Drew Landry

Landry speaks with a loose, slightly raspy slur, smiling wide while dropping facts that ought to ruin the mood in a comedy room. When he brings up an adolescent stay in a psychiatric facility or losing his two closest childhood friends, he does not drop his voice to an earnest hush or wait for an aww from the back row. He keeps his feet moving, tosses off the tragedy like a detail about his rent, and follows it with a silly, left-field tag before anyone can decide to feel uncomfortable. The rhythm is intentionally bouncy, ensuring that even his heaviest admissions land as jokes rather than pleas for understanding.

He operates squarely in the club circuit, grinding through late sets at the Hollywood Improv and touring rooms across the country. In All My Friends Are Dead and 10 Things I Hate About Drew, he resists turning miserable events into a one-man show. Where other performers mining trauma lean into dramatic pauses, Landry sticks to compact setups and punchlines.

The sets are strongest when the stories are grim, because his casual dismissal of his own pain produces genuine surprise. He is less convincing when shifting into broader crowd material, where bits about dating or pop culture occasionally slide into standard club rhythms.

Landry started doing standup in Baltimore at thirteen, with his mother driving him to bar shows while he was still in middle school. Spending his entire adolescence on stage gave him a rare comfort with rooms that get quiet, letting him talk about grief and diagnosis like ordinary small talk.