999 and from 2002 until I left in 2015, I had three principals that were my friends, knew about standup, and would come out and be super-supportive.

On your first album, Across from the Adonis, you had some great anecdotes about your students. How did you remember all the funny shit the kids did while you were teaching?

I would just jot it down quickly in a notebook on my desk, a quick seed of a funny idea.

Did you feel a definitive shift when you knew you wouldn’t be teaching forever? When did that come?

At some point I was 99% sure I’d never teach again; I just didn’t want to. I knew I wanted out. I had viewed it as a stepping stone. I was a psych major with a teaching certification at Muhlenberg. I wanted to be a child psychologist – so, get a teaching job, get a masters, and you can be a school psychologist. So – it was always a stepping stone. I wanted to be a principal, but that interest was shot down when I learned it’s a headache and a total hassle. I took one class in Ed Psych and found out [the school psychologist job] was all paperwork.

I got involved in a corporate training job. A friend of mine in high school’s dad was a psychologist that ran corporate retreats with fun games, a rock-climbing wall, and retreats for corporations that would pay us. It was psychology and performing and fun. I worked on that on the side and thought maybe I wanted to be a part of that.

I could’ve made the leap to full time comedy a few years before, but I struggled with it. In 2012, I decided it was time. I took a sabbatical from teaching during the 2012-2013 school year. For that sabbatical year, I knew I was done teaching and had the attitude of, I can make this work. I knew I was burned out with teaching, so I needed to make this work. I know I can do this.

I had to go back and teach for at least one year after the sabbatical. I remember starting school September 1st. The night before I had to go back to school, I won Philly’s Phunniest. We had an in-service day [the day of Phunniest] and I was sweating my ass off. Other teachers were coming to talk to me and ask how the sabbatical was. I had to be like, talk to me tomorrow. I was a nervous wreck. That night I went out and did it and won the Phunniest contest. I showed up that next day hungover, but my stress level dropped and I knew I was done. Like go ahead and fire me, I beg you. I kind of floated through those last two years, but [after winning Phunniest] I was just done. I was checked out. I needed to find a soft landing and get out.

Towards the end of the year, I was worried I couldn’t make it work because I might not have enough work to justify quitting my job. I did a second year for 2014-2015. All around this time, starting around my sabbatical year, I was burned out. My wife knew I was exhausted and frustrated. I had to pick: do I just teach? What if I put that creativity into the classroom? Maybe that would be fulfilling; I would be happier. By June 2015 I said fuck this, I’m going to do a third year and save up as much as I can, and [I told my wife] if this is ok with you, I’m just going to go for it. I was planning on a third year, but six weeks later I got a phone call. I got my first TV writing gig in August 2015. I was expecting to go back and teach, but on August 2nd I got offered this job. I went to Stamford and the writing gig is great; I love it. My principal was really cool, and my former principal was head of HR. I let them both in on the secret that I might not be coming back in three weeks.

A scary thing was that two weeks into my first writing job, I had to ask the most imposing and intimidating guy – my new boss – if I was doing well enough to stay. I had to tell my school if I’m coming back. He was the make or break. I knew I had to do it that day, but I couldn’t find the right time. I was walking down the hallway to go to the men’s room, and saw him. I said, hey, I need to tell my school if I’m coming back. Do you think I’m a good fit, do I have a future here? He said, I don’t see any red flags. You’re good. I called the principal that day and never looked back.

When you were a teacher, were you late for work after open mics?

I’ve always tried to be an on-time, punctual guy, but there for a while I wasn’t. I was living in the Devon/Wayne area with a comedian friend. I would be exhausted and five, ten minutes late. [The school was] very strict, you can’t be back late from lunch, etc. I found myself being late, but in 2009 I made a conscious effort to move to Center City to distance myself from teaching. So that way if I go to an open mic, I have to go find parking, etc. But if I’m in the city, I just have to walk a couple of blocks. No excuses.

