The 40 best comedy albums of all time, ranked

Sixty years ago, no album was as popular as The First Family, a parody of Kennedy’s Camelot devised by producers Bob Booker and Earle Doud and fronted by Vaughn Meader, a comedian with the ability to uncannily mimic John F. Kennedy. The First Family not only was a hit in 1962, it eclipsed all other records, selling over a million copies in its first two weeks and snagging the Grammy for Album of the Year in 1963. By the end of that year, Meader’s career was essentially over after Kennedy’s assassination, but The First Family remains a fascinating time capsule, a record with some genuine comic ingenuity.

Jonathan Winters specialized in rapid-fire free associations, a mercurial talent that wouldn’t necessarily seem to be served well by a recording studio. The Wonderful World of Jonathan Winters, the first of five albums he released on Verve Records in the early 1960s, proves that untrue. Packed with indelible characters, such as the nutball who runs the Used Pet Shop and pop culture riffs, The Wonderful World Of Jonathan Winters remains lively and surprising: listening to it, there’s a clear pathway connecting Winters and his chief acolyte, Robin Williams.

Lily Tomlin took her Ernestine the Telephone Operator character from the confines of Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In to the recording studio for This Is A Recording. Released in 1972, it’s an album that bristles with references that are inextricably tied to the times—Martha Mitchell vies for space with Gore Vidal and Joan Crawford—but retains its vitality thanks to the precision of Tomlin’s rendering of Ernestine, which helped her snag a Grammy for Best Comedy Recording.

The pinnacle of Stan Freberg’s celebrated career, the 1961 album Presents The United States Of America, Vol. 1: The Early Years finds the satirist recounting the history of the USA by sending up any number of fads and trends from the 1950s and early 1960s. Aided by arranger Billy May, Freberg isn’t just limited to verbal parodies: he has musical numbers that are as inventive as his sketches, making the record a tour de force of the recording studio. The hit album was added to the Library of Congress’ National Recording Registry in 2019.

Not a compilation, The Best Of Sellers nevertheless does feature Peter Sellers at a peak. Rushing into the studio after his version of the old music hall standard “Any Old Iron” became an unexpected hit, Sellers crammed his mini-LP—his label Parlophone worried that a full long player would be too much comedy for audiences—with pop, rock and roll, folk, and jazz parodies and characters he essayed on the BBC series The Goon Show. Much of the credit for the record’s crackling high spirit should go to producer George Martin, who started to figure out the limits of a recording studio here, long before he functioned in a similar role for the Beatles.

Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas took their SCTV characters Bob and Doug McKenzie to the recording studio in 1981, less than a year after their sketch made its television debut. Conceived as a way to ratchet up the CBC-mandated Canadian content on SCTV, the portrayal of two beery brothers turned into a runaway hit throughout North America, leading to this record and a movie called Strange Brew. Highlighted by a game cameo from Rush’s Geddy Lee on ‘Take Off” as well as a version of “Twelve Days Of Christmas” tailored to Canadian hosers, this has an off-the-cuff charm that’s quite endearing.

A figure of historic proportions, Lenny Bruce can be difficult to hear in modern contexts: his innovations have been absorbed by the culture at large and, crucially, a lot of his recordings feature him ranting about the persecution he received. That’s not the case with The Carnegie Hall Concert. Recorded in 1961 before the court cases overwhelmed his life and act, The Carnegie Hall Concert—now available in an expanded double-disc format—finds Bruce spinning out observations and stories with the hep patter of a Beatnik.

The definition of a showbiz survivor, Joan Rivers had several peaks in her long career but it was her work of the early 1980s that set her on the road to becoming a household name. Recorded live in 1983 when she was still Johnny Carson’s choice as a guest host on The Tonight Show, What Becomes A Semi-Legend Most? features Rivers riffing about such cultural mainstays as The National Enquirer, Mick Jagger, and the royal family, while also finding space for her Heidi Abromowitz character. Sharp and profane, it lacks the pro-forma feel of her E! Television red carpet performances: this is the work of a nightclub comic who still knew how to land a direct blow.

