The Concierge Comedian

In August 2022, Zak Toscani was in the middle of performing a stand-up show in a fan’s Boulder, Colorado, backyard when, suddenly, an audience member’s hyperactive dog began running laps around the house like it had been possessed. At first, it was just a minor distraction, but then Toscani and the audience of 30 to 40 people heard a squeak from the opposite side of the house. The next time the dog reappeared, it presented everyone with the graphic remains of the rabbit it had been chasing. Toscani learned a valuable lesson that day about these DIY shows: At any time, he might get upstaged by a rabbit carcass. Reflecting back on that show now, he remembers thinking, How do I follow death?

Experiences like this have become a fixture of Toscani’s life as a performer since mid-2021, when, after getting his COVID vaccination, he embarked on an experiment to perform comedy for people in their homes in Portland, Oregon, where he lived at the time. It wasn’t long before fans of his frequent appearances on the popular podcast All Fantasy Everything, his 2018 viral Twitter thread about a co-worker who’d stolen another co-worker’s lunch, or his comedy clips online began seeing his social-media and Reddit posts about it and jumping at the chance to book him. Since then, he’s toured nonstop across the U.S. and Canada, booking enough house shows that, for the first time in his career, he’s been able to quit working day jobs and carve out a living as “a middle-class comedian.”

An average house show sees Toscani playing to an audience of 40 to 50 people, but he charges a flat fee irrespective of attendance size: $800 for shows on weekdays and $1,200 for shows on weekends. (Some hosts also give out Toscani’s Venmo information and encourage their guests to tip him, which can bring in an extra $300 to $400 per show.) It’s enough money to drive between gigs, book hotels, and pocket some savings too. Plus, demand is growing. Toscani went from performing 45 house shows in 2022 to 85 house shows in 2023; 25 were rebookings from the previous year.

Over the course of four conversations in recent months, Toscani took us behind the scenes of a run of recent house shows and recounted some of the best, worst, and oddest experiences he’s had while being on tour.

Atlanta, Georgia: This guy in Atlanta, Charles, contacted me in the spring. We talked on the phone for a little bit, and he was like, “My wife just designed our new house. We’d love to do a public show. We’ll get some of your fans, we’ll get some of the people I know, and we’ll just see how it goes.” I brought Shaunak Godkhindi, who’s a really great comic in Atlanta. We’re pulling up, and it’s maybe a half-hour before the show, and I just see a couple of cars in the driveway. I was like, “Oh, I guess maybe people are gonna show up late.” Charles and his wife, Nicole, come out, and Charles is like, “Hey, man, so the shuttle’s bringing everyone …” I was like, “Wait, what?” He’s like, “Oh, yeah, when people bought tickets, I sent them an email, and instead of just coming to my house, I got them to park in the Whole Foods parking lot and have a shuttle bring them here.”

I get inside the house, and it’s insane. It’s like a John Wick house. It had an elevator! He has a bartender there and all these chairs set up. It was cool, because there was a mix of people who knew me and bought tickets, and then I come to find out that Charles is a therapist, and he’s like, “Some of my clients are here. I want them to see me as a person. I have fears. I have things I laugh at. I cry.” It was probably the most diverse audience in terms of age, gender, and race. As great as the show went, afterwards was great too, because I’m in a big mansion full of people that probably would never be in the same room together.

A lot of comics, when they’ve asked me about these house shows, have been like, “That’s really great, but then you have to hang out afterwards and talk to people?” And maybe it’s just because I’ve been so immersed in it, but that’s sometimes one of the better parts of doing this whole thing. You feel like you’re actually connecting with people. There’s a lot of times where, going into the show, I’ll be like, I’m feeling kind of tired, so I’ll probably do my set, hang out for a little bit, and then dip. Then afterwards, I’m like, They’re gonna have to kick me out. 

Doing these house shows, you’re like, Let’s see if my material works in every kind of scenario for all different people of different backgrounds. I did one in a suburb outside of Oakland, and the people who booked me were like, “We’re Palestinian, so all the people here tonight are in the Palestinian community,” and it’s amazing being able to perform for people where it’s like, I don’t think I would have had access to this if I was at a comedy club. That show in particular, I was like, Oh, my God, let me eat all this food. Then they were like, “We’re going to dance after this. You want to dance?” I was like, “Yes, let’s fucking dance.”

