Tim Nutt

Tim Nutt walks on stage looking like a guy who might try to sell you a stolen dirt bike. He is tall and shaggy, with a heavy posture that suggests he is about to shout at the front row. Instead, he drops into a slow, deliberate cadence to talk about the absolute minutiae of daily living. He lets the audience assume he is going to be loud, then does the exact opposite. He will stand completely still, letting a quiet room wait out his pauses, before landing a sharp joke about domestic chores.

He is a massive presence on the Canadian club and festival circuits. He is the kind of road comic who can drop into any room in the country and immediately dictate the pace. Other comics watch him from the back of the room just to study how he uses silence.

The material relies on long stories dotted with tiny, spiteful punchlines. He builds elaborate arguments against very small annoyances. He rarely raises his voice. When he gets irritated by something stupid he witnessed, he just lowers his volume and speaks more slowly, making the crowd lean in to hear the end of the thought. Sometimes a bit meanders a little too far into personal philosophy, but he usually catches it and undercuts himself with a quick tag. He uses his physical size entirely as a misdirect, hunching over the mic stand to deliver the mildest possible complaint.