Lisa: How would you introduce yourself? Seryoga Lavrov, who are you?

Seryoga: Seryoga Lavrov, stand-up comedian. Resident comedian at Tomedia Stand-Up Club. Organizer of Stand-Up Kemerovo. The star of Nha Trang (laughs).

I’m joking. Seryoga Lavrov, stand-up comedian — that’s enough.

When I first started running shows in Nha Trang, I had to write a list of “credentials” for the announcement. My friends memorized that list, added a few things to it, and kept joking around: “What, you don’t know him? That’s Seryoga Lavrov — resident of Tomedia Stand-Up Club, the star of Nha Trang!”

Lisa: And do you actually feel like a celebrity in Nha Trang?

Seryoga: Well… yeah, kind of. I do have a certain level of recognition. People sometimes recognize me. But compared to how I imagined “fame” as a kid — it’s nothing like that.

Lisa: How did you imagine it?

Seryoga: As a kid, you think being famous means walking out of your house with thousands of photographers waiting, people writing about you nonstop.

Lisa: Would you even want that now? To walk outside and have a thousand cameras in your face?

Seryoga: These days, maybe it’s good that my fame isn’t like that. I don’t really enjoy talking to strangers. It’s fine if it happens once a day, but not all the time. I like that I can move around the city freely without people chasing me for a photo.

Lisa: Do people really come up to you and say: “Hey, Seryoga Lavrov, we know you”?

Seryoga: Yeah, it happens. Like, “Hey, Seryoga! You’re that stand-up guy, right?”

Lisa: Do you usually know those people?

Seryoga: Nope. Often it’s like — we met once after a show or at some party. They remember me, but I don’t remember them, because I meet tons of people at events. If there wasn’t a deeper conversation or some project we planned together, I don’t always make that connection. So they’ll come up like, “Hey, what’s up!” and I’m like, “Hey!” — but in my head I honestly don’t know who they are.

Lisa: So, how did you become a comedian?

Seryoga: Man, that’s a tricky one. You need to figure out the exact moment it happened. I’d say I really became a stand-up comedian in, like, 2019–2020. I’d moved to Kemerovo [city in Russia]: doing a regular job, drinking beer with friends, smoking hookah, I had a wife… just an average Kemerovo dude.

Before that I did KVN [a Russian comedy competition] and drama classes, so I had a bit of stage background. At some point I just stopped all that. Then one of my friends decided to go to an open mic [a format where anyone can perform their jokes] in Kemerovo and invited me to come support him. I thought, alright, why not. I came, listened to the other guys doing their bits — and I was like, fuck, I can do that too.

And that was it. From then on I started performing every week, anywhere I could. I’ve been doing stand-up almost non-stop for five or six years now. At first it was just to support a buddy — I thought it’d be like on TV, and then I saw it was just regular dudes like me. And I thought, if I can and I want to — why the fuck not? I jumped in, got hooked, and now I can’t quit.

Lisa: When did you start calling yourself a comedian?

Seryoga: If you could look up the edit history of my socials, you’d see the exact date. For a long time it said “beginner comedian”. Then I changed it to “doing stand-up”. Only around 2023 did I write “stand-up comedian”. That’s when I finally believed I had the right to call myself that.

Lisa: What does it take to call yourself a comedian?

Seryoga: It’s different for everyone. Some people need nothing at all — just go on stage once, hear some laughs, and boom: “I’m a comedian.” For me it took a shitload of recognition, a shitload of stage time, to feel like I deserved it, that I knew what I was doing. And yeah, I needed a bunch of people to tell me, “Dude, you’re actually good at this,” before I could believe it myself.

Lisa: What about when someone goes up once and says, “I’m a comedian now” — does that bug you?

Seryoga: Nah, I don’t give a fuck. Before, I used to get triggered: “Who the hell do they think they are?” Now I don’t care. Everyone lives however they want, does whatever they want. And proving anything to someone — fuck that, unless they ask for it. You do your thing, I do mine. That’s it.

Lisa: Do you know how other comedians feel about that? Like, do they ever look down on people who just started?

Seryoga: Honestly, the comedy community is one of the most toxic places I’ve ever been in.

Comics love two things: first, shitting on other people’s achievements, and second, pumping themselves up when somebody else bombs. If you crushed and the other guy didn’t — that feels good. The genre’s selfish by nature: you’re alone on stage, fighting for the audience’s attention. Even if you’re friends, even if you support each other, there’s always competition — who wrote a sharper bit, who’s got more new jokes, whose set landed better this time.

