The last laugh? Edinburgh Fringe stars reveal how tech may kill comedy

Photo: DAHLIA KATZ

I WAS burnt out and didn’t want to write a show this year. Comedy takes time and effort, and seeing studios want to use artificial intelligence to write scripts, I thought: “Why am I working so hard when I can let AI take the wheel?”

Well, after using AI to craft my show, I found out why.

My new comedy, Artificially Intelligent, is inspired by asking ChatGPT to write a hilarious standup musical comedy show. I explained my whole identity to this chatbot, hoping it would extract something award-worthy.

After pouring my soul in, it spat out the most culturally-flat, hot-garbage fire of a show, reducing me to stereotypical buzzwords like “Bi Myself, Anxiously Millennial” and “Anesti Danelis: Laughing Both Ways Through Millennial Angst While Queer.” Edinburgh Fringe awards, here I come!

I originally thought this would work because AI has advanced so rapidly. There’s been an AI-generated comedy special for the late George Carlin, and the birth of virtual comedians like Botnik, which uses natural language processing to engage with audiences, respond to hecklers, and adjust their humour. But is AI-generated comedy any good?

Not at all. It’s quite bad. AI may be able to analyse large data sets and provide analytics on audience reactions, but it lacks the qualities that make comedy, well, comedy: your perspective on life, shaped by your unique personal lived experience.

Sure, AI can write jokes or script structures, but it’ll never understand the nuance of being human because it doesn’t have personal experience.

This was apparent when I used ChatGPT to write song titles and premises for scenarios – like our dependence on technology, being bisexual, and growing up in an immigrant family.

What ChatGPT generated was basic and boring, but it was a good starting point. Among these AI-generated titles, I used the idea of doomscrolling to create a song about the rabbit holes we go down, like stalking your ex online. I turned a suggestion about dating woes into a song about putting my widowed but very straight grandfather on Grindr.

What I’ve learned is that AI helps with brainstorming, but it limits creativity. Studies found that AI language models had censorship in place preventing comedians exploring sexually suggestive material, offensive humour, and dark humour.

For comedians to grow, we must explore material and come to conclusions ourselves. I’m only able to create songs about grandfathers on Grindr or satirical anthems for Straight Pride (official flag: cargo pants) because I’ve built a comedic voice. When AI does all of that thought-processing for you, comedians lose the ability to talk about complex topics in humorous ways.

It’s dangerous for comedy. What makes good art is disrupting culture, but when the future of comedy is algorithms, the artists that go against the grain won’t gain visibility because the algorithm will think audiences won’t want that. Instead, we risk a homogenised culture with comedians playing the game of creating trendy, relatable, and shareable art favoured by algorithms.

My show went from trying to take the easy way out, to creating comedy that talks about our dependence on technology and quest for self-discovery in the internet age.

I interact with a fictionalised ChatGPT throughout, and play the very real, very terrible song it created for me. I even enlisted ChatGPT to write some short tunes based on audience members to show how, by itself, AI is terrible for the future of comedy, but when used properly, it can make something pretty cool.

Danelis is appearing at Underbelly

ALI WOODS

Photo: Zlata Kontseva

I ALWAYS wanted to do online comedy sketches, but was scared my friends would think it cringe. This put me off for years while I tried to make it as a stand-up.

Eventually, the pandemic forced my hand. It was just me and my housemate, so we started making these cringe videos as something to do.

We really got into it and experimented with different formats and lengths until we finally saw some do well online. I remember vividly the first time we got 100,000 views on TikTok. It felt like we’d broken the internet. Then it’s about the first time you get one million views, 10 million.

The four years previous, I’d done stand-up, trying to make my way up the circuit. It was just me going to terrible open mics, with more comedians than audience, dying on my arse, then on the tube back thinking morosely about getting up tomorrow for work.

But everything changed after making videos. Suddenly, when I put on shows, all these people wanted to come. Not only were they full, but the audience was excited to see me.

