Last week, the comedians Joanne McNally and Grace Campbell posted a video of themselves hungover, lying on sun loungers on a balcony in Ibiza, watching YouTube clips of Katherine Ryan on Live at the Apollo on an iPhone.
It was only an Instagram story – the primary medium through which these two stars have forged their careers – but it felt like a mix of comedy worlds. McNally and Campbell have broken out at a time when podcasting, short-form video, Taskmaster and social media have replaced Live at the Apollo as the ticket to stand-up stardom. Ryan, one of the most ubiquitous and successful comedians in Britain, who laid the path for them 15 years earlier, probably wouldn’t have a career without it.
This week, the BBC announced that it is scrapping Live at the Apollo after 22 years. After brutal cuts, especially across its News divisions, the director-general warned that further culls would be coming, this time in Entertainment. The revived Blankety Blank and Celebrity Mastermind are also among the first casualties, but it is Live at the Apollo’s putting out to pasture that for many people is a sign of cultural decline and the BBC’s waning commitment to comedy – one of its, and our, greatest exports.
On principle, I agree. For a nostalgic millennial like me, accompanied by the show on many late Friday nights, and obviously a supporter of the arts, the loss of an institution like Live at the Apollo, that introduced the public to the likes of Romesh Ranganathan, Kevin Bridges, Michael McIntyre, Jason Manford and Aisling Bea, ought to feel devastating. In practise, though, I haven’t properly watched the show in at least 10 years and it long ago lost its trusted status as the pre-eminent showcase of mainstream and future comedy talent. This is not really the end of an era. Live at the Apollo’s era ended a while ago.
Live at the Apollo was an essential rite of passage for a stand-up in the UK. An appearance was a stamp of approval, proof a talent was on their way to bigger things, it was a breakthrough – shifted tour tickets and turned unknown, gigging comics into stars.
This used to be the foremost showcase of new talent. Here, John Kearns, Judi Love and Dan Tiernan (Photo: Ellis O’Brien/Open Mike/BBC)After slogging it out at Edinburgh Fringe, and along with topical panel shows like Mock the Week – also retired by the BBC, and then revived on TLC this year – this was a crucial stop on the circuit. Its peak audience in 2009 was 6.29 million viewers – it offered exposure you could get nowhere else, and it was a test: how much of an impact can you make in a 10-minute routine? Originally hosted by Jack Dee before switching to guest comperes, its household names seemed to endorse the rising stars they performed alongside. It allowed comedians to develop material, and allowed the public to develop taste without parting with any money.
But the comedy industry started to change, and the “mixed bill in your living room” format began to feel outdated. High-concept shows came into fashion, comedians began to rely on more and more gimmicks and tricks, they became more vulnerable and wrote deeply personal routines and material about mental health or identity politics that just weren’t as easy to condense into a short burst as relatable, observational stuff.
Then there was the competition. Taskmaster, in which comedians compete at a range of silly and imaginative challenges, became a runaway hit and gave its stars new, and weirder, ways to show off their funny sides, over a longer period. It replaced Live at the Apollo as the primary entry point for new talent and became – and remains – comedy’s best booking.
Podcasting exploded, too, hijacked by comedians as a vehicle for their personalities and a way to build a consistent, loyal, deeply connected fan base invested in the people themselves as well as their acts. Josh Widdicombe, Rob Beckett, Cariad Lloyd, Sara Pascoe, Joe Lycett, Chris and Rosie Ramsey, Romesh Ranganathan – comedians that might once have needed Live at the Apollo can DIY it now, and appear on all their mates’ shows too to maximise their visibility.
Then, of course, there is the disruption of the short-form video medium, which – especially during the pandemic, when comics could not tour for nearly two years – democratised the industry and allowed comics to develop content, personal brands and followings on their own, skipping the traditional stepping-stones like Edinburgh and Live at the Apollo altogether and for the most successful few, cutting straight to a nationwide tour.
The more diffuse the opportunities for exposure became, the more Live at the Apollo’s prestige was diminished – and in turn, the more its line-up began to suffer. A 10-minute slot on there could no longer have the same impact as a viral, shareable video. It could no longer show off the range or charisma of a comic in the same way as several hours on Taskmaster or an appearance on a long-form podcast like Off Menu with Ed Gamble and James Acaster. We live in a personality-first world, and stand-up comedy has always been about selling oneself.
Comedians like Lucy Beaumont stand to benefit most from a gig on Taskmaster (Photo: Avalon/Channel 4)Viewers are the problem too, of course. Live at the Apollo, which still has one more series to air, has become a relic of a time when TV viewers were still conditioned to give new things a chance. Back when there was no other option – no TikTok, no Instagram, no Netflix – it was perfectly acceptable for the idle viewer to endure a television programme in which you might not enjoy everything you saw, because you could almost always trust that there’d be just as much of what you did.
Now, we won’t take that gamble. By its nature, Live at the Apollo is hit and miss, but who’s going to sit through a miss nowadays or take a gamble on the unknown when we can pick up our phone and are guaranteed to be presented with something more entertaining – even if it is shorter, dumber, and totally disposable. Live at the Apollo is a victim of our attention spans, as well as the evolution of the market it used to dominate.
Is this a tragedy, or is this just the BBC making good on its promise to meet its audience “where they are”? The BBC has said it will shortly announce “digital plans focused on stand-up and emerging comedy talent” – which is encouraging, although it is hard to imagine any new scheme can ever recreate the effect of a showcase like Live at the Apollo at its peak. But how much can we really complain about this loss when comedy is ostensibly thriving, the range of working stand-ups has never been more diverse, and what brought about Live at the Apollo’s demise is the very fact that there have never been more opportunities for great talent to get their voices heard?
The BBC has got to save money (and given it lost 500,000 people’s licence fee revenue last year, that could not be more urgent). It has meant making “tough choices”. But we should be relieved that Entertainment’s losses feel less like a betrayal and more like moving with the times.
Live at the Apollo has lost its power, but not its legacy. Look across the BBC, turn on the radio, stick on a podcast, or open social media and you will find its alumni – and the generation, like McNally and Campbell, it still inspires – and proof that it didn’t just change comedy, but it changed British broadcasting for ever.
Hence then, the article about this is what killed live at the apollo was published today ( ) and is available on inews ( Middle East ) The editorial team at PressBee has edited and verified it, and it may have been modified, fully republished, or quoted. You can read and follow the updates of this news or article from its original source.
Read More Details
Finally We wish PressBee provided you with enough information of ( This is what killed Live at the Apollo )
Also on site :
- Suffolk wildfire latest: Firefighters battle blaze near huge nuclear power plant with ‘major incident’ declared
- ‘The Walking Dead’ Franchise to Stream on Both Netflix and AMC+ Beginning in 2027 Under New $500 Million Deal
- Quote of the Day: Scott Hamilton's Advice on Challenging Yourself Still Inspires 42 Years After His Olympic Gold