Even the weird situations are great. At an early house show in Portland, there was a couple who were like, “Hey, we’d love to book you. We just moved in together, and we’re getting married. Is it gonna be weird if it’s just us?” And of course, it’s a little strange, but I was like, “Let’s go.” Kyle Kinane, who was pretty much full-time in Portland at the time, had been asking me about these house shows and how they work, and at one point, he was like, “Do you mind if I come to one?” And of course, the one he wants to come to is the apartment show with two people. So he just sits in this La-Z-Boy chair behind the couple sitting on their couch while I’m standing in their kitchen doing comedy, and it was such a blast.

There was one show in Philly where we were in the backyard and it started raining, so we all moved inside. So there were like 90 people jammed into a basement, and the “stage” is right in front of their guest-room door. At one point, I did a joke that got more chuckles than outright laughs, and I pretended to be really salty about it. I was like, “Fine, I’m gonna go to my room!” So I opened the door to the guest room, slammed it shut, and brought the mic with me.

Those are moments when I feel really present and connected. And I feel like, unconsciously, people know: What we’re seeing, it’s not going to happen again. There’s probably not going to be a comedian in this basement ever again. We’re all kind of on this ride together.

Destin, Florida: Something that’s happened a few times is people will book me, and they’ll have a housing project going on, like, “We’re redoing our backyard” or “We’re making a deck, and we’re kind of booking you as a way to ensure it gets done by that time.” The Destin show was this woman’s 40th birthday, and it was another couple who were trying to give themselves a deadline. But then they were like, “We were gonna do it at our house, but our house isn’t finished, so is it okay if we do it at a restaurant?” I don’t ask a lot of questions, because sometimes if I get too much information, I’ll think about it too much or I’ll try to preplan or pre-strategize. So I just assumed that they know the people who run this restaurant, and they’re going to close it down for the night.

I get to the restaurant, and I meet Casey and her husband, Jay. There’s probably already 200 people there. So I’m talking to Casey and Jay, and I’m like, “This is crazy. You know all these people?” And she was like, “No, our group is on this side of the restaurant. The other half of the restaurant is just customers.” So it may be on me for not asking questions, but now the dynamic of the show has just changed wildly, because there’s 100 people who have no idea that there’s a stand-up comedian coming on. So then I meet the manager of the restaurant, and he’s like, “Hey, we have this big screen projector at the back. Send me a picture and we’ll put it up while you’re performing.” I send him a photo, and he puts it up, and it is a giant picture of me. Suddenly I’m like, I can fuck around with this. It looks like I’m gonna give a memorial speech for a twin brother who died. So I’m trying to play around with that, but also really getting worried, because now the restaurant is getting more and more packed.

You had one half of the restaurant who was intently listening and being a really good audience, and then the other half of people who just wanted to eat dinner, and I don’t fault them one bit. So there was a level of noise that was happening — people at the bar, people eating, and some people looking very distressed at what was going on. They’re just sitting there with their 8-year-old son like, What the fuck is this? Why is this guy talking about if Jesus was into BDSM? 

So it wasn’t optimal, but sometimes the gigs are just like this. You just have to get through it and have the best time that you can in the moment. I tried to riff and do shorter jokes, so that the people were kind of tuning in while just being customers might be able to enjoy it. And I did get a lot of people afterwards who weren’t part of the party who were like, “That was kind of crazy, man, but that was awesome. We were back here at the bar listening, and that was fucking great!”

Ocean Springs, Mississippi: The house show was kind of their housewarming in inviting people in, but they didn’t even have an operating kitchen yet. The architects and the construction people were there. Doing a show in a house that’s so architecturally interesting, that’s undoubtedly what everyone’s thinking about. I get to be like, “There’s not even countertops. Is this even your house? Are you squatting?” Those are the kinds of things where I’m like, Oh, this is performing at a house show. Everything that’s unique about the house is something that I can bring up — whether it’s a full-on joke, or I’m doing a joke and midway through I realize, I can actually tag it with something in this room. I don’t have to be like, “What do you do for a living?” or whatever. I can go real specific, like, “What’s up with that picture?” And people lose it.