The competition is always there. The moment you start doing stand-up, the clock starts ticking. There are guys who’ve been around longer — and as long as they keep performing, they’ll always outrank you in experience. Even if you get big, to them you’ll still be the kid they saw in month one. Like: “C’mon, man, I was there when you sucked.”
Now I look at younger comics who started while I was already around, and they’re out there filming their specials. I’m happy for them — but subconsciously, there’s still this little thing: “Bro, you’re still a kid.” It’s not malicious, it’s just there. Like, “Oh, you’re recording a special? Man, I saw your first open mic.”

I’m talking about myself here. Maybe some people do genuinely hate others, that happens too. But I’d like it to be more good-natured. Honestly, I wish everyone creative success.

Lisa: Do you think there’s any difference between men’s and women’s stand-up?

Seryoga: There is.

Lisa: Like what?

Seryoga: Well, fuck, gender, obviously. Some topics — even if I get them — will sound weird coming from me. Like, if I start making jokes about women’s bodies or psychology. Even though I’m pretty deep into that stuff — I support women, I understand, empathize, sometimes even envy them.

Women can joke about all that. And the other way around too — there are things that would sound off if a girl said them.

The thing is, in Russia, “women’s stand-up” has been twisted. That TNT [Russian TV channel] show Women’s Stand-Up? I don’t like it. I know some amazing female comics who are insanely funny, but they’d never get on that show just because they don’t fit the format.

So yeah, there’s a difference — at least because we’re different genders with different bodies. But at the end of the day, it’s all individual. Every comedian is unique. What really matters is how well you can bring out your own uniqueness — not whether you’ve got a dick or not.

Lisa: You said the stand-up community is toxic, and stand-up itself is a selfish genre. So why did you choose it? Are you toxic? :)

Seryoga: Nah, I’m selfish. And I don’t like responsibility. I used to play KVN, wrote sketches at uni, did student theater festivals. Team stuff. And since everyone’s got their own rhythm, character, mood, ambitions — you keep running into problems and conflicts. It’s not always smooth.

But in stand-up — if you do something, something happens. Do the work, get the result. You only depend on yourself. Way harder to dump responsibility on someone else.
The result is yours alone. That’s what I like: if I write jokes today, I’ll perform. If I don’t, I won’t. That’s it. My responsibility, nobody else’s.

And the toxicity? That’s more of a side effect. It’s not like I chose it. You either accept it or you don’t. You play by those rules or you get pissed and stop hanging out with other comedians (laughs).

Lisa: Do you mean responsibility to others, or responsibility for others?

Seryoga: For others. That’s why I always hated hosting or organizing open mics. You organize it, tell the audience that some comedians will perform — and they do. But if they bomb (and at open mics, they often do), the audience somehow sees it as your fault, like you’re the one responsible. I’ll take responsibility for my own material, no problem — it’s mine. But for what another comic says? I don’t want that on me. Yet sometimes you’re stuck with it.

Lisa: And yet, you wrote that you finally found a team — for the first time in two years in Nha Trang. What kind of team is this? How does it work for you?

Seryoga: Here in Nha Trang, there are guys who also perform and do stand-up. But they didn’t click with me — not my vibe, not my level. I’m not really into dragging people along who are just happy I showed up: “Cool, Seryoga, you’re here, we’ll all follow you.”

I’m not interested in being “the best.” What excites me is competition — when you see someone else and it pushes you forward. And for a long time, there wasn’t anyone like that here.

Here’s how it happened. I was running my shows: improv nights, house gigs. I started working with Pasha, a musician, and we realized we see things the same way, agree on how they should look and work. My own project, Stand Up Vibe, became an affiliate of introconcert, Pasha’s event organization. We were like: okay, let’s make badass shows in Nha Trang. So people would know: introconcert means good music, good comedy, interesting events.

Recently this girl Masha showed up. She replied to one of my ads and asked, “Looking for a venue? I’ve just started working at a Vietnamese cocktail bar, and the owner wants to attract a Russian-speaking crowd. If you wanna do stand-up here, let’s give it a shot.”

I went to check it out — great vibe. We met the owner, I introduced them to Pasha, and we started working together. Pretty soon it all clicked: I handle the comedy, Pasha does the music. He shoots, I edit. Masha helps with filming, promo, pulling people in, dealing with the venue.

And it started rolling. Suddenly we were doing way more shows.

Lisa: Since I left, you’ve added a bunch of new formats.

Seryoga: Yeah, since you left, there’s been more. That’s really because now I’ve got a team and some support. It opens up more possibilities.

