Jordan Jensen’s comedy is for freaks, but the normies will like it too

Jordan Jensen’s comedy is hard to categorize, just like the rest of her. And while that’s generally how we like our funny people — layered, nuanced, tortured — it tends to wreak havoc on the actual lives of the comics themselves. Not quite fitting in a box (even though she definitely knows how to build one) has basically been Jensen’s schtick since birth. She grew up in upstate New York, raised in a heavy-construction family that included three lesbian moms and a dad who died when she was young. Because of that unconventional background, she says her level of hormone-fueled boy craziness mixed with her rugged ability to swing a hammer and basically turned her into “a gay man.” Somewhere in her teens she hit a “fat mall goth” phase that never left her, even after becoming a popular comedian worthy of a Netflix special. Combining her inner Hot Topic teen with freak-flag feminism and alpha-male energy, her style makes not fitting in feel like one of the coolest things you can do — because it is.

On a recent Saturday night, before her new Netflix special “Take Me With You” drops Tuesday, Jensen prepared herself for one last run of weekend shows before starting from scratch with material for a new hour. Before going onstage in front of a crowd of a suburban crowd at the Brea Improv, the comedian’s Zen-like confidence felt like yet another thing she’s built from the ground up, along with her comedy career … and probably a patio deck or two. But onstage, her love of all things spastically weird and macabre makes her humor a fun and frightening project to unpack for fans and unsuspecting “normie” audiences alike.

How does this moment before your Netflix special “Take Me With You” drops feel for you? Are you past the anxiety of it?

I can’t see the numbers, so if it tanks, I won’t know — so I like that. I’m slightly dissociated because it’s already been done, so I feel good; I don’t feel anxious about it now. I was definitely anxious leading up to it. But the second that night [of filming it] was over it was a relief.

And you filmed it in New York City [at the Gramercy Theatre]. But where did your comedy career actually start?

My career really started in Nashville, and then I moved to New York after a year. I’m originally from upstate New York. I grew up in Ithaca and then I moved to Buffalo and started trying to do comedy. I moved to Buffalo because my friend became paralyzed, and I moved there to be near here, and then I basically started doing open mic in front of her paralyzed body because she wasn’t allowed to run away. Then my dad died, and I was going to move to New York City and instead [some friends of mine living in Nashville] said I should come live with them, so I did that instead for a year and really got into comedy there before eventually moving back to New York.

Did doing comedy in Nashville help you develop your career?

Definitely. I met [comedian] Dusty Slay, who helped me out. Lucy [Sinsheimer] from [the comedy club] Zanies got me all this feature work, and I drove my truck all around the South.

What is like to hit the touring circuit hard as a young comedian?

You do an open mic and someone says you can be on a show, and suddenly you think you’re hot s—, and every step of the way you kinda think you’re doing really well, so you’re driving around being like, “I’m on tour,” and making weird tour posters, and you’re not even looking at people who are at a different level; you’re just trying to do the most you can do at your level. So, for me, it was the same as it is now. I’m on tour every weekend, and I’ll come back home and hit the [open mics] and get my material and go off again. Even though I was losing money on the road, I felt like I was a touring comic.

You have jokes in “Take Me With You” about going through a ”mall goth” phase. Are you still a goth kid on the inside?

I stayed in a little punk era in Nashville and dabbled in being everything from punk to goth to hippie to whatever was the shape of my body at that time. But Nashville being similar to where I’m from, which is Ithaca, where I worked as a carpenter, it reaffirmed that you can be a dirty carpenter, and that’s also kinda cool. So I said I’m just gonna dress like I do at work. So I stopped being full goth in ninth grade when I wanted to get a boyfriend.

Judging by the blood–red stage design for your special, I’d say you’re still a little goth. What was your thought process for how you wanted your stage to look?

I’m obsessed with “Rocky Horror Picture Show” and with Dr. Frank-N-Furter as a character, this bizarre alien trying to fit in with humanity and he’s this beautiful [trans person], you don’t know if he’s a man or woman — and I feel very similar to that. I don’t feel transgender, but I do feel like an alien. So I wanted it to feel like I had scrapped together a set to basically put on a show for my weird alien crowd. And I wanted the red in the curtains to be reminiscent of period blood, reproductive organs. I wanted it be really gnarly, and with the construction netting, I have a construction background, so I wanted it to look like somebody said, “You’re doing a Netflix special” and I’m just a weird creature going, “OK, time to do my big day!” and the stage crew did a great job with that direction.

