I once saw Nick Flanagan open for Aziz Ansari at Mod Club where he faced an antsy, unfamiliar crowd. By the midpoint of his act, a couple unimpressed hecklers had started ragging on Nick’s trademark notebook mistaking the schtick for a crutch. I might be wrong, but I think they thought he was a loser. Rather than getting dragged into a burn-off and slinging zingers back and forth with some chumps, Flanagan ignored the peanut gallery and pressed on with his self-effacing material, notebook in hand, confident in his expression of his superior inferiority.
“I’m Here All Weak” – Flanagan’s debut comedy album – is just that; a collection of smut-ridden, sexually demented musings on inadequacy, debauchery, and some of the more pressing matters facing the human race like, “Why don’t they make normal sandwiches anymore?”. Jokes range from the coarse-for-coarseness-sake comments about shit-filled balls to brilliantly stupid wordplay like somehow turning the word “apostrophe” into “a pasta fee”. Nick’s stop and start delivery has him jumping from short bit to short bit in a seemingly random order, but his sequencing is perversely aware, like when a joke about ejaculating directly into a garbage can is followed immediately with, “I like children…” in his most wickedly innocent turn.
His style may not be for everyone – the audience laughter on the record can best be described as nervous – but his detachment from the explicit language and decidedly dark subject matter is what makes him feel dangerous. Flanagan has a way of making you feel like maybe your own most twisted thoughts aren’t all that bad. When it comes to scraping the bottom, Flanagan is tops.