Confessions from the Backroom: The Dirty Secrets of Running a Comedy Club

Running a comedy club isn’t glamorous. It’s not the Netflix specials or Youtube podcasts you look forward to each and every week.

Yes, there is roaring applause, and the occasional, feel-good vibe you see on screen, but behind the scenes; it’s more of an all-out brawl. Comedy is messy, chaotic, and unforgiving, but damn, it’s worth it when the lights hit, the vibe’s right, and a room of strangers explodes with laughter.

My name is Brandon J. Sobel, and I co-own and operate the Backroom Comedy Club in Toronto, and every day feels like a Vice documented reality show.

You want to know the truth about running a comedy club and dealing with comedians? Buckle up because life’s balance is real.

The funniest are definitely the saddest, the brightest come off dull, and you will never know the feeling of sitting at zero tickets sold until show time. It’s hard, it’s exhausting, but it’s mine and I wouldn’t change it for the world.  

Comedians for the most part are brilliant, broken, and brutal. They’re like chefs, professional fighters or wrestlers, always hungry, competitive, and absolutely convinced that they’re the best.

Dealing with talent means navigating fragile egos, wild demands, and the occasional meltdown. Ever had someone storm out because they weren’t headlining? It’s like telling Gordon Ramsay he’s on fries for the night.

And then there’s the audience—a mix of die-hard comedy fans and people who just stumbled in for cheap entertainment. Some nights, they’re electric.

Other nights, they just sit there like you just asked them to solve calculus or they think they’re the panel of Kill Tony or American Idol. Managing that energy? That’s the art form in itself.

Forget sleep. Running a club means hustling harder than the comics on stage. Filling seats isn’t just about putting up a poster and hoping for the best. It’s flyering, DMing, advertising, content creating, editing, social media, and bartering like it’s a flea market.

We’ve got systems—Bringers, Barkers, Bangers, and Belief. Which are all fancy names for grassroots marketing, street-level hustle, big-name bookings, and believing in our talent.

But the truth? None of it is guaranteed success. I’ve seen packed nights that barely covered costs and quiet nights that were somehow the most rewarding.

Oh, you thought highschool cliques were bad, let’s not forget the drama of the comedians themselves. Funny is sadly not first as everything always feels political. Friends will always book their friends, and someone’s mouth is always moving.

What about the clubs? Well, if you aren’t your best at a showcase, don’t worry you have six months to one full year to hopefully get better, or over yourself.

When did I personally get good? When I stopped listening to the noise, and started competing against the only person in my way—myself. You’re only as good as your last set, and the goal is consistency.

Here’s the thing: comedy isn’t pretty, it’s honest. It’s standing in front of a crowd, baring your soul, and praying they laugh instead of walking out, or even worse, stay silent.

That’s what makes the laughs addictive. Finding that balance between confidence and vulnerability while embracing my flaws and deficits. I’ve done drugs and chased pleasure—this is significantly more rewarding.

And running a comedy club? It’s the same rush. Every night is a gamble—will they show up? Will the comics kill? Will I make enough to keep the lights on?

There’s no safety net, no easy wins. But when it works. When the room is buzzing, and you know you’ve created something unforgettable—There’s honestly nothing like it.

This is just the start. Each and every week, I’m pulling back the curtain on the chaos and comedy of running this freak show. You’ll get the dirt, the drama, and the laughs—uncensored and unfiltered.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that comedy thrives on truth, no matter how ugly it can get.

Ready for more? Stay tuned.