Were you working in construction right up until you started doing comedy full time?

Yeah, I built houses with my parents and I’ve roofed. I’ve done mason work and landscaping and stuff. But in New York I did remodeling, so I’d do things like turn a crepe shop into a hair salon. So it was like flipping places in New York and making them hip and trendy. And nobody should’ve hired me; there’s nothing better than an all-male construction crew, and I was one woman. People were just so proud of patting themselves on the back for hiring a woman that they didn’t notice I took four times as long as a regular crew — and I hired a lot of day laborers.

In your special, you talk about battling the lesbian energy that you get labeled with in comedy, but I’m guessing that also happened in the construction gig?

It’s always been that way because I was raised by lesbians and they [didn’t] know how to raise a feminine child; they just raised me to be in their construction crew. And my dad wanted a son so I became his son, so I’ve always been super boy crazy and also so boy crazy in that I look and dress like a boy. So I’m basically a gay man … it’s not only being a woman that’s in the trades, but if you have any sort of energy that’s utilitarian, you’re gay and that’s always been a problem for me. Because I’ve liked cars or efficiency and building things, and I’ve never understood dressing up with makeup and jewelry.

“I’m obsessed with ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’ and with Dr. Frank-N-Furter as a character, this bizarre alien trying to fit in with humanity and he’s this beautiful [trans person], you don’t know if he’s a man or woman,” Jensen said. “And I feel very similar to that.”

(Mindy Tucker)

As a New York comic, what’s your perception of the L.A. comedy scene right now?

The L.A. scene has less of a fire under its ass, but it has the same amount of good comics — or roughly the same amount because of the population difference. But the difference between doing comedy in L.A. and doing comedy in New York is if you don’t write a new joke in New York every week, everybody knows. Whereas in L.A. they can chill more — they have a dog, they have a hike, they can do ayahuasca, and there’s more to life than comedy.

But in New York, you have 10 people living with you and you have to take a train every day, and you’re so comedy-focused because you’re trying to climb out of that life and into the comfy place of L.A. So they’re just as good, but New York comedy is way more prolific, but [in] L.A. they’re just as funny. Like Josh Johnson, I don’t think that guy is coming out of L.A. Because we’re trying to get to where the L.A. people are — they’re comfortable and have a nice house and they’re gonna be OK. But in New York we’ve committed our lives to being miserable so that we keep producing.

What’s a note that Netflix producers gave you before the filming process of your special that you didn’t follow?

Netflix was like, “All that stuff that’s f— up about your family, put that way sooner in the special,” and I ended up not doing that because the way I do my regular set I try to ease them into that. Because when if you’re sitting there as a watcher, listening to all the stuff I say about my dad, you need to be loose. Netflix was like, “Just put it up top because it’s your story,” and I decided I’m just gonna go it how I normally do it, because I get it that it’s my story, but I can imagine turning that s— off so fast once your hear some of that stuff. Just like, “No!” So I’m trying to get you to understand me and then letting it rip. The first half-hour is my story, but it isn’t about being raised by lesbian moms and having the dead dad. I just had to gamble and not do the whole closer first thing and do a ramp-up instead.

Considering you’ve now achieved getting a Netflix special, do you think you’re still as hungry as you were before?

I thought the hunger would turn down a bit, but it doesn’t because as soon as the hour is done, you just have all this pressure to come up with a new hour, and the whole thing comes down to performance. When you’re onstage, you want to be giving them a really good show. So even though I can rest on my laurels, I can’t do anything from the special; I don’t want them to watch the special on Tuesday and see repeats. So I feel better on myself, but there’s no less drive. The special didn’t do what I thought it would do; I thought it would make me less of a love addict, I thought it make me less desperate to have people’s affection, but it doesn’t do s—. The only thing I care about is that women from Middle America who are not disgusting mongrels see the special. I want men and normie women to see the special — that’s why Netflix is important. Because my audience is all freaks, but I need nonfreaks to see it so they can feel freaky for an hour. That’s all I want.