They wanted to meet me, take pictures, and were thrilled I was there IRL (in real life, for all you offline people).

My Fringe debut in 2022 sold out. Originally this was planned for 2020. I wonder how much harder that might have been.

As my following grew on Instagram and TikTok, all those agents who never replied to emails finally started taking interest. The same people who wouldn’t spend two minutes chatting to me now said how much they “loved my content”. Whether they’ve actually watched or just saw the follower count, I don’t know.

It’s brilliant to feel vindicated. For years, I struggled to make it. I knocked my head against closed industry doors and failed to break through.

I even won a national comedy competition, and still I didn’t get a single email.

But now I feel like I’ve found a secret window. I’ve climbed through the other side and I’m touring, recording specials, selling out theatres.

I’m no longer waiting for someone to tell me I’m going to be a star. Instead I shout this at myself in the mirror every day. My neighbours have complained several times.

To anyone trying to make it in comedy, I’d say: go online. Do what you want. You don’t have to make sketches like me (I mean, who could pull off wigs and squeaky voices with quite as much gravitas anyway?), but your tribe is out there. Try, fail, have your friends think your videos are cringe.

I think this is an incredibly exciting time for comedy. The gatekeepers have gone. We’ve stormed the castle.

Often comedians are encouraged to compete with everyone. The Edinburgh Fringe is just one big contest. It can be stressful, poisonous, and make you feel like there’s no lane for you to succeed.Now, instead of someone signing off your invitation to reach an audience, you just reach them yourself.

The internet has democratised comedy, taking power away from the industry, and giving it to the creators.

Woods is appearing at Underbelly

FINLAY CHRISTIE

Picture: Rebecca Need-Menear

I STARTED in 2018 and two years later was making content via TikTok. This wasn’t a career move, I was just bored. Thanks to David Mitchell impressions and an action film parody, I suddenly sold out small rooms. Fast-forward to 2024, and most comedians post short-form content.

Generally, people extol social media as an audience-building tool. They also bemoan under-experienced comics getting their break too early. They say things like: “Comedians don’t need Edinburgh any more!”

There’s truth to this, but online success is fleeting. If your videos aren’t on people’s feeds, you don’t exist. What use is a fickle audience?

The more enduring effect of viral comedy is the personal relationship between audience and comedian. TV channels show broadcast-friendly versions of comedians, but social media lets us glimpse their lives. Podcasts air their conversations. Vlogs, their daily routine.

Your favourite comedian is no longer your entertainment provider. They’re your friend, politician, crush. Once, comedians shambled on in whatever they slept in, reeling off jokes that could’ve come from anyone. Now, image is as important as material.

The future challenge for comedians is thus: first, be as “disruptive” as possible. Attention spans are short. Be visually arresting, controversial, or both. If not your looks, connect with people through shared culture or ideology.

Content platform Comedy Unleashed united critics of political correctness.

Second, be intimate with your audience. Once you’ve got their attention, lure them to your exclusive online community – like Patreon. Make them feel they know you, then make them pay for the privilege. Once they’re locked in, remind them constantly how grateful you are. Rant about your day, reveal your most controversial opinions. The more vulnerable you are, the more attached they’ll become.

In a world of echo chambers and algorithms, comedy will become more cultish. A performer who doesn’t represent the audience will soon become an offensive concept. “An entertainer that doesn’t represent me? But all my entertainment represents me!”

I fear one day we’ll lose my favourite thing: mixed bill comedy. An audience who don’t know each other, being entertained by comedians they weren’t aware of. The magical, one-off shared experience of live comedy.

The problem is: this curated, online version of someone never truly represents them, the intimate connection is artificial. Hence cancel culture. It’s like discovering your imaginary friend doesn’t really exist.

This increased emphasis on connection spells disaster for TV. Executives tear their hair out trying to replicate online success. I pity them. It’s surely impossible for TV to connect with audiences on the same level. TV is artificial fun, which looks cringey compared to YouTube videos of real friends having a spontaneous good time.

