Matt Mathews does not believe in easing you into anything. Not the title of his tour (“When That Thang Get to Thangin’,” say it fast or don’t say it at all), not his personality, and definitely not his comedy. Five minutes into a conversation with Matt Mathews, it’s already clear that the thing audiences respond to isn’t a carefully engineered persona—it’s the total absence of one.
“This is my everyday,” he says with a smile. “I’m always this psychotic. There’s no persona I’m trying to put on. I’m just ridiculous all the time.”
That honesty—abrasive, affectionate, and completely unfiltered—is the spine of Matthews’ comedy. He didn’t grow up dreaming of stand-up. He didn’t even grow up loving it. “I’m not even a big fan of stand-up comedy,” he admits. “I watch specials and I’m like, ‘Where am I supposed to laugh? Where is the joke?’”
Which is exactly why he doesn’t tell jokes.
“I’m not here to set up a punchline,” Mathews says. “I’m a comedic storyteller. I’m just telling you my life. The way I tell these stories is funny because it’s just who I am.”
That distinction matters. Mathews’ shows are built, written, structured—ninety minutes with intention—but they don’t feel like comedy in the traditional sense. They feel closer to Southern oral tradition: long, winding stories sharpened by timing, body language, and the confidence of someone who knows the room will follow if you lead them hard enough.
“That’s a Southern thing,” he says. “Storytelling. Performing.”
And performing is the operative word. Mathews didn’t come up wanting to do comedy—he wanted to do music. He sang constantly as a kid, played piano, taught himself guitar, fronted bands, lived in talent shows. Comedy was the fallback that turned out to be the front door. “Being funny was always easy,” he says. “I didn’t have to worry about hitting a note. People were gonna think I was funny regardless.”
That instinct—entertain first, analyze later—defines his stage presence. Mathews isn’t interested in comics who stand still and talk in monotone. “Where is the personality?” he asks. “Where is the performance?”
His performance starts before he even opens his mouth. The entrance matters. The pacing matters. The way he scans the room matters. And once he’s locked in, no one is safe—not because he’s cruel, but because he’s fast.
“I’ve always been real quick,” he says. Growing up gay in Alabama, living in the projects, with an alcoholic mother, meant learning early how to survive verbally. “I wasn’t the gay kid you were gonna bully and hurt my feelings. I was gonna come back at you.”
That speed turned into one of Mathews’ defining traits: crowd work that doesn’t feel like a gimmick or a viral clip factory, but an extension of how he already operates. “You have to be spot-on,” he says. “A lot of people try crowd work now and you can tell—it’s not natural.”
When it works, it really works. He recalls a moment when he teased a man for his gravelly voice, only to be told the guy had cystic fibrosis. Another comic might’ve panicked. Mathews doubled down. “Don’t be trying to make me feel bad,” he shot back. The crowd exploded. The guy loved it.
“Nobody’s safe at my shows,” Mathews says. “But everybody’s included.”
That inclusion is key. Mathews is hyper-aware of the line—how easily an audience can turn on you if you cross it wrong—but he also believes people don’t want to be handled delicately. “We’re all there to laugh,” he says. “Not everything has to be stiff.”
That philosophy extends to who shows up. Early on, straight men didn’t come to his shows. Now they do—and they leave surprised. “They come in already not liking me,” he laughs. “And then they come up after and say, ‘Bro, you’re funny as hell.’ That’s how I know I’m doing something right.”
Mathews doesn’t soften himself to make that happen. He talks openly about being gay, about farming, about living in a robe and driving a tractor. “I still put on boots just like you do,” he says. “I just like a little something different in the bedroom.”
That refusal to collapse into stereotype—either side of it—is what gives his comedy weight beyond the laughs. It’s specific without being exclusive, confrontational without being mean, personal without being precious.
Offstage, the same instinct built an empire. Mathews still runs a photography business, now mostly delegated to his assistant and COO. He’s launched clothing, candles, skincare. Catchphrases turn into merch. “I’m a hustler,” he says, plainly. “I’ve always been.”
But comedy is the dream. And this tour is the proof. After more than a year on the road, Mathews is closing the run back home in Birmingham, filming his first special at the Alabama Theatre—two sold-out nights in the city where it all started.
“I’m excited. I’m nervous,” he says. “I’m probably gonna be shitting everywhere.”
Then comes the scary part: starting over. A new tour. A new set. A new ninety minutes to build from scratch. He’s already begun, testing the first twenty minutes in comedy clubs, feeling out the rhythm.
“It hit,” he says, relieved. “Thank you, Jesus.”
For Matt Mathews, that’s the whole thing. Say it straight. Say it loud. Let the story do the work. Everything else will either keep up—or get out of the way.
Watch the interview above and then check out the video below.