Now we’ve got the Tuesday improv show Nothing New — still running [I’ll explain this show later — ed.]. We added Astrological Showdowns, and a show with a psychologist called We’ve Heard You. The “house gigs” — that’s improv too for me, ’cause I mostly just chat with people there. We recently launched a speed-dating show. Sometimes I do duo improv: same Tuesday, but with another comedian.

Hopefully we keep growing. Now it feels like a proper team: everyone’s got their role, we vibe together, share the same values. And that really makes me feel good.

Lisa: That’s really cool. I’m honestly jealous in the best way. So it just happened on its own? You weren’t looking, just naturally met people who matched your vibe and clicked with your values?

Seryoga: Yeah, exactly. I was doing my thing, and eventually ran into people. We just clicked. 

Lisa: You gravitated toward each other.

Seryoga: Yeah, that’s the word.

Lisa: So how do you even find like-minded people in a creative field?

Seryoga: Maaaan (laughs). It’s tough. Honestly, you just have to try. The main thing I’ve learnt these last few years is: don’t shut things down right away. Try it. If it doesn’t feel right, if it’s not working — walk away. But at least give it a shot, because sometimes it turns out way better than you thought. Don’t just go, “Nah, this is bullshit” from the start. Something good might come out of it.

Lisa: And to get those chances, you just keep doing what you love and the right people show up, right?

Seryoga: Pretty much. There are two ways: either you go hunt for specific people and try to get them on board, try to get them interested, convince them it’d be cool to work with you — or you just keep doing your own thing, and sooner or later the ones looking for exactly what you do will find you. Either way, you’ll cross paths.

Lisa: That’s what I thought.

Seryoga: There’s no secret to it.

Lisa: How to actually attract your audience?

Seryoga: Honestly? Just do good work. Do it with style, make it your own, and your crowd will find you. Do it from the heart. Time and consistency solve everything. If you stick with something long enough and keep growing, it’ll eventually pay off.

I’ve put a lot of years into comedy, and now I can finally see the results.

Lisa: But what if you’re doing what you love, doing it as best as you can, and still not getting the response you hoped for? Like, not enough people are showing up?

Seryoga: If a show doesn’t bring in as many people as I expected, I start asking myself: Did I do everything I could? Did I promote it? Was the poster good? Did the format even sound interesting?

And if the answer’s yes — then you just tell yourself: “Alright, not this time.” There’s always some randomness. One night you pack 60 people, the next night 10. That’s just how it goes.

Right now, for example: we’re working our asses off, but turnout’s weak. Last week we put on five shows. It was brutal — and the payoff was meh.

So yeah, you hustle hard, and the return feels small. Of course that stings. But really, you just have to wait it out. This is a tourist town, and right now it’s off-season. So I try to be patient and wait for the winter crowd to show up [Russian people who come to spend their winter in a warmer place].

Lisa: Have you ever burnt out — when the reaction, the turnout, just wasn’t what you expected?

Seryoga: I’ve burnt out, yeah, but not from that.

Lisa: Then from what?

Seryoga: From just going nonstop and never resting. I’ve always had this principle: if you get the chance to perform, you take it — doesn’t matter if you’re sick, if you’re tired, if work is a mess. Stage time is the most important thing you’ve got. You can’t waste those chances.

But then add a day job, add organizing shows. If you keep living at that pace, it wears you down. A couple of times I’ve burned out so bad I had to take a full break from everything for a couple weeks, just to recharge.

As for not getting enough response… yeah, I’ve had stretches where I bombed a few times in a row.

But I’ve been on stage long enough to know: bad sets happen. No matter how good you are, at some point you’re gonna mess up. You just have to accept it, not spiral, and keep showing up. Tonight sucked? Fine. Tomorrow might not. Tomorrow also sucked? Then the next one. Eventually, you’ll have a good set and say: “See? I knew it would be great.”

The real issue is how often you’re on stage. If you’re on stage twice a day, then sure — one show bombs, the next one kills. But if you’re only up every two weeks, then one bad set means waiting another two weeks for the next chance. And that might suck too. I get why some people quit. It’s about how much patience and drive you’ve got, how long you’re willing to push through.

Lisa: So basically — believing in yourself?

Seryoga: Exactly. Believing in yourself.

Lisa: Why do you never say no when you get a chance to perform?

Seryoga: Because stage time is the most important thing for a comedian. I really believe that’s what makes you experienced. The more time you get on stage, the better you get — so if I’ve got the chance, I take it. That’s just me being obsessed with the craft.

Lisa: So would you say stand-up is your main priority in life?

Seryoga: Yeah. Definitely.

Lisa: And what is stand-up to you? How do you define it: a hobby, a job, art, a lifestyle?