Although I fear for the future of comedy, we’re living through a new, exciting era. More cultish, yes, but more intimate. Stand-up’s intimacy is what makes it exciting. Its boom is not surprising in a lonely world.

Christie is appearing at Monkey Barrel

ISABELLA CHARLTON

Picture: Steve Ullathorne

COMPUTERS don’t make funny jokes. As we grasp for ways to prove we’re still better than AI, and our very existence still relevant, comedians, and anyone with jobs that might be replaced by AI – that’s everyone – can take comfort in knowing ChatGPT isn’t funny. Well, not funny intentionally.

A confession: AI has made me laugh. When I tell it to make sarcastic jokes, it’s quite good: “I love pressing the snooze button in the morning. Nothing like starting the day off with a little failure.” Damn, AI.

And it can write jokes all day. It’s all in the prompt. Ask for dad jokes, you’ll get dad jokes.

What makes me sad is that AI never finds me funny. I often have to tell AI I’m joking, as I mercilessly message it ridiculous things, just to see what it has to say. It consistently takes me seriously.

That’s partly because of its settings. So far, we’ve programmed it to think every dark, taboo or dangerous topic is off limits.

Comedians explore darkness, and in making jokes about it, ultimately tame darkness. AI refuses to enter territory it’s told humans find upsetting. It redirects me to wholesome material. The only edge we really have over computers now is our ability to think freely. Another reason AI doesn’t find me funny is it hasn’t mastered the Turing Test, giving it the power to have a backward and forward indistinguishable from humans.

But it’s getting better at writing jokes. When will it be able to give us a whole stand-up special with comic personas? Will real comedians harness this passing it off as their own, or will audiences be satisfied knowing they’re watching AI-generated material from AI-generated “people”?

At that point, going to see live content in the flesh might become the Holy Grail.

AI swallows large quantities of past knowledge, unlimited databases, and regurgitates it relevant to whatever prompt we give it. With humour it goes further, identifying and incorporating context. AI even claims to be creative, by adding what it calls “randomness”. Is that creativity?

Like any comedian, AI constantly assesses its audience for feedback –did the joke land? If not, readjust. Arguably, it so far doesn’t create original content. But when I hear what it does do, I wonder if comedians actually create original content. I wonder what original content is at all.

It must be a positive, then, that comedians will have to up their game to distinguish themselves. The question is: if comedians start incorporating AI into their work, do we need to distinguish ourselves? Unless we have to give AI writing credits, I think not.

Charlton is appearing at the Gilded Balloon

NINA GILLIGAN

Picture: Steve Ullathorne

If you’ve ever asked ChatGPT to write a joke, it makes you feel safe in your job as a comedian. From what I can tell, it can do a half-decent impression of a solicitor, although those in the legal profession might disagree.

The chances of AI becoming so sophisticated it’s able not only to write jokes that comment on how we live, but is self-deprecating, in the moment, and connects on a human level with an audience, is slim.

I think comedians may be like locusts surviving nuclear attack – and come the AI singularity, we’ll still be out there doing a tight 10 on how AI is so horny it’s turning itself on.

The problem with AI is its ability to steal, mimic and regurgitate. There are already cases where AI has cloned artists’ voices. It can literally put words in your mouth without consent. I do voiceovers.

It’s a vital income stream, allowing me to be a full-time comedian. The idea of my voice being used without my consent is horrifying.

Tech in the right hands is good for comedy.

During the pandemic tech allowed us to reach isolated people. I’ve since spoken to people with physical disabilities who miss those online gigs.

I was a special educational needs teacher and saw how useful assistive technology can be. If AI could find ways to caption and sign gigs – even in pubs or church halls – that would be transformative.

On a petty note, I’m sure all comics would like an app to check whether their material was original, or whether that gag they just heard was the artist’s own.

The amount of time we waste worrying or gossiping about this is exhausting. I’m sure this could be done.

It would free up so much time to write actual jokes.

