Maddie's bit on being in the Open Heart Band

Female stand-up comedy performance, Irish-Newfoundland accent, fiery confident delivery, sharp witty tone, fast-paced punchlines and tags, Recorded live comedy album, intimate pub/bar setting, small crowd, warm room ambience, glasses clinking, low chatter, Very faint background ambient sound only (like distant bar noise or soft room tone), no musical performance, no singing, no melody, no instruments featured, no rhythm, no beat, Any background sound must remain subtle, non-distracting, never foreground, never building, This is comedy orutine, Primary focus is voice and audience reaction, Close mic, dry vocal, minimal reverb, Frequent audience laughter, bursts of applause, natural crowd interaction, Strict rules: spoken word only, no transitions into song, no chorus, no musical sections, no instrumental breaks, no rising soundtrack

I’ve been away from comedy for a while. I’ve been touring with the Open Heart Band.

I love my new look. Apparently all I needed was leather, enormous hair and a green star painted across my face.

For years,申 I was trying to develop a personality.

Turns out I didn’t need insight. I needed commitment.

The band’s been encouraging me to sing my own songs and use my voice. Which is beautiful. Very supportive.

Until you use your voice to say, “This bridge is bullshit.”

Then suddenly everyone supports silence.

Romeo says, “Sing from your heart.”

KORUS says, “Let the song move through you.”

Paddy says, “Can we lower the key? My back hurts.”

His back always hurts. He’s a drummer. You sit down for the entire concert, Paddy. The rest of us carry furniture with strings.

You are a man being paid to tap things while seated.

That is not a medical condition. That is a career.

Touring means living in a small vehicle with three people you love enough to resent professionally.

Romeo is everyone’s dad. Every petrol stop becomes a moral lesson.

“We’re not merely refuelling the van, Maddie. We’re refuelling hope.”

Great. Can hope get me a coffee?

Can hope come with oat milk, or is hope black and emotionally complicated?

KORUS is pure soul. Warm, luminous, endlessly compassionate.

It’s exhausting.

Sometimes I want to complain without being healed.

I say, “That hotel was disgusting.”

She says, “Perhaps it taught us gratitude.”

No. It taught me athlete’s foot.

Gratitude does not live between the toes.

And Paddy complains from the moment he wakes up—which is usually because we’ve arrived and need him to help unload.

“I’d love to help, but the old back…”

Yes, Paddy. We know. Your spine has its own press agent. It issues statements.

“Paddy will not be lifting tonight. He is resting and focusing on his craft.”

But they got me singing. Properly singing. Not hiding behind the guitar—actually opening my mouth and heaving the song out.

By the second verse, I’m rasping, shouting, completely lost in it. I even “woo” at the end.

Nobody planned the “woo.”

That was my dignity leaving the body.

It waved.

And I loved it.

That’s the terrible thing about finding your voice: once you find it, Romeo writes another verse.

And Paddy asks if we can take it down a tone.

For the back.

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I’ve been away from comedy for a while. I’ve been touring with the Open Heart Band. I love my new look. Apparently all I needed was leather, enormous hair and a green star painted across my face. For years,申 I was trying to develop a personality. Turns out I didn’t need insight. I needed commitment. The band’s been encouraging me to sing my own songs and use my voice. Which is beautiful. Very supportive. Until you use your voice to say, “This bridge is bullshit.” Then suddenly everyone supports silence. Romeo says, “Sing from your heart.” KORUS says, “Let the song move through you.” Paddy says, “Can we lower the key? My back hurts.” His back always hurts. He’s a drummer. You sit down for the entire concert, Paddy. The rest of us carry furniture with strings. You are a man being paid to tap things while seated. That is not a medical condition. That is a career. Touring means living in a small vehicle with three people you love enough to resent professionally. Romeo is everyone’s dad. Every petrol stop becomes a moral lesson. “We’re not merely refuelling the van, Maddie. We’re refuelling hope.” Great. Can hope get me a coffee? Can hope come with oat milk, or is hope black and emotionally complicated? KORUS is pure soul. Warm, luminous, endlessly compassionate. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I want to complain without being healed. I say, “That hotel was disgusting.” She says, “Perhaps it taught us gratitude.” No. It taught me athlete’s foot. Gratitude does not live between the toes. And Paddy complains from the moment he wakes up—which is usually because we’ve arrived and need him to help unload. “I’d love to help, but the old back…” Yes, Paddy. We know. Your spine has its own press agent. It issues statements. “Paddy will not be lifting tonight. He is resting and focusing on his craft.” But they got me singing. Properly singing. Not hiding behind the guitar—actually opening my mouth and heaving the song out. By the second verse, I’m rasping, shouting, completely lost in it. I even “woo” at the end. Nobody planned the “woo.” That was my dignity leaving the body. It waved. And I loved it. That’s the terrible thing about finding your voice: once you find it, Romeo writes another verse. And Paddy asks if we can take it down a tone. For the back.

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