"Off Course On Purpose, A Story About Chasing The Impossible", by Mr. Bill Berry - Chapter 76: "David Iannaci"

When I (Mr. Bill Berry) look back on the long, winding road that brought me from the Midway at Circus Circus to the life I lead today, the path rarely felt like a straight line. There was no manual, no mentor, and no one to show me the way—just a lot of hard lessons learned in the trenches and the constant need to figure it out for myself. Everything I’ve achieved in this industry came the hard way, and it is precisely that lack of a roadmap that drives me today to coach and mentor other performers. I know that choosing to become an entertainer is a non-traditional path, and that requires a non-traditional instructor; someone who has been in the room, seen the highs and the lows, and understands the nuances of the craft that you simply cannot learn in a classroom.

In this chapter, I want to share the story of one of the few people who actually did take me under his wing: my mentor, David Iannaci. David was a seasoned pro who had done it all and seen it all, and the wisdom he passed down to me—from the technicalities of how to properly hang a pair of slacks to the professional survival instincts required to protect your time and your career—still echoes in my head before every performance. He taught me what it truly means to be a "classy" act, how to navigate the ego of the industry, and most importantly, how to recognize when it is time to say "no" to keep your own journey moving forward. David was more than just a mentor; he was the compass I didn't know I needed, and the lessons he taught me in those dimly lit green rooms at the Sands Casino are the same ones I pass on to my own students today.

Chapter 76: "David Iannaci"

One night between our sets, I decided to check out the Just For Laughs comedy club at the Sands Casino, which was just a short walk from Circus Circus. When I arrived, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a suit was greeting and seating everyone. He was friendly, cracked a few jokes, and then led me to a table near the front. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was carefully seeding the crowd, helping to ensure that the show would be as good as possible. When showtime arrived, I was surprised to see the doorman get up on stage and introduce himself as the MC, “My Name’s David Iannaci, David— Iannaci— half Jewish and half Italian, which means if I don’t get it wholesale I steal it, Ehhhh!” The crowd laughed at this, and he did some more schtick, getting us all warmed up. Then he introduced the first act of the evening. “Yo Vinny, get out here!”

As we applauded the next performer, David turned and opened a suitcase. He quickly put on a big headpiece with sunglasses and a sparkly gold coat, then turned back to us and played Vinny, a cool, hip groove master. It was an impression act. He then switched to another character, then another, then he talked about how he’d always dreamed of being a drummer, so he carefully set up a table with a short mic stand on top, and began to drum on the table. He started slow but built to a genuinely impressive cacophony, and just as he was about to hit his final notes, the vibration through the table caused the microphone to break loose from its stand and clank noisily onto the tabletop, trailing its cable as it went. David Iannaci, the old-skool seasoned vet, threw his sticks down in frustration, and the audience roared. Another thing I didn’t know at the time: he did this mic-drop bit every night, and every night it slayed. After that, he introduced the middler∗, who got up and did their thing, then he brought out the headliner. Start to finish, it was a great show, but David, the doorman, was the best of all.

As I was leaving, David made a point of stopping me, thanked me for coming, and asked where I was from. “Here,” I said, “my friend and I are doing a contract on the Midway at Circus Circus.”

That was all he needed to hear: “You wanna come do an opening spot for me one of these nights?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said, so we exchanged information.

Because the Sands was so close, and Jonathan and I had regular downtime between shows, I started popping over periodically to see the comics and say hi to David; then, as we became friends, I started hanging out there on the regular.

I remember one night, David calling me up and saying, “Hey, you free? If so, you gotta come see this comic from the valley!”

“Is he good?” I asked.

“No! He’s terrible, very blue, can’t read the room, has no act. You gotta see it!”

So I’d pop by the club and learn just as much from what didn’t work as I did from what did.

By now David started taking me back to the green room before and after shows, and whenever we’d be back there, he’s always give me sagely advice, the advice of a seasoned pro, advice from the guy who’d done it all, seen it all, played the big rooms, and, as he put it, “I would own this casino if I hadn’t put it all up my nose.”

