The Stand-up Perfection of Jay Larson’s ‘Wrong Number’

Photo: Laugh Factory via YouTube

Boston comedian Jay Larson’s 2012 bit “Wrong Number” was the inspiration for this whole “Great Bits” series when I began writing it in 2017. I was frustrated that most writing about stand-up focused on a comedian’s material at the expense of covering the techniques they use to bring that material to the audience — the dozens of decisions a minute a comic makes about how to speak, move, manipulate their faces, and even breathe to evoke the maximum laughter from each of their jokes. I wanted to examine the rare moments when all of those decisions are made correctly in front of a receptive audience. Larson’s animated retelling of a wrong-number incident enthralls his audience from his first words, and their response propels him to a flawless performance.

Sunset Boulevard’s Laugh Factory, where Larson’s bit was taped, is an electric room when it’s rocking, and the audience on “Wrong Number” is crackling from the get-go. A great crowd’s support unlocks a level of skill in a comic that isn’t available in front of a mediocre one. They become the best version of themselves, powering up like Mario when he’s eaten a mushroom. For the entirety of “Wrong Number,” Larson operates at the peak of his comedic power. There’s a reason this clip has 13 million views when the perfectly fine version of the joke on Conan has just under four. Watch it now here:

Larson immediately gets the crowd involved in the bit by polling them about what they do when they get a call from an unrecognized number. How quickly they blurt out “Ignore it!” and “Send it to voicemail!” shows the high level of engagement off the bat. “Not this guy,” Larson says, setting himself apart. What comes next isn’t even a sentence, but a series of disjointed fragments like some lost David Mamet speech from Glengarry Glen Ross. “Opportunity. Potential. Who knows? Who knows what it is?” Larson asks as he reaches out and grasps at the air in front of him. After telling the audience he was “driving down the 405,” more fragments follow. “Traffic. Phone rings. 917. New York. I’m like ‘Unng!’ I don’t know the number.” By ditching complete sentences, he strips his setup down to 17 words that tell the audience everything they need to know. This, plus pitch-perfect line readings and a simple mime of holding a steering wheel, are all Larson needs to drop the audience right there in the car with him.

The man on the other end of the call refers to Larson as “Bruce,” Larson explains to the audience. “‘My name’s Jay, not Bruce, so clearly I go, ‘Nothing much man, what’s going on with you?’” Only 35 seconds into the bit — when no joke has yet been told — the crowd applauds just to signal their delight at the situation, and Larson’s acting here is masterfully simple. When he demonstrates his anxiety by grabbing the steering wheel and yelling at himself to focus, the energy in the Laugh Factory showroom kicks up another notch. The audience applauds again at the 56-second mark, still before hearing a single traditional punchline. Larson steps upstage at 1:14 as he comments on the caller “giving ‘Bruce’ some attitude.” As he discusses the phone call from outside the moment, he physically steps outside of the space he used for the conversation and lets all the tension out of his voice, demonstrating that this is his analytical brain talking. “No way I am taking that. There’s no way,” he says before returning to center stage and the previous moment’s tension in body and voice.

After a torrent of plausible corporate jargon fools the caller, Larson says, “Oh my God, that worked!” with palpable relief before grabbing the steering wheel again, shifting back to anxious vigilance with another driven “Stay focused.” He earns a third applause break at 1:44. “I’m not even enjoying it! I’m literally in it,” Larson says while clawing at his stomach in distress. The audience hangs on his every word; one even yells “Yes!” at 2:08 in response to a line of exposition. Larson goes big, describing his “euphoria” at a small business “crumbling to the ground” before switching to a Steve Martin–esque deadpan for “And they don’t know who the hell Jennifer is,” which earns a fourth applause break — this one accompanied by cheering, as though the crowd just witnessed an athletic feat. Mid-ovation, Larson says “I’m not even done” and barrels ahead, cutting off the applause to save that energy for what’s to come.

Larson speaks in fragments once again to set up the bit’s final scene, moving past Mamet into something approaching the terse prose of Raymond Chandler. “I don’t think about it. A couple days pass. Laying on the couch. Watching the game. Phone rings. Dining-room table. Watching the game. Get up. Pick up the phone. Look down. Random Guy.” As “Random Guy” calls at 4:02, Larson quickly places his phone on the stool, backs up, plasters himself at center stage against the iconic Laugh Factory logo, and gasps with fear while staring at the phone on the stool. He pauses for only two seconds before continuing the act, but it’s long enough to imprint an evocative visual in the audience’s mind, and the energy in the room ramps up to another level.

Comics are their own directors as well as writers and performers, and Larson’s choices in the bit’s finale are flawless. As he is confronted with his lies, he moves upstage once more and casually rests his foot on the stage monitor. His relaxed body language is the polar opposite of his white-knuckle steering-wheel grip during the initial phone call, signaling that he is now in control. Then he takes his foot off the monitor whenever he shifts from his own voice to that of his accusers, driving across the character switch for clarity. When, as Larry, he shouts “Sounds like Bruce!” at 5:33, Larson pulls his head away from the mic and yells like he’s in the back of a room behind a speakerphone. Just these modest bits of blocking transform the experience of watching a monologue into the experience of watching a multicharacter dialogue. “We’re a small business trying to —” Larson starts as Janelle before immediately cutting himself off with “Oh I know” and building to Larson jabbing his finger in the air as he yells, “NO YOU LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING!” like the prosecutor in a courtroom drama. “What?” a furious Janelle responds at 6:12. When Larson takes a beat and innocently responds, “Where we at with budget?” it’s some of the best delivery in stand-up history.

“Wrong Number” is a masterpiece of concise writing, precise acting, and inventive direction that utterly captivates Larson’s audience. They cheer story beats that aren’t even punch lines. He has no set, music, costume, or other actors and is working a stage no bigger than the narrow strip in front of the main curtain that the first stand-ups were confined to in vaudeville days, tasked with holding the audience’s attention while the crew changed the set for the big acts. Despite that, Larson gives his audience a transformative experience. They are no longer at a small table on Sunset; they’re in Larson’s car on the 405, then in his living room, and then in his adrenaline-filled head as he tries to tell convincing lies to a stranger. Achieving this would be an admirable result for a movie, animated series, or pop star’s ten-truck stadium tour. Larson pulling it off with just his body, voice, and that small stage is a triumph worth writing about.