It’s the central tension of Yang’s long-shot campaign. He’s the dude who hypes up crowds at his own events, slapping the hands of people in the front row like he’s the lead singer at a rock concert. And he is the candidate whose performance has defied every expectation — and just wants the media to show him some respect.

"Some journalists have done a very fair and objective job,” Yang told POLITICO aboard his campaign bus last week, during a tour of the first caucus state that drew just a handful of national reporters. “Others still seem to be bewildered by the campaign and our success. And I hope that those journalists who expected me to disappear months ago take a hard look at what's driving our success and reevaluate. I would call that doing their job.”

Yang said his achievements have earned him non-fringe treatment: Namely fundraising prowess — he raked in $2 million in the 10 days around his Iowa swing — and a fan base whose zeal for their candidate arguably rivals that of any other contender. One volunteer had Yang’s mug tattooed into his calf.

Yet Yang made the cut for the debate by the narrowest of margins. One percentage point less in a single poll and he would have been watching from the couch with the rest of the wannabes. If the Democratic National Committee raises the thresholds for the next debate, Yang might well be out of luck, and have to do something dramatic to prove he’s capable of drawing more than a narrow band of fervid supporters into the fold.

For now, though, Yang is having a ball as the ring leader of thousands of people who follow him around and show up to campaign events wearing blue MATH (Make America Think Harder) hats. It’s an eccentric group, roughly resembling a high school math club with Yang as president, the coolest and smartest of the bunch.

“It’s almost like a cult. But we have no Kool-Aid,” said Prai Wan, the volunteer with the Yang tattoo, who goes by Wanito.

“Before I discovered Yang and the Yang Gang, I called the suicide hotline twice that week. After meeting everybody, it saved my life. Andrew saved my life,” Wan said through tears after a campaign event. “I'm not perfect. Nobody's perfect. I did all kinds of shit, back in the days. I just want to be better. And he wants that for me.”

You hear that often from Yang supporters — that he’s just a normal, genuine guy who doesn’t judge them.

“He’s not scared of us. He's one of us. And, you know, he's just an average everyday person. He's not bred for [running for president],” said Jason Elia, a writer and stand-up comedian from Los Angeles who moved to Iowa to volunteer for Yang.

On the trail with Yang, the tug of war between serious and silly is constant.

At one event about the costs of health care at his campaign office in Iowa City, Yang holds court as supporters share stories of hardship. He’s surrounded by MATH hats and people clutching copies of his book, The War on Normal People, who nearly climb on top of one another to get closer to him.

Yang does his usual opening: happy to see everyone, glad to be running for president and invited to the party, basking in the glory. Once he finally gets settled, he gives his spiel on universal basic income and automation, then lets three supporters take the floor. Yang sits back, nodding as a man named Alex relays how he and his wife filed for bankruptcy and moved in with his parents because of unexpected health care bills.

Yang occasionally interjects for clarification, but mostly gives a politician’s “I’m listening” nods. After the man finishes, Yang stands up and says, “Can I give you a hug, brother?”

It doesn’t seem rehearsed or hokey. Yang is plainly moved by the story and not afraid to seem vulnerable in front of cameras and fans. This is where he thrives.

Back on the bus, his staff is playing video games on a Super Nintendo. But Yang, speaking to a POLITICO reporter, starts to sound more like a traditional candidate. He talks earnestly about the historical nature of his campaign, being the first Asian American man to make a serious bid for the Democratic Party’s nomination.

“It gives me a lot of pride and joy because I vividly remember what it was like growing up a young Asian boy very rarely seeing someone who looked like me on TV at all, unless it was in the context of a kung fu movie,” Yang said. “It makes me very happy and proud to help others see that there are no limitations on the way you can contribute and lead in this country.”

Then Yang pivots to his signature proposal, the $1,000-a-month universal basic income, or UBI, for all adults that he thinks can help communities absorb massive job losses to robots and computers. He talks about what it feels like to have so many people sending him campaign contributions and supporting his candidacy. “You can’t help but be affected,” he says sincerely.

Then, midway through a question about his relationships with the other presidential candidates, Yang is back to joking around. “I know who has a firm handshake and who does not,” he replies, his staff watching with I-can’t-believe-he-just-said-that looks.

If serious means always listening to consultants or changing his message or wearing a tie or not making wisecracks, Yang doesn’t want anything to do with it. His version of becoming a more serious campaign will likely never look the way people are used to. Being himself has gotten him this far.

For him, his shiny new blue bus and throngs of fans and big donation hauls prove his campaign is doing something right.

“I think we become more serious all the time. We’ve already outcompeted a dozen sitting senators, governors and congresspeople,” Yang said. “Even if you’re just a casual observer, you’re going to turn on the TV and see, ‘Wow, Asian guy is still here.’”