Yesterday evening, my wife and I went to the Tabernacle in downtown Atlanta to see the stage reincarnation of Dave Chappelle. Being a DC local kid done good, we'd followed his career since before his first HBO comedy special in 2000. Seeing him in DC in 2003 at the Lincoln Theater was a blast. In tense times in a tense city, Dave Chappelle was on stage for over an hour; making light of Bin Laden, Iraq, and easing into gentle prods on the recent DC Sniper incident, which until recently had a plurality of the audience bobbing and weaving at supermarket parking lots and gas stations, just in case. He was at the top of his career, recently signed on to a multi-million dollar contract with Comedy Central, often compared to Richard Pryor. He was the next greatest thing. His routine hit the audience like a large-predator tranquilizer dart full of Ecstasy. People of all ages left the Lincoln Theater energized, liberated from fear, and ready to laugh at those all too commonplace, cringing moments of edgy, exhausting wariness that had taken over the collective unconscious of Washingtonians during those days.
The vibe going into the show last night had certain echoes of that uneasiness I'd noticed in 2003. We waited in line for the doors to open for about a half hour in the Code Orange Atlanta Summer Afternoon sun, listening to three girls from the exurbs chatting, snapping gum and blowing smoke. They were terrified of the city, and in a mixed crowd made the somewhat racist comments that everyone is familiar with.
"I just don't know how people can live in Atlanta. I'd always be worried about getting shot or mugged or something."
"I mean at a country show everyone's friendly and says hi to each other. At a rock show you might get kicked in the head. At a rap show, you'll get shot. Or someone'll smoke your weed and then take everything from you... your watch, your money, whatever they can get"
It was one of those conversations that colonizes your consciousness with one stupid remark, and then soon takes everything over, so that any attempt at independent conversation is quickly eliminated. We were a captive audience, along with everyone else in line.
The line was a mixture of yuppies, buppies, greasy kids (some thuggish, some druggish), and the mass of bovine suburbans who come downtown only on special occasions. This combination of people is rare, and makes everyone a little uncomfortable-- reminding us that strangers might like the same things for different reasons.
Once we got in and got seated, the opening act was a local comic who had a funny 15 minute set about getting high and doing yard work. Mos Def was on for about a half hour where he did a few new tracks, a Pharcyde cover, and mixed in some old funk and R&B to make it fun and relaxed. Some cracker yelled out, "where's Dave?" in the middle of it, having no clue who Mos Def was.
Dave Chappelle came on, and came out swinging. He had a bit about getting in to a fight with a meth addict who took on Dave and 7 of his friends after asking him, "what time is it, nigger?" Eventually, his friend and the meth head went for drinks. The humor took cues from lewd heckles, and Dave came back with new material, segues, and witty retorts with the lyrical magic that is reserved for the rarest, most cunning and emotionally intelligent performers out there.
Then clouds moved overhead, and thunderclaps foretold fire and brimstone. Dave started talking about his abrupt mid-season exit from the Comedy Central show, his trip to Africa, the rumors and allegations of drug abuse, mental breakdown, and everything else that was published about this, and ultimately, "the game". The game is based on human nature. The game wants to control all of us. The game won't allow a black man to succeed. The game the game the game. His hour-long routine ended with a 15-minute allegory about the pimp, Iceberg Slim, and how he retained the services of his Bottom Bitch by fooling her into believing she'd murdered a john. Iceberg played the game, and got his way with one of his whores. The metaphor could not have been more clear.
The show ended without a break in those ominous clouds. Unlike the most damning sermons, no sweet redemption was had at the end. There was no moment of contrition, no thought of "well, at least I have my loyal audience". The show was funny, but in the end I think everyone but the most dense of the crowd left a little dumbstruck, a little angered at the ways of the world, a little more hateful towards everyone else around them.
People filed out quietly into the warm evening, trying to digest what had been said. We made it to the parking deck and got into the stopped procession of traffic on the down ramp. Some guy from the suburbs in a Lexus roared up in a narrow opening, trying to cut in front of us. We edged foreword. No dice. I felt my face flush. Katie and I exchanged epithets about the couple and their back seat passenger. The other woman rolled down her window and said "He's not going anywhere. It's my car." Katie replied, "You can get in behind us." we all simmered in our juices for the next ten minutes. Looking backward, we saw the couple get into a shouting match with those same girls who had been in line with us earlier. I leaned out the car window and directed the girls to move forward, blocking the guy further. They did it, and the car after them, and the one after them. The Lexus ended up about 10 cars back from us. They played the game and lost.
Having slept on it, I'm really saddened that such a gifted performer should allow himself to be so broken, so sensitive to the ways that the Celebrity Apparatus had treated him. We were his captive audience, his shrink to get all of those feelings off his chest. His new material (when funny) was much more ribald and cynical than before-- more reminiscent of Eddie Murphy than his previous work. He had obviously been eaten alive by the pernicious, parasitic hordes of agents, lawyers, contracts, assistants, communications specialists, publicists, and others who live in the shadows behind all persons public.
The old Dave would have made light of this as he had done to the Sniper(s), Bin Laden, and Saddam Hussein. The old Dave would have left his audience inspired to thumb their noses at Hollywood idiots, made a stab at Ryan Seacrest, the lawyers and producers he'd worked with, whoever. He would have laughed at himself a little too. Dave Chappelle's new message was anti-establishment just as before, but with the destructive message of the anarchist, and not the inspiring agitator.
I really hope he gets back on track. Dave Chappelle has the rare gift of being able to inspire a little constructive subversion, something severely lacking in today's climate. He's one of the greatest personalities of our generation. We need you, Dave.
No comments:
Post a Comment