Adrian Thompson hopes so...

‘Yeah, I used to love the Stones!’ opined a face-painted festival-goer with her hoarse, partied-out sigh. “I loved the idea of them as this ‘don’t-give-a-sh*t’ band that did what they wanted, drank and smoked and caused trouble”.

‘But not any more, no?’ asked her friend.

“Nah, now it’s like they’re a part of the corporate landscape they were rebelling against. Now it’s a ton for a ticket, their music on adverts, Mick Jagger OBE, y’get me?”.’

I did get her. It was an interesting point, though perhaps better suited to someone doing more than filling their Pampers when Voodoo Lounge came out. But the concept of losing one’s ‘cool’ applies equally to stand-up.

I’m sure I’m not alone in having reached that point with a couple of my favourites. We’ve all had that moment of weakness where we found ourselves ‘waxing hipster-cool’ about how we saw so-and-so when they were still unknown, hungry and edgy. How we thought what’s-his-face was funnier when he wasn’t pandering to a Channel 4 executive. After an open-mic sometime, we’ve offered unsolicited opinions to our friends like they’re sound-bytes: ‘So he’s up at the Apollo for ten nights, big deal. I don’t see why selling out needs to mean selling-out…’ you exclaim, nodding to show you agree with yourself.

To the layman, the concept of selling-out needn’t be a complicated one. You take a particular art-form – comedy, music, acting – you flex your creative muscle and share your work with the world, hopefully receiving praise along the way. A year or two later, a couple of suits visit you between takes to speak about ‘getting your message out to a different audience’ and before you can say Vanilla Ice, you’re Johnny Rotten selling butter to baby-boomers. At best, your audience look bemused, and at worst, they abandon you: ‘He never believed a word he said in the first place!’

To be clear, wanting to make money isn’t the problem. Even the most integrity-obsessed film directors will pretty much beg you to support their next release or product, so that they can continue to work, buy a house, get some security; it’s whether the route you go to get that money conflicts with the art you’re trying to share.

For comedians, I wonder if the rules are kinder because we tend to be, on the face of it at least, left-leaning and self-effacing. I mean, everyone loves a comic that’s broke and has something to bitch about, right?

Maybe we overlook Lenny Henry’s advertising pursuits because we’re aware of his background and his self-deprecating approach to those ads in his routines? Maybe a top-tier act is forgiven for living in a massive house because he/she performs bits about how out-of-touch the Tories are? It seems plausible. But conversely, is the expectation that they need to be down-to-earth and in-touch with the regular guy so high, that whenever they begin to attain financial stability and rub shoulders with society-types (hello, Ben Elton) they’re accused of selling-out? To strike the right balance must be tough.

Some performers argue that comics simply cannot be seen to be anything other than an everyman/woman. To ascend from that pollutes the format. Maybe, then, this is why those from seemingly ‘well-off’ backgrounds – Michael McIntyre, Alexander Armstrong – tend to focus either on the mocking of celebrities and MPs, or everyday observations like traffic-jams or arguments with the wife.

As Ricky Gervais attests in the HBO production, Talking Funny, a comedian needs to remain on the ground, with the audience. Your jokes won’t recover from a shift in that dynamic.

There are ways around it, of course, if there’s a punchline to be found. In his case, that means self-parody, mocking the global stardom he’s achieved, the colossal ego people expect that character to have. It’s not selling-out or losing touch in that scenario because a) arguably he’s an underdog from Berkshire obscurity that’s now hosted the Golden Globes. The contrast in those two elements affords him a free pass, to some extent. And b) he’s not in bed with a product or company that conflicts with the joke.

For a comic like McIntyre, we’ve not seen him skipping around a stage, fopping his hair about for Wella – but as something less of an underdog, he could suffer the same abandonment as a sell-out if he went on-camera and brag-joked about how awkward it is when your butler walks in on you drinking Moet - after you’ve given him Cava as a Christmas present. There’s no underdog background to set that up.

Similarly, he’d have a hard time joking about arguing with the wife over who’s driving to the airport, if it was prefaced by a story about the time his helicopter wouldn’t start. Who knows though, maybe joking about his wealth might not necessarily result in fans deserting him - it’s not exactly a revelation, is it? ‘I’ve gone off him now that he seems to be a part of the neo-Conservative, privileged elite that we always kinda figured he was anyway...’

It would appear that British acts have it easier than those in the US, though. Our history of elocution lessons, our media’s century-long lean towards a Home-Counties accent, the BBC’s penchant for Oxbridge-spawned comedy – it’s easy to see why it might be harder to persecute ‘posh’ or financial success. It’s almost expected on our stages as British comedy tends to be seen as a largely well-spoken, upper-middle art-form, where even the voices of the working class will end up dining with Richard Curtis – and forgiven for doing so.

In the US, however, a quick search on YouTube, a visit to a basement in NYC, a few clips from Comedy Central and HBO, and I’m painted a picture of a class-of-’96-style stand-up scene. Most appear to be disillusioned grunge kids. The bills are a bohemian buffet of crestfallen Seattleites, spawning laughs from their tales of loserdom. The time they smoked too much pot or the reason they always lose jobs, sort of thing. It’s that or post-Def Comedy Jam hopefuls looking to take the baton from Pryor, Murphy or Rock.

There are exceptions, naturally, but it would appear to the casual observer that whichever way you cut it, they mostly choose or need to remain the underdog. To go on in New York and talk about how disgusting your genitals are almost seems standard. So doesn’t that mean that with the underdog / the ‘loser’ characters you see on the bills, that they run a greater risk of selling-out when they get even half famous? It would appear so. A minor Hicks fan will regale you with the routine about the ‘artistic roll call’, what he would’ve liked to have seen happen to Jay Leno for selling-out. And the few million of us that loved Raw can tell you how Eddie Murphy viewed Bill Cosby’s branching out to the Jell-O demographic. 

History tells us that when comics shift their observing skills from life’s idiosyncrasies to dollar signs, they do so with a fervent appetite. Maybe they have to. Once the pretense of still having anything to moan about has disappeared, once it’s clear you’re no longer a loser, the only places to go are:

• Into movies (Adam Sandler, Eddie Murphy)

• A weekly show where you play a fictionalised version of Larry David  

• More stand-up, where you perpetuate an onstage persona based on who you were five years ago.

In the absence of panel shows or a forgiving public attitude towards happy, successful stand-ups, US comedians only appear to have those three options. And so we see them embraced again and again.

Former basement-dwellers sign onto endless Paramount releases. The Curb format gets greenlit once more. The world tours never dare mention the comic’s actual life, instead relying on trodden ground such as men and women, celebrities, government – such is the fear of being seen as out-of-touch. They maximise revenue in any way they can, as long as it doesn’t dent the necessity of integrity.

We all have our own examples of when comedians have lost their way. For me, it was when Murphy quit stand-up and started signing on to Holy Man or Dr Doolittle. Cosby sold gelatin desserts to kids. Murphy voiced animations. Equally, Ben Elton stopped ranting about Tories and started hanging out with them.

As you get older, your priorities change. I’m sure everyone at age twenty-clueless, everyone thinks they can change the world, but by 55, they just want to know there’s enough in the bank that their grandchildren can go to uni. Maybe that’s what drives the autumn-years artists, from Jagger to Murphy, to move away from disobedience and appear to be selling-out. And maybe that’s fine. For a band, or an actor. Maybe it’s okay to live by the rules, to play the game. But for comedians? Well, it’s just a shame it’s not funny.

• This article was brought to you in association with Pepsi.

Published: 5 Jul 2013