Heaven Hell Dave Chappelle
by Kevin Powell
None can imagine what it is like to be Dave Chappelle on this very
night.
No one. Here he is,
the comic genius of America,
curbside at the aristocratic Beverly Hills hotel Raffles L'Ermitage, Hollywood's
new celebrity magnet, pacing back and forth, habitually fielding phone calls
and thumbing through his BlackBerry and inhaling Camel after Camel as he
anticipates a ride to the 2006 Grammy Awards from Chris Tucker, a longtime
friend and funnyman frat brother. Disrobed of his customary hip-hop uniform of
sagging, ballooned jeans, agitprop T-shirt, tennis shoes (as they say in
the Midwest), and a charcoal-black hoodie, Chappelle is wearing a brown pinstripe
suit, a crisp white shirt, a coffee-colored tie, and tan leather shoes--very
much resembling a young man in a courtroom awaiting his fate. And appearing
very uncomfortable, as if he is in the wrong costume for a morality play
in which he is the reluctant lead actor. Certainly, it is hard to say what,
precisely, is running through Dave Chappelle's mind on this muggy February
evening in southern California. On the surface, at least, he is at once excited
and mad nervous.
Excited because tonight, for the first time since his well-documented exit
from his hit Comedy Central variety program in May 2005, the critically acclaimed
Chappelle's
Show, he will be in the midst of a constellation of entertainment heavies.
In fact, Chappelle will introduce the musical tribute to Sly Stone, the reclusive
soul and funk visionary who has not performed in public since Ronald Reagan
was president. Stone, as hearsay has it, had grown to despise the limelight
and opted out for a less demanding life. The irony is not lost on Chappelle,
who too made himself scarce when he became unhappy with the executives overseeing
his wildly popular franchise and bolted, last May, midway through the shooting
schedule, to Africa. So wildly popular and cultish is
Chappelle's Show that
it has broken a number of DVD sales records, in spite of being on the air for
only two full seasons to date. And
Chappelle's Show has been called
a singular juggernaut in the annals of American television comedy, a cable
show up there alongside
Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, The Carol Burnett
Show, Saturday Night Live, and
In Living Color. But Dave Chappelle
has been paying the price of the fame ticket for walking away from a deal worth
upwards of $50 million. His every public move--on
Oprah, on
Inside
the Actors Studio, as he bikes down Xenia Avenue in his hometown of Yellow
Springs, Ohio--has been dissected, applauded, and, yeah, ridiculed; his paper-thin
sanity has been questioned and shredded; his virtual body bandied about by
a mosh pit of hands and handlers who've come and gone; and his rubbery soul,
the one that believes very quietly yet very deeply in Allah, in the religion
of Islam, has been deformed by media, fans,
and the player haters.
There are Web sites set up by Chappelle worshipers and fanatics on which Chappelle
can do no wrong; and, likewise, there are sites proposing bizarre and warped
conspiracy theories on why Chappelle pulled the plug on himself. It seems,
these days, if Dave Chappelle merely catches a cold, it winds up in the media
or on the Internet.
So it is understandable that tonight Dave Chappelle is nervous. He does not
know how his peers will receive him, if at all, for he has done something that
is unthinkable for the rich and recognizable: He has openly rejected the glamour,
the mystique, the fast money, and the fast life. Chappelle, as he will say
again and again over the nine days I spend with him, simply wants freedom--the
freedom to make art the way he feels it should be made; the freedom to live
wherever he pleases; the freedom to control his own destiny, his own identity.
So even something as minor as the script he has been handed to study for the
Sly Stone monologue becomes a raging internal battle for him.
These are
not my words. I would never say something like this. Is it weird that I am
the one introducing the Sly tribute? No, Chappelle is not going to do
it. There is more pacing, another drag on another cigarette, sidewalk consultation
with his publicist.