Seryoga: Stand-up is my life. Straight up.

First of all, it’s creativity. I’ve always needed a creative outlet, and stand-up gives me that. 

Second, it’s a kind of therapy. Whatever problems or thoughts I’ve got, I process them through jokes — it makes it easier to deal with.

You read it on my Telegram channel — ChatGPT once phrased it perfectly: “real comedy isn’t made up, it’s lived.” That’s exactly how it feels for me: stand-up is just me living life and talking about it in a funny way.

And art… Yeah, you could call it art. But not every set or every joke is art. Art is when I really grind, write something that goes beyond just being funny — something you’d want to frame and hang on a wall.

Lisa: So where’s the line between ‘art’ and ‘not art’?

Seryoga: A joke you throw out at an improv show — that’s just a joke. Art is a joke from a solo show, or a solo show with a real concept behind it.

Lisa: So — concept.

Seryoga: Exactly. It becomes art when you go deeper and put in more than just a punchline.

Lisa: What’s the life of a joke for you? How does it start, and what happens after — how do you actually write?

Seryoga: Depends. Usually it goes like this: I see stuff, hear stuff, think stuff — and somehow it just clicks as funny.

I jot it down in my notes, sometimes just as a random thought or observation. Then every now and then I sit down to write, scroll through what I’ve got, and start shaping those thoughts, polishing them into actual jokes.

Lately, though, a lot of stuff comes straight from the stage. Sometimes I’ll show up with just a topic — not a finished joke, just like, “I feel like talking about the weather.” And while talking to the audience, something funny comes out. Sometimes someone in the crowd will say something, and a thought sparks in my head. I start riffing on it right there, and a joke is born. If I want to keep it, I just polish it later, cut it like a diamond into a proper bit.

So yeah, there’s no one way I do it. Sometimes it’s totally in the moment. Sometimes it’s an idea I’ve been sitting on for years — like I had a setup in my notes for three years, untouched, then one day I scroll past it and go, “Oh, that’s how it works.” Or somebody throws me a line and I run with it. There are a million ways.

Lisa: Do you write with other comedians?

Seryoga: Now — not really. There just aren’t any comics around here. I do have a Telegram chat with friends where we sometimes toss ideas back and forth, help each other out. More often I’ll help someone else with their jokes. 

But I’ve gotten used to working solo. Back then we used to meet up all the time, riff together — and that was awesome. I kinda miss it, honestly. But I like it best live — not over text, but sitting in the same room. Nobody wants to move here, though.

Lisa: When you come up with material, it sometimes involves real people. Where do you draw the line between private and public? How far is it okay to go into someone else’s privacy?

Seryoga: If it’s not someone close — like, say I met a guy at a bar and something funny happened — I’ll talk about it. I just won’t use names or mention the exact place. It turns into more of an abstract character.

You’ve been at shows, you’ve heard me say this upfront a lot: “Everything a comic says is for the sake of a joke. If something touches you — keep in mind, it’s not literally about you. These are characters.” Even when I say I, it’s not literally me, Seryoga Lavrov, it’s a character of my comedy. A persona. Sure, the line gets blurry, but at the end of the day, it’s still a joke. Things are exaggerated, and it’s not always exactly how they happened.

If I don’t really know the person, I just keep it vague. But with relationships — like a girlfriend or wife — I tell them right away what I do, and that I might make jokes about it. I try to check in with them.

And yeah, new jokes still get “approved” sometimes. Not always, but if I’ve got something I really want to do, I’ll say, “I wanna tell this bit, what do you think?” And depending on her reaction, I’ll either tell it… or I’ll still tell it but just not mention it to her (laughs).

Back in the early years I had tons of material about my parents, and of course I never checked any of it with them. Later they came to a show, and I was worried they’d take it the wrong way. But it turned out fine.

Lisa: So they were okay with it?

Seryoga: Yeah. We talked after. I said, “Look, it’s just jokes. The point is to make you think about stuff.” And they were like, “It’s fine, we’re glad you’re doing this.”

Lisa: Has anyone ever actually gotten offended?

Seryoga: Yeah.

Lisa: And how did you handle it?

Seryoga: Honestly, I didn’t. I was dating this girl back in Russia, I told a joke. She asked, “Why would you joke about that?” I gave her my standard line: “It’s just a joke, I’m not trying to insult you.” She said, “Well, I don’t like it.” I went, “Okay.” And that was it.
Nothing got resolved. She said she didn’t like it, I said, “Noted” (laughs). Nobody did anything about it.

Lisa: Did you keep telling that joke?

