Mae Martin

Mae Martin performs with a restless, anxious energy. On stage, they tend to hunch slightly, speaking softly enough that the room has to quiet down to catch the punchline. They use hesitation as a tool, letting sentences trail off or pausing to gaze at the ceiling before delivering a blunt observation. They will describe a bizarre childhood obsession or a dark period of substance use with the exact same earnest, conversational tone, treating an absurd thought and a heavy truth with equal weight.

Their footprint expanded outward from standup after they co-created the semi-autobiographical series Feel Good, pulling their stage themes of addiction and codependency into a television narrative. That show, along with their permanent chair on the Handsome podcast alongside Tig Notaro and Fortune Feimster, moved Martin from a UK club staple to a focal point in modern queer comedy. They occupy a specific space: a comic whose crowds feel intensely protective of them, yet who steers those crowds with total control.

The material relies on a tension between sweetness and edge. In the hour SAP, Martin uses extended, goofy metaphors—like a mythical moose encounter or the gender dynamics of Beauty and the Beast—to map out complex emotional states. Their strongest bits happen when they let a silly premise run too long, pulling serious autobiographical stakes out of a ridiculous framing device. Occasionally, the drive to end an hour on a sincere, comforting note softens the momentum, but they pack enough jokes into the front half to balance the shift.

Because they started performing in Toronto at thirteen and spent their teenage years navigating comedy clubs and rehab facilities, Martin possesses an unusual stage presence. They project the wide-eyed bewilderment of someone who just arrived, backed by the deep structural instincts of a lifer who has held a microphone for two decades.