He still has it, for those interested. A chagrined-seeming Louis C.K. took the stage Wednesday night at Yuk Yuk’s downtown and mostly delighted the first of eight sold-out crowds, albeit with enough resistance and difficulty to remind those in attendance of how far he has fallen.

“It’s good to start over at 52,” he said, not at all sincerely, noting that the last time he was in town, in 2017, he was playing the 20,000-seat arena a few blocks away.

This sort of space is where C.K.’s comedy began, but that doesn’t mean thriving at a comedy club comes effortlessly. The packed crowd seemed tentative compared to when he played to venues strictly containing C.K. devotees; a joke involving dead dogs got a weak response, and he frowned and seemed to reckon with where the room’s taste line lay. (A patron told me she was there as part of a group outing by a company’s HR department, booked long before C.K.’s presence was announced — they probably don’t constitute any comedian’s dream audience, never mind comedy’s second-most-famous sexual transgressor.)

He’s not in denial about why he’s back working at clubs, but his misdeeds with women are dealt with quickly in his set. Those who believe his statement from 2017, acknowledging the truth of the accusations against him, didn’t constitute a proper apology likely wouldn’t be moved by anything he said at Wednesday’s early show.

However, the price he has paid for his penchant for masturbating while talking to or in the presence of women dominated his show, frankly to good effect. It let him introduce some material by scoring with the setup: “I was doing shows in Poland, because they let me …” and he seemed more like the personal, rueful, grimacing comedian from his star-making 2008 special Chewed Up than the more philosophical performer Toronto saw in 2017. He even wore a black polo shirt and blue jeans, like the decidedly casual attire from the start of his stardom. (There was still a joke that seemed to reference Pascal’s Wager, however, comparable to his 2017 set’s unacknowledged riff on Nietzsche and G.K. Chesterton’s thoughts on suicide.)

Recording any of the show, even on paper, was forbidden, so quoting it at length is impossible, but he dealt with his love of ice cream, the problems of disabled people (especially being patronized), the merits of a now-discarded term for the intellectually handicapped (the “R-word”) and the disposal of his mother’s body after her death in June, sending it off in the back of a van “with a half-drunk bottle of Gatorade rolling around.”

His delivery wasn’t pristine — he bollixed up a joke by confusing Forever 21 and Century 21 – and the Auschwitz material definitely would have gotten a better response in his heyday, performed just to people on his wavelength. (I, for one, found it funny.) But he certainly fared better than the unaccused American journeymen he brought to open for him. (Local host Shannon Laverty did solid work.)

In the absence of criminal sanction, or a permanent retreat from performing on his part, what to make of C.K.’s misdeeds rests with us individually. (As it happens, Blondie singer Debbie Harry’s memoir was excerpted this week, including a mention of David Bowie long ago exposing himself to Harry, who apparently found herself charmed and amused — which suggests a good answer to the question “should I take my penis out in front of this woman?” is “Are you David Bowie”?)

Though a bitter tone dominated his set, the time C.K. spent out of the public eye was apparently enough penance for a substantial number of fans who are speaking with their wallets. In fact, he may already be leaving the North American clubs behind again — he’s booked to play theatres in Roanoke, Virginia and Raleigh, North Carolina, as well as Rome and Tel Aviv, in November.

His sales here in Toronto — eight club shows of 300-plus tickets — strongly suggest he can play a theatre here, too. Afterward I asked one departing customer how he had liked it; Matthew said he was well satisfied. He added that his favourite bit was the closer — a dark and strange piece about body-swapping comedies like Freaky Friday: “I’m a little twisted, too.”

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