Recap Steven Wright at Pabst Theater

Veteran comic Steven Wright jokingly considers himself a “peripheral visionary.” But after logging more than 30 years of stage time, finding ways to turn everyday observations hilariously on their heads, and directly influencing innumerable comedians along the way, maybe his self-assessment isn’t so far off. Fresh off an appearance on Louie, sporadic segments on The Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson, and, well, not much else, Wright and his drowsy delivery of off-kilter inspections held a patchwork Pabst Theater crowd captive to his every mumbled word Thursday night.

Wright walked out to impassioned applause, and with hardly a glance toward the audience, immediately employed the first of what would be a couple hundred one-liners populating his 90-plus-minute set: “Sometimes I wish my first word was ‘quote,’ so that on my death bed, my last words could be ‘end quote.’” With monotone mastery, Wright—outfitted in his familiar leather jacket and black bowler—ambled aimlessly about the stage and granted onlookers a peek beneath the hood of his intellectual, semi-functional insanity.

The absurdist and oxymoronic gut-busters seemed strewn about the set with loose (if any) organization or transitions. Yet, amid a halfhearted pitch to be the official spokesperson of string, and deadpan jokes like, “They say the universe is expanding. That should help with the traffic,” and, “I’m going to get an MRI to find out whether I have claustrophobia,” Wright fashioned a sturdy piecework set with (alleged) childhood memories, relationship anecdotes, comically dark commentary on suicide, and tales of making people cry with his oddball answers to everyday questions.

Devoid of impressions, and with crowd-work limited to “Thanks, buddy,” and “I hope the Brewers do good tomorrow night,” Wright stuck primarily to his legendary persona. He only deviated to play two short songs on the guitar (one song primarily comprised of near-inaudible groans), and to briefly delve into physical comedy—peeking out meekly from behind the curtain to give his rendition of “the shyest comedian in the world.”

In all, Wright—apart from making brief mentions of iPods and plasma screen televisions—peppered his performance with timeless jokes (“My grandfather died when he was just a boy,”) and classic retellings of ancient evergreen bits (“Do you think in Europe Miles Davis is called ‘Kilometer Davis’?”) The gags went over just as well Thursday as they did 30 years ago, and as well as they probably will 30 years from now. Wright made bone-dry mention of things like his eyeglass prescription running out, and sneaking out at night when he was a fetus. Then, with one last slothfully conveyed one-liner, a brief smile, and a quick thumbs-up, he left just as abruptly as he had entered.