He’d been clean and sober for years now, but at the peak of his career, he’d been a slave to cocaine.

“You know how I quit?” he asked one night.

“What, the cocaine?”

“Yeah, it was right before a show, and I was jonesin’. I needed to be fixed up real bad, sweating, paranoid, so I had my dealer meet me in the green room while I was getting ready. Thing is, he showed up, and took his sweet time — he always did that — drove me fruuugggiun nuts. He knew I was in a bad way, and he’s dragging it out, practically making me beg for it, and suddenly this thought came into my head: I don’t need this shit. So then I turned to him and said, ‘Hey, I don’t need this, why don’t ya’ take a hike.’

He was shocked, ‘What, I thought you wanted to get fixed up.’

‘I did, but not anymore, get out, and don’t ever come around me again, I don’t wanna see you, I don’t know you, get out!’

The dealer gathered his things and got ready to leave, but as a parting shot said, ‘Later, when you got your head back on straight, call me, I’ll pretend this conversation didn’t happen.’

As the door closed, I shouted after him, ‘Go ahead, wait by the phone, but you won’t be hearing from me!’”

I waited to see if David would say anything else, but he didn’t, so I asked, “And that was it, you never used again?”

“That was it, been clean ever since. Though I think my doctor’s tryin’ to do the same with these here percocets. Damn sciatica gets me,” he cut into one of his character’s voices and crossed his eyes wildly, “Whaa Whaaa Whailll pifff rererere!!!”

When I didn’t know how to react to this, he said in his normal-ish voice, “I’m sayin it huyts!”

David took me under his wing, and he taught me all the old-skooler rules, like don’t eat at events.

“You’re the talent, not the guest. You wanna have spinach in your teeth or fish dip breath when people come up to talk to you after the show? You gotta be classy. You glide through the room, because when you get on that stage, you never look better.”

And on costuming: “Don’t ever sit in costume, you work hard for those creases, and they should cut straight through to the back row. You need to look immaculate, and when the show’s over, you come straight to the green room, change out of costume, and immediately hang everything up so those creases stay perfect. Has anyone ever shown you how to properly hang a pair of slacks?”

“No,” I admitted.

So he showed me the right way, the way I’ve hung my slacks up every time since, the way I’ve shown my own students, and anyone else who would listen. I’ve been classy: I’ve kept my costumes immaculate — though I admit I do sit down in them sometimes — and I almost never eat at a gig. If I do, I brush my teeth right after. I’ve upheld these classy standards and taught others to do the same. David taught me a lot about being a performer and a man.

Soon enough, David was putting me on as an opener and paying me a little on the side for it. The stage at Just For Laughs was very small, though, so most of the time I’d just hop up and do my three-ball act. Which by now had been refined down to a tight one minute and fifty-six seconds. The Sands shows fell right in between our sets at Circus, so I’d do five shows at Circus, then walk over to the Sands with three balls in my hand, do a set there, then walk back to Circus to do our final set of the night on the Midway.

We’d been running our shows so consistently that I would try to get through entire days, six to seven shows, without any drops. I remember one day we’d gotten through our five Circus shows flawlessly, so I was trying to make it a dropless day. I got up on the stage at The Sands to do my three-ball act. I did my opening sequence, then I had a blowout. No biggie, I picked up and started raging again, no sooner than I’d started, another blowout, shit, pick up and go again. Now I was trying to redeem myself, and blam, another blowout, then another, and another. UGH, what is happening? The audience was trying to clap for me as encouragement, but I couldn’t get through more than five to ten throws without another miss; it was excruciating. Throughout I was counting in my head.

10…

11…

juggle juggle, drop

12…

13…

juggle juggle, drop

14…

15…

And then I went for my final trick, the ass catch, the most important move of the routine, BAM, MISS!!! URGGG!!!! I throw it again and nail it, blessedly. I tried to take the front of the stage and bow, but it was awkward. The audience could tell I was good; I was clearly doing hard stuff, but I’d completely failed to accomplish the act with my sixteen drops. I left the stage in defeat, but David defended me to the crowd, called me his protege, and claimed me as his own even though I’d just stunk the place up. Any other comic would have made a joke at my expense, but David didn’t need to take cheap shots at me to get laughs. I walked back to Circus, and in our final show that evening, we went flawlessly.