I was always scared I was gonna be late, so I showed up super early. If I left at 6am, I could get there at 6:45, but if left at 6:15, I wouldn’t get there until 7:45. So I’d leave super early. I was literally, from 2009 to 2015, the teacher coming from furthest away and was generally the first person in the parking lot. I could just relax in the classroom and eat breakfast. But I was the first person out the minute I could leave.

When I started writing, I’d use that time in the morning to do it. I woke up at 5:15-5:30, out the door by 6, had an hour and 15 minutes with most people not being there. 7-8:15 I would just write jokes. That was my time to do that. Writing jokes always felt good but I was exhausted [from being out at open mics late]. I like being an early riser and getting up early. I could write a number of jokes in that hour each day.

How did you talk yourself out of bed during that long-term sleep deprivation?

Once I moved to the city, it was a race to beat traffic. That was super-motivating. When I lived in Devon, it was a struggle to get up.

What would you do after school before mics?

I had no time for naps. I would basically leave school right after 3:40, rush home to beat traffic, and on my best days I was home before 4:30. It might be 5:00-5:30 with traffic. Get home, park, I’m exhausted, it’s been 12 hours since I’ve been home, get changed, eat dinner, it’s 6:30-7, gotta get to the mic. Get home around 11 or so, try to chill out and go to bed by midnight, up at 5. No downtime, literally. I would write, teach, get home at 5:30, change, eat something quick, sit for half an hour to write some jokes for the mic. That was most nights. Fridays and Saturdays, I’m doing shows at night. Sundays I had off, so I would crash.

I started out, it was ‘03 or ‘04 that I did that open mic with Johnny Goodtimes and we ran an open mic at Finn McCool’s late on Monday nights, and I wouldn’t get home until 1 in the morning. You can’t settle down, so you’re going to sleep at 2, up at 5:15 for work, and I would be exhausted all day Tuesday. I’d come home and crash Tuesday night. Then Wednesday night I’m getting chores done for the week, then by Thursday the week’s almost over. That was the period before other open mics were around. If on Wednesday I did another mic, I’d be thrown off for Thursday, then the weekend.

With the writing, I was exhausted constantly. Always tired. I wasn’t healthy, eating like shit, not drinking a lot, but also wasn’t sleeping or going to the gym.

Were you being booked on shows right out of the gate? As a host, feature, or headliner?

Both host and feature – started comedy in ‘03, Helium opened in ’05. I was a host from ‘05 to ’07, and then in ‘07 on I was a feature, occasionally a headliner on off nights. In Center City, there was only Helium and Laff House. When I started, there was, like, nothing. We found a bar for an open mic on Monday nights we did ourselves, and that’s when sketch and improv got bigger. I did a sketch/improv variety show at the Khyber. 2005 is when Helium opened, at which point I’d been doing standup for two or three years. They opened in June and it was August when I got my first hosting week. I was in rotation for 18 months, me and two other comics. We moved up from the host to the feature spot.

How supportive were your non-comedian friends and your family?

As far as family, my parents were super-supportive in terms of teaching and doing comedy on weekends and summers. They encouraged the full-time job with retirement. When I took them to meet The Beach Boys, that was the turning point where they thought, you’ve hit a threshold where you’re really doing something. Then they met Bob Saget for the first time. That was nine months before my first writing gig.

Were you a class clown? Why did you want to do this?

My brother was in a band and started to become part of the music scene. That was my goal. I wanted to be a guy in Philly that people know. I wasn’t thinking about money or the career, I wanted to be a guy in Philly where I could contribute to a scene. Artists and bands and comedians, they get notoriety: oh, he’s a standup comedian! I wanted to be in the paper because I would see my brother in the City Paper when he was playing at Pontiac Grille, Grape Street Pub. I wanted to be a musician, but not.

What’s the worst critique you ever got from someone in the industry? What about outside? Does it hurt less coming from non-comics?

