Angelina Martin and Carlton Wilcoxson aren’t just performing comedy; they are the high priests of an underground ritual, driven by a fierce obsession to perfect their craft. Their approach is a relentless pursuit of authenticity, a devotion bordering on madness that strips away the glossy veneer of the mainstream to deliver a pure, unfiltered dose of truth.
Buzz Mill is an asylum where the broken and the beautiful collide over cheap brews and the hum of the hive. It’s the church of the unwashed masses, a refuge from the gold-plated vanity of the new Austin.
At the center of this vortex is Buzz Kill Comedy, the raw, bleeding heart of the local scene. Hosts Angelina Martin and Carlton Wilcoxson are the architects of this sonic rebellion, leveling the playing field with a lineup that spits in the face of industry politics.
It’s entirely viewer-supported, a testament to the devotion of the underground. The audience knows that without their contributions, the show simply cannot exist. They gather under the open sky, rain or shine, to partake in a ritual that feels more like a family reunion than a standard entertainment experience.
Every show is a testament to the grit of the performers who have fought through years of struggle to bring their truth to the stage. Angelina’s ongoing journey for the title of Funniest Person in Austin is just one ripple in the massive wave of talent this crew represents.
We sat down with battle-tested comedic operatives Angelina Martin and Carlton Wilcoxson the co-hosts and driving forces behind the long-running, zero-dollar weekly showcase Buzzkill at The Buzz Mill bypass polite studio formalities to deliver a 47-minute, redline transmission from the subterranean fringe. The narrative opens on the gritty, street-level reality of holding down an independent art scene in a city rapidly being flattened by corporate money and tech transplants. Martin, sharp and radiating a chaotic charisma, balances perfectly against Wilcoxson’s cool, high-octane velocity as they dissect the endless grunt work of late-night mic circuits, wrangling unruly crowds at outdoor venues, and navigating the weird, paranoid energy of the modern stand-up economy.
As the broadcast accelerates, the conversation drifts into the absurd, high-wire lore of running Buzzkill—a chaotic weekly rite of passage where seasoned pros, unhinged locals, and brave open-micers collide under the Texas night sky. Trading war stories from the stage, they break down the delicate art of holding a room together when the surrounding environment threatens to descend into total madness, dealing with volatile hecklers, weird ambient noise, and the raw thrill of live performance where no safety nets exist. In the final stretch, the transmission turns to the changing face of the culture itself, with Martin and Wilcoxson laying down a gonzo manifesto on staying fiercely independent, keeping the city’s weird pulse alive against the encroaching machine, and continuing to fight in the trenches. By the time the tape cuts out, the room is left thick with static, ozone, and the undeniable proof that the underground still has plenty of teeth left.
Chainsaw Magazine 