So it was five flawless shows, a sixteen-drop meltdown, and another flawless show. No matter how good you get at juggling, you can never assume you’re going to slay it; the gods of gravity can frown at any moment.

Another time, David and I were hanging out in the green room, and he started talking about the bell curve of an entertainment career. He talked about how he was on the down slope of the backside, and how I was on the up slope on the front side. “When you are on top, it seems like it will never end, but no matter how high you climb, eventually, you have to come down. So make sure that you have a good place to land when you do.”

That was David, always honest, always practical. He’d seen enough to know how quickly the spotlight fades. But he was also quick to remind me to push harder than the next guy: “If you are working on your act fourteen hours per day, there’s someone else working on theirs fifteen hours per day.”

*

Another time, David had to go out of town, so he asked me to cover the club for him. Basically acting as the host and doorman. The day before he was set to leave, we were hanging out in the green room after a show, and he asked me, “While you’re covering the club, what do you do if the comics ask you for something?”

“Um, try to be helpful and make sure they have a good show?”

“NO,” he rocketed back, “You tell them, ‘NO!’”

I laughed, thinking this was a joke, but David remained serious, so I asked, “Okay, I’ll tell them no, but why? What are they gonna ask me for?”

David cut into his Vinny voice, “Oh, you name it buster, they’ll ask for it, and when they do you just remember what David told youze, you tell ‘em NO, David you see, he’s on your side, he’s one of the good guys.”

I laughed and said, “Okay, I’ll tell ‘em no.”

David looked at me for a second, then, in his normal voice, said, “I hope so.”

*

The next day, I opened the room, got the comics settled, seated the audience, all the things I was supposed to do. And through it all, I was on guard, careful to ensure that any special requests from the comics would get a swift no. But neither of them asked me for anything. They came out and did their sets, the audience had a good time, and it was easy peasy. After the show was over, I cleaned up the room, reset the chairs, and when it was time to lock up, told the comics it was time to wrap up. As before, they were easy-going, cracking jokes, just a couple of funny guys. As I locked the place up, one of them asked, “Do you live here in town?”

“I do, my teammate and I are doing a contract at Circus Circus on the midway.”

“Teammate? Are you a ball player or something?”

“No, no, we do a juggling act, but we’re a duo.”

“Oh, that’s cool, so where do you live?”

Pointing off in a northwesterly direction, I said, “Over on that side of town.”

“Oh, that’s great, is there any chance you could drop us at -he named some small casino- it’s right on your way.”

David’s voice rang in my head, “If they ask for anything, you tell them NO!!!”

But then I thought, it is on my way, what’s the harm in just dropping them off, so I said, “Sure, hop in.”

We got in the car, and I set off for the casino. The drive was pleasant enough, but as we drove, the comic in the backseat discovered that I had a stack of promotional packets tucked into the pouch on the back of the seat.

“Hey, is this your promo? Can I take a look?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said over my shoulder.

He pulled out the packet and started ooh’ing and ahh’ing. “Man, so you send out a team headshot, a second headshot that has four different photos on it, a VHS tape, a résumé, a bio, and a cover letter? Damn, how much does one of these cost you?”

“Uhh, I don’t know, including shipping, probably fourteen to twenty dollars a piece.”

“How many do you send out?”

“We thought our contract at Circus Circus was going to end, so I just sent out a bunch, sixty to seventy maybe, but then we got extended by four months.”

“Where do you send them?”

“Agents, bookers… We sent two dozen to the cruise lines, and we even sent a few directly to entertainment managers on board ships. Anywhere we can think to send them.”

“Man, I need to be better about that. I’m actually supposed to be sending out a couple this week. Could I have a couple of these mailers?”

