New York, 1993
It was the autumn of 1993. It was New York. It was one of these balmy early September evenings that you think only happen in the movies, and I was walking through the East Village. Suddenly my inner tranquillity was severely jolted by a loud commotion outside a comedy club. An ambulance had pulled up and a critically injured 45-year-old man was being carried out on a stretcher. If there was a bleeding equivalent of diarrhoea, this was it. Curious on-lookers formed a voyeuristic circle, as the medics tried to revive him. I asked a friendly Puerto Rican woman what had happened. She said that Johnny Schillaci had being doing a gig there and somebody had heckled him. Seven years later, back in Celtic Tiger Ireland, and on the phone to Johnny remembers that evening fondly: "Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Big guy. I must have punctured his aorta or something. Said something about my mother. See in those days I had this theory about heckling. I thought to myself, the stage is my home. And when I do a gig it's like I've invited the whole audience into my living-room. And when somebody heckles me, it's like as if somebody abuses me in my living-room. I've invited people into my home and they are rude to me? So what do I do? I acknowledge the heckler. ?????I address the ?????And I whack the heckler."
Sadly, all those years ago in New York, I never did get to catch Johnny act. My flight home from JFK was the following morning.
But my curiosity had been aroused. Who was this Johnny Schillaci? I had just enough time to check out a second-hand record shop on West 33rd Street close to Penn Station. There I got my hands on one of the only pressings still available of Johnny Schillaci's cult 1986 album, Laugh at my jokes or I'll kill you. A bargain at $80. Unfortunately, I never did get to play the album because my luggage got lost in transit. Time marched on. I settled back in Dublin. Every now and then I would think of Johnny Schillaci and tell my friends about this obscure comedy act who would inflict grievous bodily harm or worse on members of his audience. Then, to my amazement, I found out he'd moved here for career and personal-safety reasons and would be doing a gig in Dublin later this month. I vowed to, at last, meet this comic psychotic and get a flavour of the man and his work.
New Ross, 2000
New Ross is mild for early December. A damp duvet hangs over the air. I'm meant to meet Johnny in Flaherty's pub on North Street. I don't recognise him immediately. Light-skinned and fairer than most Italian-Americans, he is smaller than I expected. However, there is a palpable turbulence and aggression within him. Up close he looks older than his years and has eyebrows both above and below his eyes. "A rare condition, from my mother's side," he informs me. His handshake is firm, very firm, like the jaws of a stoat. I order mineral water. He orders an espresso. There is no espresso. There is a moment of tension. After the barmaid clears up the broken ashtray, he settles for instant coffee. He tells me he's mellowed.
"I've been in Wexford for a couple of months now, and it's been a great change for Angela and the kids. I'm turning over a new leaf. "You're looking at New Millennium Johnny, make-over Johnny, all that stuff I was famous for in the 1990s, the violence and random bloodshed at gigs. That's over." I ask him if this is caused by being a father and having a new sense of maturity. "No, no, it was hurting my career, big time." He continues on his theme. "You know, in the old days if somebody asked me `How did the gig go, Johnny?' and I said `I slayed them', they wouldn't know if had been a good gig or a bad gig, but now I think it'll be clearer. No more Johnny junior." "Who's Johnny junior?" I inquire.
He takes out his gun from his inside jacket. "I still bring him on stage just to help me relax. I don't use him anymore. Remember that Gene Wilder movie when he used to rub that handkerchief against his face to help him relax, well that's what I do with Johnny junior, I rub it against my face, everyday, just for comfort. But I'm a changed man." He starts to gently rub the side of the gun gently against his face. The movements become quite rhythmic and pronounced. He starts to hum like a child. The humming becomes louder. His mantra reverberates around the bar and becomes quite disturbing. Some of the bar clientele around us react in an anxious manner. I am also feeling a little stressed. Thankfully his instant coffee arrives and he puts Johnny junior away. I ask him if he's looking forward to the up-and-coming gig in Dublin?
"Yeah, there's a lot of comedy opportunities here in Ireland, I'm here for the long haul. See, in America I didn't concentrate solely on my comedy career, there were a lot of distractions, business activities, stuff like that, but that's over now. What was it that writer wrote, the past is Sri Lanka?" There is a pause. I momentarily ponder on the absurdity of Johnny Schillaci making a reference to L.P. Hartley. I correct him tentatively, "The past is a different country." "Yeah, whatever, Sri Lanka, a different country, same fuckin' thing, but all that's gone now and I can concentrate on my comedy and make my dreams come true."
Johnny Schillaci (aka Karl MacDermott) performs at The HQ, Middle Abbey Street, Dublin on Wednesday, at 8 p.m. with top German stand-up comedian, Gunther Mueller (aka Barry Murphy) in The Johnny and Gunther Show. Merry Hell, a week of comedy at HQ, also includes Dara O Briain and John Henderson on Thursday and The Further Ted Show (Joe Rooney and Patrick McDonnell) on Friday