Seryoga: Probably, yeah. I don’t even remember what the joke was. But if it was a good joke, then 100% I kept telling it. If a joke is funny and I like it myself — I’ll keep telling it no matter what anyone says.

Lisa: Right, I get it — you said stand-up is your priority. What if you became the subject of a joke, or some other kind of work — how would that feel for you?

Seryoga: Totally fine. First of all, people have already joked about me. Second, it’s pretty hard to offend me. I rarely get upset over words. I’m pretty open to the world, I get how it works.

If we’re talking stand-up, I couldn’t care less. I know what stand-up is, how comedy works, how it’s written. If somebody found something funny in me, and it makes people laugh — cool, go ahead.

The only thing I don’t like — and that’s more of a comic’s snobbery — is when comedians make jokes about me before I’ve even been on stage. Like, I get the joke, but the audience doesn’t. They don’t know the context, so it just comes off as some inside reference. If you’re going personal, it should still land for everyone.

Lisa: Okay, but what if it wasn’t a joke? Like, if someone revealed personal details about you in an interview, or in a movie, or something? How do you feel about your privacy?

Seryoga: Depends what it is. Honestly, I don’t even know what would really bother me. I’m pretty open about my feelings and experiences — I share a lot myself, so there’s not much to “expose.” 

The only time it would piss me off is if I told someone something in confidence and asked them not to share it and they did.

But if it’s just an observation about me, or their own take on how we interact — whatever, they’ve got the right to express it.

Lisa: Do you think of yourself as an honest person?

Seryoga: Mostly, yeah. Not gonna claim I’m always 100% honest with everyone.
I’m very open in my work, on stage, and with close friends. But I’ve got a lot of people around me now — everyone wants to talk, ask questions, get to know me. And I don’t always share everything. People say I’ve got this “scary face,” like I look too serious. They’ll ask, “Something wrong?” And even if something is wrong, I won’t say it. Does that make me dishonest? Just because I don’t tell every single person what’s going on?

I like to think I’m honest. I try to be direct and straightforward. But I’ve got my flaws too, no point pretending otherwise. I’ve lied, I’ve left things out, I’ve twisted facts to make myself look better. That’s happened.

Lisa: Do you hang out with the audience?

Seryoga: Sometimes. But usually not with random audience members — it’s mostly friends or other comics who come to my shows, and we’ll hang after. Every now and then someone from the audience comes up, starts chatting, and just kind of blends into the group.
That’s actually how I met Bogdan — a guy from Da Nang. Later he helped me a ton with organizing, promo, posters out there. We first met in Nha Trang — he just walked up and said, “Hey, you’re funny.” We started talking and ended up hanging out.

But honestly, I’m shy as hell. I always feel awkward. When someone comes up like, “Yo, what’s up?” — I freeze.

Lisa: How do other comedians feel about it?

Seryoga: Everyone’s different. Some love that whole social part. I’m sure some even do comedy mainly for the hangouts.

But audiences often make the mistake of thinking that if comics are funny on stage, they must be the same off stage. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard people say after hanging with comedians: “Wow, you guys are depressing” (laughs). Because honestly, a lot of comic hangouts are super dull — we just sit there (laughs).

Lisa: Tell me about interacting with the crowd. Your show Nothing New is basically a dialogue with the audience. Does that ever flow into hanging out after? How do you feel about connecting with the audience?

Seryoga: Like I said — I’m shy. Starting a conversation in real life is way harder for me than on stage.

On stage it’s easy: people are there to listen to me and my jokes. They’re already interested. That gives me confidence. Talking to people from stage puts me in a stronger position. They’re interested by default.

In everyday life, I can be pretty closed off. Half the time I’m tired or stuck in my own head. But a show — that’s a setup where the dialogue is supposed to happen. Unlike real life, there are rules, and it’s a structure I understand.

Lisa: Listening to you, it almost feels like performance, acting, playing a role. Would you say you’re an actor?

Seryoga: I’d say more of a performer.

Lisa: A performer.

Seryoga: Yeah. You could call me an actor too, but “performer” is broader. Actors, comedians, musicians — they’re all performers. But not every comic is an actor, and not every actor is a comic.

Lisa: What about the other roles? How do you break it down for yourself? Like, there’s the writer — the person who comes up with the jokes. There’s the performer on stage. And then there’s the psychologist side: reading the room, interacting with the audience, breaking down those letters people send you. Which of these comes easier, and which is harder?

Seryoga: Performing is never a problem for me — I feel comfortable and confident on stage. Writing’s harder. Coming up with something from scratch. I can take a thought and riff on it, throw in a bunch of punchlines easily. But when you’re staring at a blank page and you’ve got to write that first line? That’s the tough part. The hardest thing is just breaking through that wall and starting.