Allan Sherman designed his third album—it followed My Son, The Folk Singer and My Son, The Celebrity, completing a trilogy of sorts—as a way to appeal to middle America, stripping away the Jewish jokes that fueled his first LPs and concentrating on madcap parodies and routines. Thanks to “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh! (A Letter From Camp)“—sung in the voice of a kid writing home from a dispiriting summer camp—it succeeded beyond his wildest expectations, spending two weeks on the top of the Billboard charts … an achievement that no other comedy record matched until “Weird Al” Yankovic released Mandatory Fun in 2014. Sherman’s routines do feel slightly square and old-fashioned but the unrepentant silliness is also the appeal: this is giddily goofy comedy.

They’re All Gonna Laugh At You played a crucial part in building Adam Sandler’s popularity outside of Saturday Night Live. A purposefully juvenile record filled with goofy gross-out humor, They’re All Gonna Laugh At You became a word-of-mouth sensation at middle schools and colleges alike thanks in part to Sandler’s relentless focus on adolescent angst and pranks. Anchored by a handful of songs, including “The Thanksgiving Song,” which previously appeared on SNL, and “Lunchlady Land,” which would make it on the air in 1994, the album really takes flight when Sandler launches into a variety of voices and yells: he’s a cartoon character caught on vinyl.

Child Of The ’50s serves as a manifesto for one of the great standup comics of the 1970s. Quick, smart, and silly, Robert Klein could do characters, parodies, and observations equally well, a multi-purpose comic who spun out riffs that other comedians would turn into careers. As its title suggests, Child Of The ’50s is something of a period artifact—it’s simultaneously of its time and nostalgic—but the invention of Klein keeps the record funny.

Perhaps the quintessential comedy album of the grunge era, No Cure For Cancer wears its cynicism proudly. Spitting bile with a hint of a smile, Denis Leary brought the underground rantings of Bill Hicks into the mainstream. That smirk, showcased so well on the folk-rock anthem “Asshole,” is the key to Leary’s appeal: that sense that he’s in on the joke made him slide onto MTV and still gives No Cure For Cancer a strange lightness for all its dark subject matter.

A relic of its time, Martin Mull And His Fabulous Furniture In Your Living Room! finds the former folkie sending up hippie hubris—and hitting such easy but worthy targets as “Dueling Tubas”— while also seizing the opportunity to sing some genuine country-rock with the likes of “Sneaky” Pete Kleinow.

The living definition of a road comic, Dave Attell built his fame hosting the Comedy Central series Insomniac, where he celebrated squalid nightlife across America. Released in the middle of Insomniac’s run in the early 2000s, Skanks For The Memories mines the same sordid territory as the show but listening to it on record reveals Attell’s sharp wit and utter mastery of filthy jokes.

A trailblazer, Dick Gregory didn’t shy away from controversial subjects in a controversial era: his routines crackled with righteous anger and wit. Recorded at Chicago’s Playboy Club, In Living Black And White preserves Gregory’s peak, finding him weaving between pointed racial commentary and observations about the state of international affairs at the height of the Cold War.

Age mellowed Andrew “Dice” Clay, turning him into something of a beloved figure within the comedy world and beyond: he projected genuine warmth as Lady Gaga’s father in A Star Is Born. This turns The Day The Laughter Died into an artifact of a time when Dice was such a public menace he and producer Rick Rubin designed his debut album as a provocation—a double-disc document not of Clay’s nursery rhyme routines but the danger he conveyed as a comic. Performing at a small club filled with unprepared punters, it’s comedy as a weapon: the audience doesn’t laugh, they squirm in a fashion that’s even audible on record.

Big Bambu made Cheech & Chong stars in 1972, climbing all the way to No. 2 on Billboard’s Top 200. Delivered a year later, Los Cochinos finds the duo reveling in their newly found stardom, enlisting George Harrison, Carole King, Nicky Hopkins, and Jim Keltner to play on “Basketball Jones,” the song that closes a collection of shaggy stoner jokes. The ragtag collection helped Cheech & Chong snag a Grammy for Best Comedy Recording.

Capturing the moment just prior to Lewis Black blowing up on The Daily Show, The White Album finds the comedian’s trademark fury in a somewhat nascent stage: it’s there, it just hasn’t reached full bloom. Although the topics are certainly tied to Y2K—there’s an extended sequence about President Bill Clinton’s impeachment that leads to concluding bits on Arkansas—Black’s knack for picking apart the illogic in nonsense is evergreen.

