Comedy, Chaos, and Richmond Nights
I found myself at one of those underground comedy gigs that seem to pop up in my social feed, like the ghost of an ex-lover’s Instagram story. The venue? The Hoffheimer Building—a historic, Exotic-Revival style building fronting Richmond’s ever-evolving Scott’s Addition neighborhood. The talent? A mix of local comedians in various stages of their stand-up journey. As with any comedy show, there were highs that left me doubled over with laughter and lows that made me question my life choices. And let’s not forget the woman cackling behind me like she was auditioning for a role as a laugh track on a sitcom—her timing was impressively off.
But beyond the cringe chuckles and nervous laughter, something about this small, intimate show felt… different. Different in a way that gently nudged me out of my comfort zone and into a new kind of experience, the kind that sticks with you. Little did I know, this night would become my perfect prelude to something bigger—Ali Siddiq’s show at Dominion Energy Center the next night.
Now, let me tell you something about Black comedy. It’s woven into the fabric of my life, a constant source of humor and wisdom. I grew up on a steady diet of BET’s ComicView, Def Comedy Jam on HBO, and the undeniable kings of stand-up—Eddie Murphy, Martin, Jamie Foxx, Bernie Mac, Steve Harvey, etc. It’s more than just jokes—it’s the tradition, the storytelling, the way Black comedians capture the essence of human behavior and translate it into a punchline that reverberates like a gospel chorus in the back pews of a church.
So, when I heard Ali Siddiq was coming to Richmond—a man with the storytelling mastery of Dave Chappelle, the physicality of Kevin Hart, and just a pinch of Eddie Murphy’s bombastic flair—I didn’t just buy a ticket. I made a commitment.
And Ali didn’t disappoint. He was everything I hoped for, spinning an entire hour of comedy out of a single, elaborate story about his mother—had us hanging on to every word like a late-night text from someone you shouldn’t be thinking about. Until, that is, Ali caught someone in the audience doing the one thing you never do at a comedy show: recording.
Suddenly, the show came to a screeching halt. We all turned to see the man in the yellow-tinted sunglasses and shoulder-length twists as if we were in a live-action episode of Law & Order: Stand-up Unit. Security was called, the surrounding audience members shifted in their seats like they didn’t want to catch the guilt by proximity, and Ali? Oh, Ali went off.
Now, don’t get me wrong—he had every right to be mad. Recording a comedian’s set, especially when they’re working on new material, is like stealing someone’s diary and posting it online. It’s a violation. But the tirade that followed? It felt longer than waiting for a table at Moore Street Cafe on Sunday mornings. Ali went from 0 to 100, jumped off the stage, and confronted the culprit up close, words flying faster than bikers popping wheelies along Broad Street.
We all thought security would toss ol’ Yellow Glasses out, but they didn’t. Ali eventually returned to the stage, ranted some more, sipped his water, wiped his head, and then—like a preacher holding his congregation in the white of his hand—sat down and said, “I’m not gonna finish that story.” The audience groaned, but what could we do? Sometimes, life leaves you hanging on a punchline you’ll never hear.
As we sat there in collective frustration, Ali started a new story, and just as we were easing back into the rhythm, a red balloon floated down from the ceiling. It was surreal, like something out of a Stephen King novel. Ali paused, eyed the balloon at his feet, and in a moment of pure comedic genius, said exactly what we were all thinking. And just like that, the tension broke, and we were laughing again.
But as I watched that balloon drift slowly down, I had to wonder: Was the real show the one on stage, or the unscripted chaos happening all around us?
Either way, the balloon wasn’t paid to be there—but Ali sure was. And he earned every cent.