Lisa: What inspires you?

Seryoga: Strong emotions — not necessarily the good ones. When it hurts, that’s when the best stuff comes out. You’re fully focused on processing it — or rather, on sublimating it. Good moments can be inspiring too, sure.

Basically, when life’s happening — when something’s actually going on — that’s what turns into material. But if you’ve spent the whole week lying around, nothing’s happened, and you still have to write… yeah, that’s when it gets tricky.

When you’re just living, feeling stuff — that’s where inspiration comes from. Romantic relationships are a goldmine for material.

Lisa: Do you create out of pain or out of joy?

Seryoga: Probably out of pain more. 

There’s this thing in stand-up called the “strong” and “weak” position. Like, if you joke about disabled people and you’re not disabled — that’s the strong position. You’re punching down, and that’s usually considered bad. But if you can’t walk and you joke about that — you’re in the weak position, punching up at your own situation.

If you look at my jokes, most of them come from pain, from the weak position. Something happens, something doesn’t work out — I talk about it, twist it, make it funny. I turn trauma, childhood issues, messy relationships — all that — into jokes. Honestly, that’s where the good comedy comes from. 

Here in Vietnam, for example, a lot of my stuff comes from struggling to communicate with locals.

Lisa: How does living abroad affect your material?

Seryoga: It’s gotten more specific — more local. I’ve got jokes now that only make sense here. In Russia, they’d need a bit of context first — people just wouldn’t get what’s funny right away. When your environment changes, your material changes too. You have to stay tuned in. It’s normal — if you live abroad, you’ll end up joking about what’s around you. But you can’t forget the universal things, the ones anyone can relate to.

Lisa: Has living abroad affected your creative process? You mentioned it’s hard not having other comics around in Nha Trang.

Seryoga: Yeah, for sure. It’s harder to communicate with more experienced comics here.
When I first moved here two years ago, I didn’t want to write at all. The emotional contrast was insane — in Russia life was rough, heavy, and here it’s just easy and beautiful. For a while, I was like,“What the fuck do you even joke about when everything’s great?”

Lisa: So it really does come out of pain, not joy?

Seryoga: Exactly. Jokes are born out of fear, doubt, frustration. And here everything’s great. What am I supposed to say — “The sea’s not warm enough”? (laughs) But over time, you get used to it, start noticing little imperfections again, and the creative flow comes back.

Lisa: What about venues? Are the places you perform now very different from the ones back home?

Seryoga: Oh, totally. That’s a whole separate issue. Can’t speak for all of Vietnam, I haven’t lived everywhere, but in Nha Trang it’s hard to find a proper venue.

When you’ve been performing for years, you know what works and what doesn’t. And here, finding a place that checks all the boxes — it’s damn near impossible. So you compromise. Like, “No walls? Okay, fine, we’ll perform without walls.” Sometimes it’s just hard to communicate with venue owners — the owners are Vietnamese, and half the time it’s just hard to explain what you’re asking for.

Lisa: What are your requirements for a venue?

Seryoga: Bare minimum — it has to be indoors. Not a rooftop, not three walls and a door to the street — a proper closed space with walls and a ceiling, so the sound stays inside. There’s gotta be room for proper stand-up seating. I hate those giant couches, people just melt into them.

Stand-up needs the audience to be a little uncomfortable — if you’re too cozy, you stop paying attention to what’s happening on stage, you’re just vibing in your chair. So yeah, simple chairs, maybe a few tables. Tables aren’t even essential. And ideally no bar counter in the same room — the noise always messes with the set.

Then there’s the tech — decent sound is a must. Lighting’s a bonus.

Next comes the business side: what the venue expects from you, what you expect from them. My dream setup is when I walk in and say, “Hey, I’m running a show. I’ve got my audience, they like what I do — they come, they laugh, they drink. I’ll take care of tickets, you make money on food and drinks. Everybody wins.”

An even better setup? When you sell the tickets and they still give you a cut from the bar — but no one does that here yet (laughs).

Lisa: As an audience member, I totally feel the difference between venues. The vibe changes — even depending on the size of the tables. How’s the new venue you’re performing at? 

Seryoga: It’s great. Really atmospheric. Everything just clicked there — the owner’s super into it, open to collaboration, listens, works with us. He even invests in the setup: we asked for lighting, he bought it. Built a stage too. He even got us a neon sign with our logo. That’s my little point of pride right now.

And the place just looks right — small and cozy, with a brick wall like in a classic comedy club. Good sightlines — wherever you sit, you can see the stage. Solid sound too. I really like it there. Hopefully it only gets better.

