There were two US comedians/insanely successful podcasters in London town this weekend, but they couldn’t be more different.

While Joe Rogan was preaching to his devotees at The O2, Marc Maron was at the more intimate Bloomsbury Theatre, wondering why anyone would subject themselves to the cult-like experience of joining an arena full of (mostly) men cheering things they already agree with.

Maron is a much more nuanced, complicated stand-up, not dealing in the certainties of ‘truth bombs’ but trying to negotiate life’s random and cruel complexities as best he can as a flawed, pessimistic human. His conclusion that existence is messy and wretched, but tries not to be negative about it when it comes to his stand-up. Or not too negative, anyway.

Those who follow Maron will be aware that fate delivered the harshest blow in 2020, when his partner, the director Lynn Shelton, died of undiagnosed leukaemia at the age of 54. He addresses the heart-wrenching experience on stage in a tender and affecting routine, even if its poignant set-up was temporarily derailed – quite unbelievably - by a self-absorbed heckler's entirely inappropriate interjection. It’s not the funniest chunk of comedy you’ll ever hear – not that you’d expect it to be – but a bittersweet reminder that humour can be found in the gravest places. There must even been funny guys in Auschwitz, he argues.

He can surely identify. By his own definition of his comic brand, he ‘makes the bleak dark’, not shying away from difficult subjects but adding mordant, melancholic wit to them. That they might be considered ‘inappropriate’ topics for comedy adds an edge, though Maron would not trivialise them with a cheap bad-taste quip.

He’s proud that his sardonic, comedy-as-therapy, routines aren’t based on universally recognisable truths, but there’s an unvarnished honesty that it’s easy to relate to. A substantial plank of the show is his difficult relationship with his emotionally distant parents, which has been given a new dynamic now they are in their 80s. Coming to terms with his father’s dementia is easier than dealing with the fact his mother has a boyfriend – though never has that word seemed less appropriate.

He can be a bit digressive in his first-hand material, meandering around the punchlines, but that does allow us to get a more rounded picture of him, increasing the intimacy.

This personal section of the show comes after more immediately accessible observations about the state of the world. His landscape is familiar ground for rational comedians, mocking the ‘do your own research’ brigade of confident​ idiots (yes, Rogan again), and those who are suspicious of vaccines but less fussy about the providence of their recreational drugs.

But his execution is deft, with some memorably cutting takedowns and astute arguments presented with flair. His commentary on abortion is even more inspired, suggestion the ‘Christian fascists’ might be won over if termination clinics underwent a rebrand: a dark thought, but a funny one.

Strong, too, was his closer about having a baseball bat for home protection, rather than a gun. The routine, expertly acted out, might evoke his suicidal thoughts (so giving the tour's title This May Be The Last Time a drolly sombre undertone) but by Maron’s standards it’s light – a palate-cleanser after talking about his despairing grief in the aftermath of Lynn’s death.

As promised, he reduced the bleak to the merely dark, and often funny too. The laugh rate may be inconsistent as he tries to get his head around the knottier topics, but that adds to the rich texture of the show. And when he nails it, it’s hilarious.