This was kind of the artistic community of people in the Gulf Coast of Mississippi who are really trying to make a push to show Mississippi is not what the media would have you believe. This guy, Julian — he runs a museum down there — he’s a listener of All Fantasy Everything. So he heard about the tour, messaged me, and was like, “Do you want to come to Ocean Springs?” Then, on another episode of AFE, I was reading my tour dates, and I said I was going to be in Ocean Springs. Then we had this whole riff about how they’re going to pay me in Confederate money. After the show, Julian’s mother-in-law came up to me and was jokingly like, “You know, I actually did try to find some Confederate money …”

I’m always telling people that I don’t own this idea. Any comic who thinks this will help them or that it’ll give them more stage time? Go for it. It’s not fighting for a weekend at a comedy club. I don’t foresee a future where someone’s like, “Oh, we wanted to book you for a house show, but we actually booked this guy for a house show.” Kyle Kinane, during his Shocks and Struts tour, was traveling in a van, and then he would just be like, “Hey, I’m gonna be in Arkansas tonight. Does anyone want to throw me a show?” That was a perfect idea for him, where he just had all these days in between the tour stops. He was doing it from a position of, “I’m just in town already. You don’t even have to pay me. I just want to run this hour and do it in interesting places.” So you can adapt it your own way.

COVID was a big revelation for me, where I was like, The traditional spaces are great for comedy, but they’re not needed. You can have a great show in any kind of way. I think it’s very sustainable. I have a good amount of comics who ask me about it, and I’m always very happy and willing to share how I’m doing it. Maybe you’ll discover a way of doing it that’s better for you. I just think, The more the merrier.

Portland, Oregon: This woman messaged me about a week ago, and she wrote, “We have three kids, and our oldest was killed at 19 as a passenger in a car accident last April 18th. Thursday is her first memorial day. She was a very big stand-up comedy fan, and she wanted to get a fake ID just so she could be able to go to Helium, since it’s a 21-and-over club. In this last year, stand-up has been a big part of helping us with our grief. We wanted to do something to honor her memory, and this feels like a really cool way.”

I got to the show a half-hour early, and it was just the family: Kimberly, who contacted me about doing the show; her husband, Stan; and then one of their kids. I see six chairs on a lawn, and I’m like, Oh my God, is this just for this family? That definitely changes how I’m going to approach it. But then I start getting set up, and people are filling in, and I would say there are about 40 to 50 people there. I was just trying to feel out the vibe: Do they want me to bring it up and talk about it, or am I trying to be a temporary relief or a distraction from it?

This was all on the front lawn, and I had no idea if this was going to be a memorial — if there were going to be pictures and stuff — but, if they would have never said anything, I don’t know that I would have known that this was a memorial for the death of a young person. The only clue was when people would first arrive, they’d be hugging tenderly — those kind of long hugs. Before I went up, Stan went up first and was like, “We just wanted to do something fun for the one-year memorial, because she always wanted to do stand-up, so we hit this guy up, and let’s have some fun.” So, from that, I was like, Okay, it’s not my place to talk about this or bring it up. I did say, “I’m really honored to be here. This is really cool,” but otherwise, I tried to act as if it was just any other house show.

There were definitely moments where I was a little bit ahead of the jokes as I was telling them. I was like, Is even the mention of death bad? So there were times I would fuck up a joke in a way that I haven’t done before by trying to precensor things. I have this joke about when you’re going to a friend’s party and you text them, “Hey, I’m on my way, let me know if I can get anything,” and then as soon as you send that you’re like, If they fucking make me go get something, I’ll drive off the bridge. I don’t give a shit, I’ll die. And as I’m telling this joke, I’m like, Oh, God, I can’t say that. So then I skip that part and it’s disjointed, and I have to figure out a new way to set it up.

It’s not that I thought people would boo me; it’s just that I was aware of it, and I was trying to figure out tonally how depressing or dark I could get. But it seemed like the more I would touch on that stuff, the more the audience was for it. A lot of people came up and were really appreciative, and Stan came up to me and was really happy with how it all went. I assume most of these people have been in a year of nothing but grief, so they’re like, “Whatever you’re gonna say is not as bad as what we’ve been going through.”