Lisa: That’s awesome. What else are you proud of?

Seryoga: Honestly, it’s hard for me to say I’m proud of something. Classic imposter syndrome — you think, “What the hell is there to be proud of?” I wouldn’t say I’m full of pride, but I can definitely say I’m good at what I do. I can say, without bullshitting, that I put on quality shows — people laugh, because I know how to make them laugh.

I guess I feel proud of myself for not quitting. For keeping at it, for feeling like I’m growing instead of standing still. And that’s paying off.

Lisa: That’s really cool. So what do you think you’re good at?

Seryoga: Joking (laughs). Performing on stage. I’m not bad at design — I make nice posters, got a decent sense of style. That’s about it. If I’m really good at anything, it’s those two: performing and making posters (laughs).

Lisa: That’s the important stuff.

Seryoga: Exactly. Covers all bases.

Lisa: You’ve said you’ve always been creative. What did that look like when you were younger?

Seryoga: I started early — been in a drama club since third grade, acting in plays and all that. That’s probably where it began.

When I got my first computer, I figured out that if you plug in a mic and open the right program, you can record and edit sound. So I started redubbing cartoons, recording songs backwards — you know, when you read lyrics in reverse, then flip the track, and it sounds kinda right but super weird. That kind of stuff. Later, I got into writing rap.

Around middle school, I started doing design — making VK profile pics [basically Russian Facebook] for 100 rubles [$1—1.5]. Oh, and I tried graffiti too, though that was pretty bad (laughs).

I kept doing theater till 11th grade [final year of school in Russia]. In high school we started staging not just what our teachers brought us but our own bits. We’d take sketches from Comedy Club [a Russian comedy TV show], adapt them, and perform them.

At university there was KVN [a Russian comedy competition show], student festivals, all that. Around the same time, I picked up a guitar and did a couple of music projects. Basically, creativity’s always been part of my life in one way or another.

Lisa: So creativity is one of your core values?

Seryoga: Definitely, yeah.

Lisa: What are your other values?

Seryoga: Hmm… I’ll answer now, and then probably realize I was full of shit (laughs). But okay — I’ll say what I feel.

First — creativity. Then love, as a concept. Not just love in relationships, but love in general, in a deeper sense — I’m a pacifist. I honestly believe if people just treated each other like humans, if we all just loved each other, life would be so much easier. 

So yeah — kindness and love.

Those are the main ones: creative expression and love as the foundation for everything.

Lisa: I’m with you on that.

Seryoga: And freedom. Not the kind of freedom people talk about when they travel — though I’ve moved a lot, lived in different places. But I mean freedom in the sense of being able to say what you want to say, go where you want to go. You might not even use that freedom every day, but just knowing you can — that’s what I mean.

Lisa: Speaking of love — what’s your take on marriage? Do you think it’s still necessary in today’s world?

Seryoga: I don’t have a clear opinion. I think the value of marriage as an institution has really dropped. I think it depends on the people. If both feel like it’s something they want — go for it. If not, that’s cool too.

Sometimes marriage makes sense practically — like if you’re from different countries and it makes living together easier. Then yeah, that’s a necessity. But if there’s no such reason, I’m fine without it.

That said, I’ve been married twice. And as much as people who’ve divorced like to joke, “Never again,” I think if one day I meet someone and I feel like it’s right for both of us — it’ll happen. If not, that’s fine too.

Basically, my marriage chapter’s closed. I did it, even twice. I’m not chasing it just for the sake of it anymore. Now for me it’s something that comes out of deep love — like, when I know I fucking love this person and want to spend my life with them — thensure, let’s get married.

Lisa: Do you ever feel lonely?

Seryoga: Yeah, I do.

Lisa: Is it an unpleasant feeling, or just… normal?

Seryoga: It’s a normal unpleasant feeling (laughs). Given how things are, I think it’s normal. I’m sure a lot of people feel lonely these days. It’s just the kind of world we live in.

But it still scares me. As much as I love being alone — I’m a homebody, kind of an introvert. I don’t really like loud parties, meeting tons of new people, or chatting for hours. But I’ve got a small circle of close friends — people I actually let in, who really know me, who I feel good around.

And when those people aren’t around, when there’s no chance to see them — that’s when the scary kind of loneliness hits. You’re just sitting there thinking, “Fuck, I’m on my own. Nobody’s gonna help.” It’s terrifying — almost panic-inducing. I’ve felt that a few times, it’s horrible.

Lisa: Do you think living abroad makes that worse?

