Six years ago, Devohn Bland and Xochi de la Luna decided to create a comedy open mic night with a bold premise: It would only be open to people of color, LGBTQ+ folks, and women performers.
“I said if we were going to do an open mic, we should make it as different as possible,” de la Luna says. “I kept coming back to this idea of Black and Brown folk, queer and trans folk, and women. But then I was like, ‘How do we go about marketing this without getting hammered by the comedy scene for it?’ Devohn was like, ‘Fuck that. We’re not doing anything wrong.’ And he was right.”
And thus Uproar Comedy Open Mic was born. Shortly after, the duo would become a quartet, adding Comrade Tripp and Madi RT as full-fledged members. While the concept of the open mic was mostly well-received, there were still some who didn’t like being cut out of an opportunity.
“When we first started, people would get really angry with us,” RT says. “But before Uproar, me and Devohn would be at open mics and we’d be the only minorities there. Someone would make a sexist joke, and everyone would laugh and then look at me for approval—I didn’t want that! The same thing would happen to Devohn, and we’d just be like, ‘This shit is fucked, right?’”
“We were notorious in town,” adds Tripp in his signature deadpan tone. “Our message became infamous to cis, straight, white males.”
Yet many embraced what Uproar stood for, and the emphasis on creating a unique space for comics made the show a staple of the Twin Cities comedy scene. (It even won “Best Open Mic” in City Pages’ final Best Of awards.)
Then the pandemic hit, and Uproar had to hit pause.
“It’s four people of color being told they can’t do something,” de la Luna explains, citing their frustration at the time. “We understood we couldn’t do these shows for health reasons; we completely accepted that. But as soon as things turned around, we knew we had to bring it back.”
Two months later, George Floyd was murdered by a Minneapolis police officer at 38th & Chicago, just a few hundred feet from RT’s home. They became a regular at George Floyd Square, working with the community to provide support and healing.
“I wanted to do a comedy show at the People’s Way right in the heart of the square because I knew it would be a release that could help,” RT recalls. “The others were super down to support and do whatever they could, and they trusted me because I was part of that neighborhood.”
That August the Uproar crew hosted their first post-shutdown show, the same day Cup Foods was set to reopen. The mix of neighborhood residents and protestors made for an interesting event.
“We were really nervous about it because comedy is subjective and has all sorts of flavors, and some flavors might not work for the people in the square,” de la Luna remembers.
While the group says the majority of the crowd was supportive of the gesture, Bland says not everyone was receptive.
“It went well,” he says. “There were some speakers and chants beforehand, but some people showed up late and hadn’t seen any of that and weren’t happy about us being there.”
Uproar would ultimately return in full form by the end of that summer, this time at Phelps Park in south Minneapolis’s Powderhorn neighborhood. With the Boys & Girls Club as their backdrop (and their main source of electricity), the grassy hill served as their own version of stadium seating.
“The first few times we had restaurants that would sponsor us, or people would make food and pass it out,” Bland says. “Some [signups] were comedians who were excited about the mic. Some were just people in the neighborhood who wanted to crack jokes.”
The limited series of shows went so well that the next year they decided Phelps would be Uproar’s home for the entire summer.
“We would be set up near the trash cans, so you could smell your own failure,” Tripp says. “We’d also put a baby sock on the mic and change it between every performer to keep germs from spreading.”
“It kept me sane during those two years for sure,” de la Luna adds.
That September, the party would come to an end. Pee wee football practices had resumed, and the combination of kids and comics didn’t sit right with some folks.
“The Park Board was very concerned about the material the children were hearing at the mic in between concussions,” Tripp notes. “So we got kicked out of the park, but we did probably 20 shows that summer.”
Soon after, Uproar relocated to its new (and current) home at Bryant Lake Bowl, where it continues to maintain its mission of creating a space for underrepresented individuals looking to find stage time every Monday night.
The gang also all have solo projects. This weekend Bland, with plenty of support from his Uproar crew, will present NuNu, a one-man show at the Southern Theater that takes an autobiographical look at growing up in the Cedar-Riverside area.
De la Luna currently hosts an experimental music showcase, Enter the Void, while Tripp has had standup gigs all over the country. RT’s sketch show, Parody Home Companion, is set to return this winter.
Despite all those side projects, the gang says the legacy and continuation of Uproar is important.
“I go to Uproar when I feel good, or I want to feel good and I want to laugh,” de la Luna says. “It keeps me connected to the standup scene, even if it’s the only place I really do any standup.”
Adds Bland:
“We have a responsibility. I want to make a space that is supportive and where people can do important things. Minneapolis is amazing, and the comedy scene in Minneapolis is amazing. We have to protect it and invite people to be a part of it and make sure it continues.”
Address: Southern Theater, 1420 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis
Time: 7:30 p.m. Fri.-Sun., Sep. 6-
Tickets: $20
Address: Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis
Time: 7 p.m. Mondays
Tickets: Free; find more info here
