THIS MONTH, Bloomington hosts the Limestone Comedy Festival, one of the country’s most respected indie events for stand-up comedians and the people who get their jokes. Limestone alumni include some of the top names in the business—Margaret Cho, Tig Notaro, Maria Bamford, Patton Oswalt, Fortune Feimster, James Adomian, Rachel Bloom, Bob the Drag Queen—comedians’ comedians who are part of a tradition that continues May 29–31. Headliners such as Chris Fleming and River Butcher will perform this year alongside a cast of rising stars in venues both cozy (The Back Door) and grand (the historic Buskirk-Chumley Theater). Fans can buy single tickets or purchase the $160 VIP badge for benefits that include guaranteed seating and a ticket to Friday night’s Karaoke With The Comics After Party. Now in its 12th year, Limestone is still killing it.
But how did such a small-scale, grassroots festival in the middle of cornfields and conservatives, beer kegs, and college hoops become such a darling of the stand-up community? Like so many great performances, it would be nothing without a terrific warmup act.
The town of Bloomington first stepped into the brick-wall spotlight 17 years ago because Jared and Dayna Thompson, two locals, decided to try out some new material. Jared was working as a regional sales manager for a cable business in Bloomington that was acquired by Comcast. With a company transfer to Fishers looming, the Thompsons opted to stay put. “Bloomington is where we live. It’s who we are,” Jared says.
Also, they wanted to open a comedy club.
A comedy club? Was that some kind of joke?
The hometown crowd was dubious. Bloomington wasn’t a big enough town, people said. There was no nearby airport for traveling comics to fly into, and the Thompsons would be competing for talent with the larger Midwest markets of Indianapolis, Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago—The Second City itself.
Undaunted, the Thompsons found a location right downtown on Walnut Street, a former Christian coffee shop on the second floor of a historic Knights of Columbus that Dayna recalls “was in pretty bad shape.” They did their own renovation work, ripping out accordion folding doors, removing siding from the walls, tending to a damaged roof, and building a stage from scratch. Some of their DIY projects proved fortuitous, adding to the scrappy charm of what would become The Comedy Attic. Behind that old siding, they discovered brick—the stand-up comedian’s emotional support wall. The dropped ceiling they installed to cover up all the water damage overhead not only improved the acoustics of the room but changed its whole vibe, making the space feel warm and intimate (a quality that would become one of The Comedy Attic’s trademarks). The Thompsons painted it black for good measure.
Jared, who already had some side experience booking punk bands, knew how to reach out to managers and agents to bring in acts. Working with comedians would be something different, but he had a good eye for talent and one guiding principle: “The thing that I’m always looking for as a booker is, ‘Can anyone else do what you’re doing?’ And most of the time with what we book, the answer is no,” he says. “To me, that’s what makes a great show.’”
Any other questions Jared had about the themes and tone of their new club were answered when the great Maria Bamford—already beloved in alt-comedy circles—
performed her first show there in 2009. Perhaps best known for her semi-autobiographical Netflix show Lady Dynamite, Bamford’s humor is unapologetically weird and self-aware, touching on issues of mental health, family dynamics, and social awkwardness.
Something clicked between the Bloomington audience and Bamford, even though her material—equal parts raw and sweet—was nothing like the raucous Bob & Tom morning radio style of humor Jared thought he might need to bring in to satisfy his Hoosier audience.
“Maria’s first visit laid the groundwork for what we became,” Jared says. By the time Bamford returned the following year, the venue had found its identity: smart and original, with a high regard for one-of-a-kind voices. “She’s sort of the queen of comedy in this town,” Jared says. She has also become one of its recurring characters, returning to the Attic on several occasions—on one visit leading a workshop for local comics and giving them personal feedback and on another visit receiving a key to the city on a date declared by the town’s then-mayor John Hamilton as Maria Bamford Day.
Bamford’s reverence for the craft left a lasting impression. The Comedy Attic earned a reputation as a sanctuary for serious stand-up and a place that would book comedians representing all racial, sexual, and gender identities. From the beginning, the club adopted a firm code of conduct: no table chatter, no heckling, no distractions, no disrespect. Before every act, these rules are laid out in a pre-show announcement that is delivered with all the ritual weight of the Pledge of Allegiance. But this is a social contract the audience willingly enters into.
In addition to the out-of-towners, a surprising amount of Midwest talent has stepped off this stage, including Emil Wakim, one of the new cast members on Saturday Night Live—a guy who has a Comedy Attic tattoo on his wrist. As an Indiana University student, Wakim worked on some promotional material for the Attic and spent a lot of time just hanging out there, absorbing the sets, and eventually jumping onstage at open mics. His sharp writing and low-key delivery stood out early, and he started touring, working alongside the likes of Nikki Glaser and Kyle Kinane. When he found out he’d been cast on SNL, Wakim immediately hopped on a video call with the person who gave him his first stage time: Jared Thompson.
Another successful graduate of the Attic, comedian Tom Thakkar has been featured on Conan and The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon. He lives in Los Angeles now and is married with a mortgage and a new podcast, You Hurt My Feelings (on which guest comedians share stories about mean comments, slights, and moments that got under their skin). But he credits The Comedy Attic with helping him develop his comedy chops. Originally from Bloomington, Thakkar attended IU and performed improv with one of the university’s student troupes, HoosOnFirst. He had his sights on medical school, but then The Comedy Attic opened during his final years of college. It was a game changer.
The club became his training ground, pushing him to write smarter material and mine his Hoosier roots for jokes. His backyard trampoline stories land particularly well. But Thakkar, who describes himself as “the son of a great, Red Lobster–managing mom and a deadbeat Indian dad,” thinks Bloomington is—surprisingly—a uniquely great comedy town. “The audiences in Bloomington are smart,” he says. “They like big comedy, and they supported what we were doing pretty early.”
In fact, Bloomington’s funny bone is well-tickled. In addition to The Comedy Attic’s three weekly shows, local bars like Hoppy Wobbles Pub and the Orbit Room host regular open mics, and IU students fill out the casts of improv and skit comedy troupes with names like Full Frontal Comedy, Improv Bloomington, Brick by Brick, and Fabuloso.
It’s fertile soil for a comedy festival, and that’s exactly why Thompson joined forces with his friend Mat Alano-Martin to launch Limestone in 2013 (later joined by Indianapolis-based comedian Dwight Simmons). Their vision was to foster local talent and create a supportive environment for performers—the next Emil Wakim or the next Tom Thakkar—and to bring top-tier comedy to town. Maybe even show it off a little.
When fellow nationally touring performers ask Thakkar what to expect when they visit Bloomington for a show, he tells them not to underestimate it, that “Bloomington is special.” He urges them to go beyond the hotel and club and explore the town—eat a meal at Upland Brewing and browse some local shops in this “weird little town where they put sweaters on the trees.” He knows that to an outsider, especially one flying in from LA or New York—it might sound like just another small town in Indiana. But he promises it’s more than that. It’s artsy, warm, and full of charm. “It breaks my heart,” he admits, when comics come through and never see beyond the gig, because they’re missing one of the most delightful stops in stand-up.