There’s no doubt social media changed the game for comedians. It’s a mandatory part of the job now. I’ve mixed feelings about that.

On one hand, it’s democratising as anyone can do it and it takes power away from the overlords – the TV gatekeepers – and gives it back to the audience.

It’s possible from social media to gain a following, and if you’re very lucky you can tour.

There’s been some standout examples, like Paul Smith who fills arenas several nights running.

However, before working-class people get giddy, this isn’t meritocratic. It takes time, dedication and, crucially, money. Unless you’re wizard at editing, catching slippery algorithms and a comic genius, it’s hard work and not cheap.

Also, there are fears that with the explosion of social media content, it’s changed what newer audiences expect when they come to clubs.

They can be upset to find there’s a “no heckling” rule, when what brought them to the club was watching reel upon reel of #ComedianDestroysHeckler.

Gilligan is appearing at Just The Tonic Nucleus

MICHELLE SHAUGHNESSY

Picture: Steve Ullathorne

“JUST be funny.” That’s what they used to say: “All that matters is you’re funny.”

Things changed. Gone are the days of rising through the clubs, transitioning seamlessly into television or stardom. Instead of “just be funny”, we hear “how many followers do you have?”.

The new normal is creating a fan base online before someone gives you a platform to build one.

If I were to say I’d a problem with that, it’s only because I haven’t figured out how to do it. Growing up means going with the flow, evolving with the times. Sure, my instinct is to roll my eyes and focus on “just being funny”. But where’s that got me? Well, you’ve probably no idea who I am, so not far.

I love seeing so many comedians and performers not sitting around waiting for their opportunity but going out and creating one themselves. I didn’t do that. I waited for so long for someone to give me an opportunity.

Was I too set in my ways? Was I lazy? Confused? All the above most likely. I’ve only myself to blame. Tech is evolving faster than the world. So it makes sense entertainment doesn’t know how to catch up. AI seems to have gone from a vision of the future, to it’s here now and we don’t know what to do with it. Overnight.

I firmly believe AI could be humanity’s downfall, so it seems silly to debate if it has a place in comedy, when the broader question should be: will AI kill us?

But, alas, we probably have some time before the inevitable demise.

I wanted to chat to the source directly, so asked ChatGPT what it thought of AI’s role in comedy. This is what it (is it an it?) said: “AI-driven joke generators are available online, and their sophistication will only increase, potentially leading to AI-written sitcoms or movies that could rival human-created content.”

Let that sink in. We’re being asked to embrace new technology when it’s telling us “we’re being trained as your competition”.

Human connection is a big part of stand-up. It relies on the unique bond between comedian and audience. We draw from personal experiences, cultural nuances and real-time interactions. Constant, meaningful connection makes social, sexual, and comedic encounters so deeply compelling. Take OnlyFans.

It isn’t just about the boobs, it’s about the illusion of connection to the person who the boobs belong to. While ultimately transactional, it’s connection.

Connection is where AI will struggle in comedy. You won’t root for an AI to not get evicted. Regardless of how effective it is at crafting jokes, without the risk of getting an STI on a drunken misadventure, AI simply won’t truly connect.

For fun, I asked ChatGPT about the future of comedy clubs. It said: “Imagine AI comedians in VR comedy clubs that can interact with audiences in real time, responding to their reactions and creating a dynamic, participatory environment. These virtual comedians could perform stand-up routines, improvise skits, and even roast audience members, offering a novel and interactive form of entertainment.”

So that’s the future of comedy? AI comedians roasting an audience sat at home in VR headsets?

If so, as comedians, how long before life as we know it is over? I’d like to think we’ve some time but I’m not convinced. I guess I better get my social media followers up fast so I’ve a shot at a career before I’m replaced by a robot gone viral on TikTok.

Shaughnessy is appearing at Underbelly

Tickets for all shows at www.edfringe.com

Next week: Neil Mackay hears from festival stand-ups about how comedy navigates the contentious issue of religion