My initial impulse was to say yes, but David’s voice rang in my head again, much louder this time, “You tell them NO!!!”

I was torn. Here’s a guy who’s trying to move forward in his career, so I wanted to help him out. But then I thought, wait a minute, I’m spending a small fortune sending out all this promo, and it’s not like he’s asking to borrow a couple of empty envelopes lying in the backseat, he’s asking if he can disassemble packets I’ve already got packed and ready to go, essentially pulling me backward a step so that he can move forward a step.

David’s words came out of my mouth, “No.”

The comic waited a moment. I think he thought I’d explain myself, but I didn’t.

“It’s just a couple of mailers, is it really gonna hurt you if I take a couple?” the comic argued.

I felt a storm begin to brew in my belly. I’ve given up everything for this. I’ve busted my ass to get here, and now you’re gonna guilt-trip me, while I’m giving you a ride, motherfu…

Sensing the explosion, the other comic turned to the guy in the back, “Man, that stuff’s expensive; if you need to send out mailers, go get yourself some mailers.”

The guy in the back dropped the issue, and I didn’t say anything else about it.

Soon after, we pulled up in front of the casino, and they climbed out. The comic who’d been in the front seat thanked me graciously for the ride, and the comic who’d been in the back hovered in the door to say, “Hey, sorry about that, I was out of line.”

I said, “It’s all good, we’re all just trying to make it.”

The backseat comic nodded, then he stepped out. Before closing the door, he turned back to me again and said, “Hey, we’re only gonna be here for an hour or so, would you mind picking us up and dropping us back at the Sands?”

Oh my god, David was right, if they ask for anything, you gotta tell them NO!!!”

Before I could say anything, the other comic said, “Dude, seriously?” Then he said to me, “Thanks again, we can make our own way back, have a good night.”

He closed the door, and as I pulled away, I heard the cool comic railing the other for being a mooch.

Gah, David was right, but how did he know? He was certain enough that this would happen that he warned me.

I know it’s hard to come up as a comic. The years it takes doing the club circuit, making crap money, it’s a tough life. I guess up-and-coming comics have to find every way imaginable of getting ahead, just like Jonathan and I had to find our way.

I covered the club for the next two days with the same two comics. They were nice enough, and they didn’t ask me for anything else the rest of the weekend.

A few days after that, I saw David, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Did you tell them no?!”

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat, but it’s not like I was gonna lie to him.

David looked at the sky, threw his hands in the air, and, in Vinny’s voice, exclaimed, “Oy Jeezuz!”

Then he looked back at me, and I interrupted whatever was coming next, “You were right, and I learned my lesson. After the first night, they didn’t ask for anything else.”

“After the first night…”

“Yeah, I gave them a ride after the show.”

Vinny: “A Reide? Whare’d did dey wanna go? To the stwipcleub?”

“No, just to a casino, and they did ask for more, but I did what you said, I told them no.”

David considered this, then he nodded. “You did good,” then in Vinny’s voice, “cuz if nots, I tell ya’ there’d be hell ta pay when I gots deze hands on thooose guuyyz!”

*

David was a friend and a mentor who taught me so much. And he’s been with me, in spirit, at every gig since, his voice forever in my ear, always reminding me to glide through the room.

In your journey, you’ll find your David. And when you do, learn their ways, cherish the time you have together. Because no matter how much time you get, it’ll never be enough.

If you’re reading this, David, wherever you are, thank you…

∗ The standard comedy club "Three-Tier" lineup is designed to build the audience's energy in waves. It begins with the Emcee (or Opener), who performs a quick 5–10 minute set while handling "housekeeping" like introducing the club and silencing cell phones. They are followed by the Feature (or Middler), a seasoned comedian who performs for 20–30 minutes to transition the room from a light warm-up to a high-energy performance. The night culminates with the Headliner, the veteran "name" on the marquee, who delivers a polished 45–60 minute set. This structure ensures the crowd isn't exhausted too early and that the momentum peaks exactly when the main act hits the stage.

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