Back when I started, for New Faces at the Montreal Comedy Festival, there was a series of Philly comics that made the cut and I never did. Helium got a lot of looks when they first opened up, ‘07 to ’11. The local scene got a lot of heat. Comedy Central would come down every couple of months looking for the ten funniest people. They’d send reps there to see if we made the cut. There’s a few like that like Last Comic Standing. I was always one of those 8 or 10 people in town. Everyone was so new. I wish I got that chance now rather than 10 or 12 years ago. Looking back to 2009, I wasn’t ready. It doesn’t happen as much now, but when I was brand-new, I had almost too many opportunities. A few years later I hopefully could have nailed it.

This guy from Montreal came in 2011 with a one-day workshop about how to audition. It was $200 or something and he would critique your standup and talk about applying to festivals, etc. I took it, as did some other comics. He wrote critiques. After the seminar, you could contact Helium. He said this about me: Chip’s a funny writer with funny jokes but I see a thousand of him a year. I was a middle-of-the-road white-guy comic. What sets me apart? There’s a whole sea of ‘me’ out there. I took that to heart. He’s a funny writer, but what makes him special and different? Nothing really did, but that wasn’t that tough to take. I saw a mountain in front of me there, especially in the writing world.

How important is it in comedy to be able to take roasting and/or outright criticism? Do you know anyone who doesn’t take criticism well?

I don’t think anyone takes criticism well. It’s just about how well they hide it. I take everything with a grain of salt. Is there something I can improve here? When you’re so vulnerable and raw, that act is you. To an extent that’s always true, but I tried to separate the art from who I am. It’s not a personal attack, it’s a product I produce. I can separate it better now.

Do you find comedian friends have different ways of being supportive than non-comedian friends?

They know what you’re going through. Comedians are all outsiders and then we’re outsiders together. Growing up, I had different circles of friends but wasn’t close with anyone and didn’t connect with them. Then I found these people with this same passion. I found my group, and they understand what you’re going through; they get it. You can walk into a green room with a big-name comic, and they look at you sideways, you introduce yourself as a comic and their face changes. You’re my opener, you’re one of the guys, you stick together. I think we look at the world differently. My high school and college friends, they’re all kind of married with kids and doing other things now.

What’s the highest praise those comedian friends can give?

Compliments on a new joke are great. It’s about the process rather than the output. If I got an accolade, it doesn’t mean that much, but a compliment on the work itself means a lot. It’s always nice that it feels well-deserved to call someone consistent, not just a one-off or a fluke. So, not awards, it’s the work itself. Holy shit, for people to say they respect you and watch your work is the best.

How did you meet [your writing partner] Mary [Radzinski] and when did you realize you had good chemistry?

She was a new comic, she moved to Philly and started doing comedy about 10 or so years ago. Back then the scene was small, and especially back then everybody knew each other, especially a female comic. Back then, she was one of like four women, and sometimes the biggest thing is, 90% of the battle is to keep showing up and not quitting. If you keep coming, then you’re in the crew. You didn’t quit, you’re still here. I think we were always in the same circle. I think she and I were similar, Pat Barker in LA, David James. A lot of people think of comics as 20-something slackers that smoke pot all day that barely have any money, living with five dudes in an apartment.

We were very responsible people with adult careers, trying to be successful at comedy, with these working-class backgrounds. We viewed it as a business that we wanted to do well and not just art. We wanted to do better and I wanted to get a writing gig, TV, etc. I had this dual personality of like the moonlighting thing, David James was a probation officer and did comedy at night. Mary was a successful pharma rep. Pat Barker managed a CVS for years. We always worked hard in and out of comedy. Also, I think socially, [Mary] and her boyfriend, they became closer with Kim and I and she really liked my wife. We said we should do some more shows together, but we just worked well and complemented each other well, like we could do something here.

I was an island with Chip Chantry’s One Man Show with Special Guests, I had a full-time teaching gig, I had my gig, standup, and had a monthly variety show at the Khyber that I wrote, produced, and booked all by myself. I always wanted the reason to be the writing. I made my own show at Helium but didn’t want to give up the responsibility because I wanted to write. I had the sketches and videos, interviewing guests, and I wanted to write for a late-night show. I burned myself out. I was exhausted, doing too much for three people. It would be nice to have a partner to shoulder that responsibility.

