On September 17, during his monologue on Jimmy Kimmel Live!, the comedian implied that MAGA was linked to the political assassination of Charlie Kirk, a false statement that sparked a gusher of rage that ABC responded to by announcing an “indefinite suspension” of the late-night comedy show. One of stand-up comedy’s most outspoken liberal figures, Marc Maron, expressed outrage over what he called “government censorship,” while challenging other comedians who’ve previously championed "free speech"—in opposition to cancel culture—to publicly defend Kimmel.
Maron was calling out Joe Rogan and all the members of his right-leaning, anti-woke “Rogansphere,” which is now headquartered in Austin, Texas. Maron, a progressive, is sensitive to any mockery of wokeness. Such sensitivity is rare among comics, most of whom learn to laugh at material that runs counter to their beliefs.
“Rogansphere” refers to a group of comics that has risen to prominence under the umbrella of Rogan, the most powerful figure in stand-up comedy. An appearance on his podcast is the equivalent of what a spot on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show could once do for a comedian’s career. ABC reinstated Kimmel’s show after a six-day suspension, during which Rogansphere members Tom Segura, Tim Dillon, and Andrew Schulz expressed immediate support for the late-night host. But Rogan—who endorsed Donald Trump in the 2024 election, lagged in his response, announcing on Facebook that he was offline while elk hunting when the controversy began. He did post Andrew Schultz’s video statement in support of Kimmel, saying he agreed with it, and promised to comment in depth when he returned to his podcast.
Given that Rogan’s long been outspoken about the silencing of conservative voices, it's notable that he relied on another comedian to speak for him when he could’ve easily included a single sentence calling for Kimmel’s return. The tepid response suggested that Rogan was just going through the motions.
Rogan moved from L.A. to Austin, Texas in 2020 out of disgust over the Democratic Party’s rule in California, especially its restrictive Covid policies. The subsequent emergence of Austin as the third hub of stand-up comedy is a major development in that industry's history. While both L.A. and New York are associated with progressive politics, the new Austin comedy scene is modeled after political maverick Rogan, an anti-vaxxer who’s voted for both Bernie Sanders and Trump. The headquarters of this comedy movement is Rogan’s Austin club, the Comedy Mothership.
While it's easy to get the impression that Joe Rogan created a sizzling comedy scene in the way that Bugsy Siegel and a handful of entrepreneurs built a new entertainment capital, Las Vegas, from scratch in the middle of the desert, that's not exactly what happened. While Austin has a national reputation for its music scene, the city’s long been a base for “alternative” comedy—a place for comics to test unconventional formats and oddball, more personal material than traditional club circuits have offered.
Rogan supercharged an already solid comedy scene with his star power and the help of his vast network of comedy world and podcast pals. Tony Hinchcliffe was one of the first to follow him from L.A. to Texas, bringing with him YouTube’s second most popular podcast (after Rogan’s), Kill Tony. The list of other high-profile comedians who have moved to Austin includes Matt Rife, Tim Dillon, Ron White, Tom Segura, and Shane Gillis, who's perhaps the hottest comic in the land.
It's doubtful that Marc Maron approves of any of these comics. The longtime WTF podcast host (he recently ended the show) has said that the Rogansphere comics have “won,” and wonders why they continue to tell trans and immigrant jokes even after their “victory.” One way they've won, he says, is that “The trans people have no right to live the life they want. In some states it’s legislated. Same with women.” Maron’s lately been ranting on various podcasts about the Austin comedy scene. “It’s great,” he said on one of them. “Here we are, on the cusp of a military dictatorship with a rabid, fascist culture war. Those jokes were worth it though—it’s going to be great, right, that you can say those things?” Maron panics easily—during Covid he railed against hikers on L.A. trails not wearing masks—so it's hardly surprising that he's blaming comedians for the coming apocalypse he imagines.
In Maron's world, a handful of comedians can bring about the end to democracy. But it's doubtful that trans jokes were responsible for state legislatures passing “anti-trans” laws. Many Americans are uneasy with the methods and thought processes associated with the transitioning of minors into the opposite sex. Some comedians reflect this discomfort with a radical new movement, but they're hardly the main drivers of it. While Maron’s overwrought, there's a kernel of truth in what he's saying. The New York Times reported on a night at the Mothership during which a comedian received applause while setting up a joke about trans people. That's called “clapter,” a phenomenon heretofore associated with unfunny, left-leaning comics trying hard to appeal to the progressive sensibilities of their audience. If Austin comics are heading in this pandering direction, they're becoming what they despise. Any comedy scene in which being funny isn't required is headed for the scrap heap.
So some cracks in Joe Rogan’s comedy empire in Texas are starting to show, which is inevitable when one comedian wields so much power. That's especially true when that comedian isn't funny. Rogan got famous because he hosted Fear Factor on network TV, and then his podcast—The Joe Rogan Experience—not from his mediocre stand-up act. Rogan’s latest special, Burn The Boats, was met with derision. He's obviously heard some of Maron’s criticisms. On his podcast, Rogan protested, “We're not anti-woke,” despite all the hours he's spent on the podcast over the years railing against wokeness. Such lack of self-awareness is a weakness for the maestro of a budding comedy scene.
Even the name of Rogan’s club, Comedy Mothership, is annoying. Inside the venue, Rogan placed his own photo on a wall in between Robin Williams and George Carlin, suggesting an ego that's run amok.
Another problem is that Rogansphere comics keep dumping on Austin, which doesn't bode well for the future of that comedy scene. The city has a bad homelessness problem, a shaky power grid, and a cost of living that's skyrocketing. Shane Gillis, who became Rogan’s biggest prize when he moved to Austin, said recently that “Texas fucking blows,” and that he's heading back to Philly for about six months. He's big enough to diss Rogan by mocking Rogan's pomposity in speaking about the “sacred art of comedy,” and saying nice things about Marc Maron, but other comics in Rogan’s orbit aren’t. Gilliss distances himself from the smugness that Rogan shares with Rogansphere members such as Tom Segura, Tony Hinchcliffe, and Andrew Schultz.
Tim Dillon hates Austin—which he's described as “a soulless town of breakfast tacos, college students, and tech sociopaths”—so much that he moved out of the city shortly after moving there from L.A. Rogan’s buddy, Mark Normand, who didn't move to Austin, has called the city “a boiling pot of evil goo, just circling a dish." Normand has also declared that "moving to Texas is over.”
In the past five years, more than half a dozen new comedy clubs have opened in Austin, including the Creek and the Cave, Black Rabbit Comedy, the Vulcan Gas Company, Rozco’s and East Austin Comedy Club. The city’s got plenty of comedy momentum at the moment. The challenge will be to sustain it and become the “Third Coast” of comedy, as some already call it. The fact that something called the “Rogansphere” is the major force in town raises doubts. It hints at cultism and subservience to one master.
Things can go haywire if the Austin comedy scene, under the control of gatekeeper Rogan, embraces the clapter that can be heard at Comedy Mothership, as clapter’s the biggest enemy of humor. Arrogance is also a problem to watch out for. A visitor to the Mothership posted a check on Reddit they received for buying $180 worth of merch at the club. A 20 percent gratuity—$36—was added on. One Mothership customer posted online that when they complained about this practice, the response was, “There are signs up.” If this happened to me, I'd never return to the club.