Okay, I will do it, but I will change it, improvise,
make it feel natural, proudly identifying with Stone's legacy of doing things
his way. As Chappelle rotates the script, like a diploma, between his long brown fingers
and walks back and forth once more, Chris Tucker finally arrives. He is not
in a limousine nor in a Town Car but in a bus, a great big tour bus, complete
with bodyguard, television set, DVD player, booming stereo system, fully loaded
refrigerator, washer and dryer, and bedroom. Not yet dressed for the Grammys
himself, Tucker peeps Dave Chappelle's pinstripe suit from head to toe, circles
him like a tailor assessing a client, squints his eyes to gain the correct
focus, cocks his head the way they do in his native Georgia, then exclaims,
with that whiny megaphone of a voice of his, "Man, Chappelle, you look
like a preacher who done lost his congregation!"
There is a comfort level that Chappelle feels on this bus
with Chris Tucker. It is a safe space before the rush of his evening to come.
As Earth, Wind & Fire's "Fantasy" wafts from the stereo system,
Tucker and Chappelle engage in the sort of easy, carefree banter reminiscent
of childhood pals. Chappelle does not have to explain to Tucker what cross
he is bearing, because Tucker understands instinctively. They met in the early
1990s, a period that witnessed a renaissance in American comedy and black American
humor, thanks to what Eddie Murphy had wrought throughout the 1980s: the comedian
as rock star. And if you were a black stand-up comic, you automatically had
that infrared light trained on your forehead, targeting you as the next Eddie
Murphy. Chris Rock had it. So did Martin Lawrence, so did Cedric the Entertainer,
Bernie Mac, Damon Wayans, Chris Tucker, and, yes, Dave Chappelle. Tucker had
his mind-boggling explosion first, becoming a box-office smash and multimillion-dollar
star in the process. And today Chappelle is there, or somewhere near there,
and it has been a tremendously complex adjustment. As he would say on another
day: "It's like someone saying, 'You're the CEO of a $50 million company--good
luck!' And then kinda leaving you to your own devices. I've been a comedian
since I was fourteen. But I've never really been a CEO."
Tucker and Chappelle disappear to the back of the bus to converse in solemn,
hushed tones. It would become a pattern throughout Grammy night, of Chappelle
huddling with the likes of Chuck D, Jamie Foxx, Stevie Wonder. You get the
impression that Chappelle is both fighting and finding himself amid all the
impromptu discussions. Then the Tucker bus barrels into the parking lot of
the Staples Center. When it is made known that Chris Tucker and Dave Chappelle
are on board, the atmosphere becomes electric. The two old buddies say their
goodbyes for the moment (Tucker has to don a suit) and pledge to cross paths
at Prince's annual post-Grammy bash in a few hours. In one breath he is relaxed
and hysterical with Tucker on the bus, and in the next breath Chappelle, as
his loping strides stamp the pavement, is suddenly taut, and in dire need of
another cigarette. He fumbles inside his jacket and pants pockets. Light. Drag.
Eyes flicker open and shut. Exhale. Sigh. Okay, he is ready for that close-up.
Passing through the celebrity entrance, Chappelle is taken aback by the instantaneous
and hearty adulation he receives from parking attendants, security personnel,
greeters, laborers, sound technicians, and stagehands. Inside, as he snakes
his way through the hordes offstage, there are pounds on the back, firm handshakes
and hugs, and several cries of "Welcome back!" "Are you okay?" and "We
missed you!" There is Madonna with an entourage of what seems like fifty. "I
think she gave me a dirty look," Chappelle says impishly, although I don't
see Madonna see Chappelle as her cloud of bodies whisks her by the
ooohs
and
aaahs. There is Carlos Santana and Paul McCartney. There is Sting
and Jay-Z. There is Green Day, led by frontman Billie Joe Armstrong, running
like unabashed groupies up to Chappelle for a picture, testifying to him how
much they admire his work. There are the youth, black, white, it does not matter,
here with parents or whomever, screaming--
screaming--as Chappelle
saunters by, begging for autographs and photos, chanting Chappelle catchphrases
that have become a part of the American vocab--"I'm Rick James, bitch!" Chappelle
is at once tickled and embarrassed by this ruckus, stops for every single person,
famous or not, who says his name, then finally makes a beeline to the rostrum
to do his Sly Stone bit. There is lengthy applause and an appreciative air.
