If you were watching NBC at 1:25 AM in the late nineties or early 2000s, you probably remember the lights dimming. The music would shift into this weird, pseudo-apocalyptic synth drone. Then, out of nowhere, Richie "LaBamba" Rosenberg would appear in a cheap cowl, holding a flashlight under his chin like a kid telling a campfire story. It was time for Conan in the year 2000.
It was stupid. It was brilliant. Honestly, it was the definitive "Late Night with Conan O’Brien" sketch.
The premise was simple: Conan and a guest would peer into the future to make "predictions." But here’s the thing—the year 2000 eventually actually happened. And then it passed. Yet, the bit kept going. They didn't change the name to "The Year 3000" for a long time. They just leaned into the absurdity of predicting a future that was already the present. It’s that specific brand of O'Brien anarchy that defined a generation of comedy.
Why the year 2000 felt like the end of the world (and the start of a bit)
To understand why Conan in the year 2000 worked, you have to remember the genuine anxiety surrounding the turn of the millennium. We had Y2K looming. People were legitimately worried that elevators would plummet and bank accounts would vanish because computers couldn't handle two zeros.
Conan O'Brien, along with head writer Jonathan Groff and the legendary Robert Smigel, took that tension and turned it into a farce. While the rest of the news media was being incredibly serious about the "Millennium Bug," Conan was using it to suggest that in the future, "The WB will be purchased by a group of angry squirrels."
The bit actually predated the year 2000 by several years. It started in the mid-90s. Back then, 2000 felt like "The Future." It was a sci-fi date. By the time 1999 rolled around, the sketch had become a staple. It was one of those rare TV moments where the low-budget aesthetic actually made it funnier. They didn't use CGI. They used a flashlight and some echo on the microphones.
The Anatomy of a Classic Prediction
The humor relied on a very specific rhythm. Conan would say a setup, and then the guest would deliver the punchline. All while that haunting, repetitive melody played in the background.
Take the 1997 appearance of Heather Locklear. Conan predicts: "The tobacco industry will finally admit that cigarettes are addictive." Locklear’s response? "But they will continue to insist that they are a delicious part of a healthy breakfast."
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It wasn't high-brow. It was observational comedy wrapped in a cape. The predictions usually fell into a few buckets:
- Political Satire: Usually involving Bill Clinton or Newt Gingrich.
- Pop Culture Absurdity: Predicting that Michael Jackson would eventually become a liquid.
- Self-Deprecation: Jokes about Conan’s own failing ratings (which were a constant theme in the early years) or his pale complexion.
What happened when the calendar actually turned?
This is where the bit got meta. When January 1, 2000, actually arrived, the show didn't stop. They didn't update the graphics. They didn't change the title to "The Year 2001."
They just kept calling it Conan in the year 2000.
For the entirety of the year 2000, they were predicting things for a year they were currently living in. It was a masterclass in staying the course for the sake of a joke. It highlighted the obsolescence of "futurism." By 2001, when they finally updated it to "In the Year 3000," the joke had evolved. The 2000s were no longer the mysterious future; they were just another decade of weirdness.
The LaBamba Factor
We can't talk about this sketch without mentioning Richie Rosenberg. LaBamba was a trombonist in the Max Weinberg 7, but his contribution to comedy history is his falsetto.
Every few predictions, the music would swell, and LaBamba would wail a high-pitched "In the year two-thousaaaaaand!"
It was jarring. It was loud. It was perfect.
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It added a layer of fake "grandeur" to the proceedings. Without LaBamba, it’s just two people reading jokes. With him, it was an event. It’s a testament to how the Late Night crew utilized every person in the building. From the cue card guys to the horn section, everyone was a character.
The Legacy of Late-Night Futurism
Looking back, Conan in the year 2000 represents a specific era of television. This was before the internet completely fractured the "water cooler" moment. You had to stay up late to catch it. There was no YouTube to watch the highlights the next morning. If you missed it, you missed it.
The bit eventually followed Conan to The Tonight Show and then to TBS on Conan. It became "In the Year 3000," but it never lost that 1990s DNA.
Interestingly, the sketch also served as a precursor to the way we consume memes today. It was repetitive, predictable, and relied on a "template" that viewers could recognize instantly. You knew the music. You knew the flashlight. You were just waiting for the new "data" to be plugged into the machine.
Was Conan actually right about anything?
Oddly enough, some of the jokes aged into reality. While most were pure nonsense—like predicting that "The Gap will begin selling jeans that are already filled with dirt"—some hit close to home regarding the consolidation of media and the absurdity of reality TV.
In one 1990s episode, they predicted that "Network news will be replaced by a single camera pointed at a pile of burning tires."
Looking at the current state of 24-hour news cycles and social media outrage, they weren't exactly a million miles off.
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Why it still resonates today
There is a deep nostalgia for the O'Brien years. People miss the "lo-fi" feel of 12:30 AM TV. Today’s late-night shows are polished. They are built for virality. They feel like they were written by a committee of social media managers.
Conan in the year 2000 felt like it was written by three guys in a basement who were tired and had access to a smoke machine.
It was punk rock comedy.
It didn't care if the joke landed with everyone. It only cared if it was funny to the people in the room. That authenticity is why clips of these sketches still rack up millions of views on Team Coco’s digital archives. We crave that "anything can happen" energy.
Lessons for Content Creators
If you're a writer or a creator, there’s actually a lot to learn from this sketch. It’s about the power of the "Running Gag."
Consistency builds a community. When you have a recurring segment that people can identify within three seconds of audio, you’ve won. You’ve created a shorthand with your audience. You don't have to explain the premise anymore; you just have to deliver the content.
Also, don't be afraid of the "cheap" gag. Sometimes a flashlight and a cape are more effective than a million-dollar set.
Actionable Insights for Fans and Researchers
If you want to dive deeper into the history of this segment or late-night comedy from that era, here are a few things you should actually do:
- Check the Team Coco Archives: The official Conan YouTube channel has curated playlists. Search specifically for the 1993-1999 era to see the bit in its rawest form.
- Read "The War for Late Night" by Bill Carter: If you want the business context of why Conan's show felt so "outsider" and "rebellious," this book covers the NBC drama in detail.
- Watch the "Serious Jibber-Jabber" Series: Conan does long-form interviews with his writers. The episodes featuring Robert Smigel and Jonathan Groff break down exactly how these sketches were pitched and written.
- Listen to "Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend": He frequently discusses the "In the Year 2000" era with guests who were there, like Andy Richter or various former writers.
The year 2000 has long since passed, and the "future" it predicted turned out to be a lot weirder than even Conan O'Brien could have imagined. But the sketch remains a perfect time capsule of a moment when late-night TV was at its most experimental, its most daring, and its most wonderfully stupid.