Don’t be fooled by the dismissive title. Unhappy with their barebones debut, Monty Python designed Another Python Record as a show of strength, re-creating the psychedelic free-associations of their television show on record. Bouncing between satire and absurdity, the Pythons deliver “Spam” and “The Spanish Inquisition” but, as always, with the Pythons, the totality is the point: it’s not a collection of bits, it’s a total experience.

Of course the king of insult comedy called his first album Hello Dummy: there’s no better introduction to Mr. Warmth than a sneer. Recorded live in 1968 at the Sahara in Las Vegas, Hello Dummy is very much the product of its time, which means there are more than a few jokes that couldn’t fly in the 2020s, but what impresses isn’t the meanness of Rickles, it’s his speed and agility. He’s spitting out jokes that are more absurd than cruel, which is why Hello Dummy still delivers laughs after it’s fallen out of fashion.

At the core of the Smothers Brothers legend lies The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, the variety show they hosted on CBS between 1967 and 1969. Pushing artistic boundaries while engaging in political protest, Tom and Dick Smothers constantly fought with the network censors, earning an early cancellation for their troubles. At The Purple Onion isn’t as dangerous as their celebrated television show but this, the first of several LPs the duo released on Mercury Records in the early 1960s, is every bit as funny. Sending up show tunes and the Kingston Trio, the Smothers Brothers offer a clever, loving parody of the earnest folk revival, their interplay and jokes retaining their freshness even after the scene has faded into history.

On Strategic Grill Locations, the album he self-released in 1999, Mitch Hedberg appears to have arrived full-formed, splicing the laconic delivery of Steven Wright with the wordplay of George Carlin, then giving it a distinctly Gen-X spin; he and the audience are acutely aware they’re performing and attending a comedic ritual. Hedberg died too young—he released only one other record in his life, 2003’s Mitch All Together—which lends Strategic Grill Locations a slightly wistful air that nevertheless gets punctured by the laughter generated by his absurdist jokes.

Lemmings was a stage show National Lampoon staged off-Broadway in 1973 that spoofed Woodstock—the movie, more than the event itself. The production was spun off into a cast recording that year and the LP served as an introduction to such comedy legends as John Belushi—who performed the majority of the stage announcements, in addition to debuting his uncanny Joe Cocker impression—Chevy Chase and Christopher Guest, who was responsible for much of the music while also performing parodies of Bob Dylan and James Taylor. Here, it’s possible to hear the origins of both Saturday Night Live and This Is Spinal Tap.

The undisputed king of deadpan delivery, Steven Wright excels on record. Listening to him reel off one-liners at a deliberately laconic pace, it’s possible to concentrate on the masterful construction of his jokes, and how the setup leads to an absurd yet logical conclusion—a trick he pulls off over and over again on this set, which splices together highlights from two separate sets. I Have A Pony was so successful—it charted on Billboard and earned a Grammy nomination—that Wright stayed away from comedy albums for decades before finally delivering a second album in 2007. The name of that sequel? I Still Have A Pony.

Bill Hicks specialized in seething, confrontational anger, directing his bile at both the audience and himself. Hicks died of pancreatic cancer at the peak of his career, leaving behind a legacy that resonates to this day. Released three years after his 1994 death, Rant In E-Minor captures Hicks in full vitriolic flight, taking aim at conservatives and Jay Leno with equal viciousness.

One of the defining comic duos of the 1960s, Mike Nichols and Elaine May had an elegance to their rapport that still sparkles. Capturing highlights from their Broadway show An Evening With Mike Nichols And Elaine May, this LP showcases Nichols’ verbal dexterity and May’s facility with characters. What impresses most is their easy, intuitive chemistry, which has been mimicked but never duplicated.

Released the same year Patton Oswalt toplined the Pixar family film Ratatouille, Werewolves And Lollipops finds the comedian decidedly in the alternative comedy world, delivering a rapid and riotous set in Austin, Texas. Swiftly switching between pop cultural and political targets, Oswalt places equal emphasis on smarts and silliness, a quality that keeps this record fresh long after its 2007 release.

The 2000 Year Old Man was such a hit for Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks that it became a comedy institution, with this 1961 album receiving three sequels in the subsequent 12 years. Those albums were boxed up by Rhino in 1994, but it’s the original LP that remains the best introduction to this delightful routine where straight-man Reiner interviewed the ancient Brooks about everything under the sun.

