Spencer Hicks is likable riot; a non-reclusive comedic alchemist. Here’s why:

On stage, there’s a line; a line that comedians can cross, but can’t re-cross. This invisible bridge and the false promise glowing on the other side have stranded many a comic, trapping them between the outskirts of funny and the border of offensive.

The Consequences: A room full of darkened faces stares disapprovingly. Old ladies gasp. Babies cry. And most importantly, sets of laughter turn sour with silence or boos.

In this regard, Spencer Hicks is not a comedian. He’s more of a word-wizard that teleports effortlessly between light and dark without missing a beat or alienating audiences.

His goofy smile and pleasantly awkward delivery belie not only the scope of his material but also the polish of his stage-awareness.

Picture bits that are so offensive they can’t be taken seriously, that they’re not offensive at all. Now couple that with puns that are so lighthearted/cheesy/corny that this clash of styles perplexes lesser audiences on how they can be watching a singular set.

(Note: Spencer Hicks’ comedy is being considered as quantifiable proof that angels and demons can co-exist under peaceful circumstances.)

Hysterical one-liners compose his base. Floating above that is a more drawn out style of humor. Hicks’ quips have a range, like he’s part Steven Wright and part something else entirely.

Hicks has been cultivating a steady following working shows clubs in the mid-west, and opening for comedy favorites such as Paul F. Tompkins.