Seryoga: Definitely. I don’t think I ever really felt that way back in Russia. I never lived far from my hometown. I always knew that if things got bad, I could just drive three hours and be at my mom’s place. Parents are your base. Plus, you’ve got more friends, a familiar environment.

Here, you move to a foreign country where most people don’t even understand you — you speak different languages, you can’t really connect or communicate.

And it gets harder with age. When you’re twenty, it’s easy to meet people. But now — you’ve got principles, trauma, a whole background. A person’s like a puzzle piece: when you’re young, you’re just a simple square — you fit anywhere. But as you get older, you turn into this weird-shaped puzzle piece, and finding a match takes forever. Abroad, it’s ten times harder. So yeah, immigration makes it a lot tougher.

I’ve actually thought about it a lot — how absurd it is that there are so fucking many of us on this planet, and yet we all feel so alone.

Lisa: I totally get that. I’ve been thinking about it too, especially since coming back to Russia. I didn’t even realize how lonely I’d been in Vietnam until I got back. It’s wild. 
What are your fears?

Seryoga: That all the things I’m working on, all the effort I’m putting into creativity, might end up being pointless. I’ve spent years trying to build something through art, and I’m scared that in the end it just won’t work out — that I’ll look back and think, “Well, I wasted my life.” (laughs)

And yeah, I’m scared of ending up alone. With all the moving and starting over, not everyone feels comfortable with me — and I don’t feel comfortable with everyone. I wouldn’t say I push people away, but my circle keeps changing. Friends come and go. I’m afraid that one day there’ll be no one left. Just me. Like, well, fuck — here I am.

Every week, a hundred people come to listen to me on stage — but there might not be a single person who wants to listen to me at home. That’s the kind of fear I mean.

Lisa: What tells you that you’ve “made it” creatively?

Seryoga: Good question — I ask myself that all the time. And people ask me the same when I start doubting myself and my work. 

On the surface, it’s measurable stuff: followers, views, ticket prices. The obvious signs you’re doing well, that you’re in demand.

But on a deeper level… I want to make something that lasts. You know, like Richard Pryor [influential American stand-up comedian]— when he played God on stage. That wasn’t just a joke anymore, it was art.

I want to make something that matters. Not just throw a bunch of material together and film a special — but create an actual piece of art.

And that circles back to the first point: you can make something great, but it sucks if no one sees it except you and your friends. Ideally, your work should reach people — and they should feel something.

Lisa: Do you think being creative affects your relationships with people?

Seryoga: Of course. My kind of creativity — it’s a spoken art form — so yeah, it helps with communication. A sense of humor always helps.

But sometimes it’s the opposite. Some people have different values, a different idea of what a “grown-up life” looks like. For a lot of them, what I do seems like bullshit. But then I ask myself — why should I give a fuck? Among the people I care about, the ones I vibe with, it’s always a plus.

Lisa: Have you always not given a fuck? Is it easy for you to be authentic, to just be yourself?

Seryoga: It’s not that I don’t give a fuck. I just say that — mostly to convince myself (laughs). Sometimes criticism does get to me. I overthink it, I spiral. But then I remind myself again: why should I even give a fuck? And that usually helps.

In the end, it’s about learning to listen to yourself, talk yourself, through things, and find balance. It’s not easy. There are people you look at and think, “Man, they just naturally don’t give a shit.” Like it’s in their DNA. Though, of course, you never really know what’s going on in someone’s head. But I envy that. I’m not like that. I worry, I overthink, I care too much.

But with time — and a lot of work on myself — I’ve gotten better at letting things go, accepting stuff, and yeah… not giving a fuck.

Lisa: Is there a specific thought or idea that helps you do that?

Seryoga: You mean — not give a fuck?

Lisa: Yeah.

Seryoga: There’s this old saying: “You can’t please everyone.” You can’t be perfect for everybody. And for art — that’s an especially important thing to understand. Once you start sharing your work publicly, especially online, it’s inevitable — someone out there is gonna hate it. And they’ll definitely feel the need to tell you.

When I first uploaded my special [on YouTube], there were tons of negative comments. It really fucked me up for a while — I couldn’t even go back and read them. But a couple of months ago, I thought, “Sorry, you’re just not my audience. There are people who fucking love what I do — that’s who I’m doing it for. If you don’t like it, don’t watch. You’ve got every right to be unhappy — that’s fine, we’re all different. This is who I am. You don’t have to like me — I’m just not your comedian. That’s it.”

Lisa: Yeah… I’ve thought of something similar recently.

Lisa: Last question. How would you describe yourself in three words?

Seryoga: In three words? Funny stand-up comedian… Wait — no. Sad stand-up comedian.