An unbridled force of nature, Sam Kinison blended the righteous fury of a Pentecostal preacher with the rebellion of heavy metal in an act that seemed dangerous during Reagan’s 1980s. Although it lacks the visual of Kinison prowling the stage like a caged animal, Louder Than Hell captures much of what made Kinison the greatest comic of his time: his fiery blend of imagination, wit, and controversy.

Before he became a household name thanks to the sitcom Sanford & Son, Redd Foxx built his audience through the regular release of underground party records—independent releases that were sold under the counter since they were too dirty for public consumption. Uncensored represents something of a triumph of the party record. Released in 1980, roughly three years after Sanford And Son left the air, Uncensored is filled with the kind of raunchy humor that couldn’t be heard in public in the 1960s. In 1980, it won Foxx a Grammy for Comedy Album of the Year.

A genuine genius in a field filled with pretenders, Albert Brooks is attuned to the structure, not just of a joke but presentation and format. That talent flourished when he became a filmmaker not long after the release of Comedy Minus One in 1973. This record also demonstrates a real attention to detail, playing with the format of a comedy LP, showing loving respect for hoary showbiz tropes but also sending them up with a prankster’s verve.

Housed in an album cover that parodies the cheap extravagance of Master P’s No Limit empire, Bigger And Blacker announced Chris Rock as a powerhouse stand-up. Already a star—he cut an indelible impression on Saturday Night Live—Rock spent some of the 1990s looking for the secure footing he found here. Alternating stand-up routines with hip-hop sketches and cameos, Bigger And Blacker captures the style of the late 1990s, but Rock’s routines are what makes it last.

Steve Martin was the rarest of things in the late 1970s: a comedian who could fill arenas. Let’s Get Small was at the core of this phenomenon, a record that managed to be hysterical even without the visuals of the absurdist antics of Martin. The absence of sight gags doesn’t push Martin to desperate extremes. Instead, he narrows his focus and creates a dynamic, lively record

Six decades into his life, Rodney Dangerfield became a superstar with his bug-eyed grin and self-deprecating shtick. Named after his catchphrase, No Respect delivers a torrent of classic one-liners so perfectly constructed and delivered, they can still elicit guffaws of laughter.

Between the demise of Mr. Show and the birth of Arrested Development, David Cross returned to stand up, his timing coinciding with the aftermath of 9/11. Cross references that weird, unsettled era on Shut Up You Fucking Baby, a double CD that gives him plenty of room to roam, riff, and regale the club crowd with stories of debauchery and absurdity, two elements that are fused in his riotous story about getting wasted with the forgotten metal band Harlow.

Instrumental in his rise to stardom in the early 1980s, Comedian was Eddie Murphy’s second album, released just prior to Beverly Hills Cop turning him into a phenomenon. Young and arrogant, Murphy does take some shots that haven’t aged particularly well—there’s more than a touch of homophobia here—but his speed and charm remain a thing of wonder.

Effectively Robin Williams’ farewell to stand-up—he finally became a movie star the following year with the release of Good Morning, Vietnam!—A Night At The Met finds the comedian in full flight, delivering an avalanche of riffs, bits, and jokes. The speed is intoxicating: it’s wild to witness how he gets from point A to point B.

The granddaddy of comedy albums, The Button-Down Mind Of Bob Newhart was a sensation in 1960, such a success that it earned Newhart the Grammy for Best New Artist. The freshness of his one-sided phone calls fueled the phenomenon in the early 1960s and the clean construction of the bit is why the record retains its potency decades later: it relies on nothing but the deadpan delivery of Newhart.

Years after his death, George Carlin retains a prominent position in American culture as the avatar of free speech. Reducing Carlin to a meme misinterprets and defangs his humor, stripping it of the cultural context that was so crucial to understanding his politics. Listening to his albums helps restore that context, since they’re artifacts of the time. For as much as Class Clown belongs to the early 1970s, the artistry helps it transcend its era: listen to “Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television” again, and what impresses is not the provocation but rather the construction and execution.

Live On The Sunset Strip is at the foundation of the idea that stand-up needs to be cathartic, for both artist and audience alike. That notion resulted in plenty of terrible comedians, but Richard Pryor’s return to the stage after nearly burning himself alive in a freebase accident remains the ideal marriage of revelation and craft, a dark night of the soul that is riotously funny.