Mary and I worked together well. We found out we both say terrible and really funny things offstage, but onstage we were more rigid. We were funnier offstage, kind of snarky. People liked and respected us. Not too many people that have done what we’ve done and are still in Philly. We still gravitate toward each other – some people will be [doing standup] in their 20s and then figure out their lives in their 30s and 40s. Now Mary and I don’t have full-time jobs. We’re doing the less traditional thing.

How do you think your stuff would translate if you toured internationally?

I have no idea. That seems really daunting and scary, you’re on the other side of the globe and you’re bombing? Like, Ireland, etc.? That’s really scary. I love Europe, but I have no idea how I’d do. You could put me on most stages in the US and I can handle it.

Tom Rhodes is one of my favorites. He loved Europe and fell in love with Dutch audiences. He was the first-ever late night, English-speaking talk show host. He had his own show in Holland and lived there for 2 years. They gave him a travel show, so he traveled the world. It was like a Bourdain show talking about different cultures. That was in the early 2000s, and he still travels the world. He had a storage place and literally lived on the road for 10 years around the world. He put out a double album where each track is in a different country, and about that country. Mongolia, Australia, Japan…my friend Alex produced that.

What’s your least favorite city you’ve ever done a show in? What’s a city that you didn’t expect to love?

It’s gotten so much harder. I have a love-hate relationship with rural towns an hour north of Harrisburg, rural Maryland, whatever. With Trump, it’s so much more glaring, it’s like fuck this, but as far as cities, that’s tough. I’ve done Portland a lot, San Francisco, Seattle. I love those cities but I could never live there. I would go back there in a heartbeat, though. San Fran is one of my favorite places to perform. I love Austin. I’ve done very little in the Midwest and South.

With the wide variety of styles around and your background in teaching comedy considered, do you think anyone has the capacity to be funny on stage?

There are no thresholds for comedy. It’s not like guitar where you have to know certain chords, etc. With singing and standup, literally anybody can do it. You get on stage and start talking. Anyone can do it, and to an extent that’s great, and in some ways, it diminishes the craft. I think at least a lot of people can’t do standup. But the vast majority of the people who try it, take a class or come out to open mics, 90% or more can do it to some capacity and be mediocre, good, or great. They can do the job with some practice. 95% [of comedy students] that come out to try it can do it in some capacity. Some can do it professionally at some level. Some do it for a hobby or enjoyment. I can play guitar, some chords, but nobody will ever pay me to do it. I think most people who try it can do it to some capacity.

The standup class I took when I started, 12-15 started, eight or nine finished, out of that eight or nine, there were five I think of us that pursued it and did it a couple of years. People were always astounded: I can’t believe the success rate. Some people just don’t have it, but most people weed themselves out without that passion, or they stick it out. We just had a bunch of guys with talent who also stuck it out and had nothing better to do. The actual numbers, the talent level consists of, 40-50% could be consistent open-micers that could get paid later down the road. A smaller subset of students has talent, work at it, and stick out, they can go to mics and become part of the scene. I’ve taught dozens over the last two or three years, thinking of a few dozen or so are still doing it: that’s your basic numbers. I’d say of a class of 10, one or two will really stick to it.

Did you decide where you fit?

Writing topical jokes, I did that, or do that, daily. There’s definitely a high related to it: it’s a reward for waking up early. Like that was a good one. When you scan a script to see what got onto a show, chasing that high can be the same as performing. I loved the writing and didn’t even need to get onstage. At times I had writing jobs in Connecticut and Los Angeles. I wasn’t doing much standup then, getting that energy out and getting that high. But my work got put on TV. I don’t need to be on camera.

I focused a while on being a faceless joke writer, that’s all I would do. I don’t need to be the star. Producers paid me and appreciated it. It’s just about the material, not the persona. My self-image has much more to do with being a writer. Having the best-written joke is better praise than almost anything.

Follow Chip @ChipChantry on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram. His podcast with Jeff Lyons is Junk Miles with Chip and Jeff. Chip’s albums are Swingers Party and Across from the Adonis.