Chappelle basks in it for a brief second, then says, "The only thing harder
than leaving show business is coming back." One minute is a lifetime in
the entertainment industry, and Chappelle, done and satisfied, swiftly retires
to the sound-equipment loading zone, grabs a squat on a golf cart, and lights
up a Camel as he digests this Grammy affair--his triumphant return, on his
terms--with his publicist.
As he sits there pulling on his cigarette, I rewind to the Dave Chappelle
I met in 1993 in New York City via my then girlfriend, an actress who'd attended
Washington's illustrious Duke Ellington School of the Arts with him. Then fast-forward
to the last time I saw Dave in person, Saturday, September 18, 2004, when he
staged and filmed
Dave Chappelle's Block Party in the very nook of
Brooklyn where the late rapper the Notorious B. I. G. had grown up. On that
rainy September day, Dave Chappelle was, so I thought, at the apex of his personal
joy around his successful show, and very much at ease with his spanking-new
notoriety. Dave swam through the crowd, soaking in its love for him, reaching
for people as they were grabbing at him. He chastised employees who were taking
too long to permit fans through the barricades to see this free concert featuring
him, Kanye West, Erykah Badu, and other personalities; and Chappelle made it
a point to bring residents on buses, at his own expense, from his Yellow Springs
community in Ohio to Brooklyn for this Woodstock-meets-Wattstax gathering.
Indeed, Chappelle had financed much of the day, including the film crew, from
his own bank account. It was surreal, truthfully, to view Dave Chappelle in
this light, because it had been a long time coming.
I remember being at the Boston Comedy Club in Greenwich Village and watching
this tall, bone-thin young man with the contagious, toothy smile, the deep-socket,
saucerlike eyes, and the perfectly oval head atop a twig of a neck wreck the
mic, the stage, and the room like an old-school rapper. Only nineteen at the
time, Chappelle was nicknamed by Whoopi Goldberg "the Kid." Even
then there was a razor-sharp racial consciousness to Chappelle's material--he
had a keen eye for that gray area between social satire and pop culture--and
on that occasion I was lucky to witness something very special. Here was the
classic working-class intellect of Charlie Chaplin's conniving tramp, the jazzy,
in-your-face audacity of Lenny Bruce's birth-of-cool bebopper, and the gut-bucket,
bluesy aches and pains of Richard Pryor's dead-on mimes, all in one. There
are comedians who have to work at being funny, but Chappelle seemed born to
it.
Back at the Grammys, Chappelle discards another cigarette (I've lost count
at this point), the show is over, and we head out of the Staples Center to
Prince's party. As the rented black SUV nudges its way around West Hollywood,
Chappelle is relieved. "I didn't know what to expect, even though I swear
Madonna gave me a dirty look." Laughter pops inside the SUV as we arrive
at Prince's mansion. And what a mansion it is. Tall iron gates. Beige granite
with the numbers of the address deliberately jumbled. A swarm of chiseled,
no-neck security men. Parking valets zigzagging from vehicle to vehicle. A
Gothic doorman with black eyeliner, black fingernail polish, and a black tongue
ring, standing there with a guest list on a clipboard. "Is this a club
or Prince's home?" Chappelle asks no one in particular. Dave Chappelle
is not on the sheet, but he's admitted after Prince himself is told who is
waiting outside the iron gate. A shuttle van is sent down to ride us up the
hill to Prince's palace. It is a thirteen-second excursion we could have done
by foot.
If Dave Chappelle is hyped to be here, he does not show it, and as we go by
two hostesses at the colossal threshold to Prince's home, one of them says
to Chappelle wryly, "You need to thank Prince for letting you in." No
reaction from Chappelle, but he does make it a point to spot Prince, promptly,
and walks right over to thank him for his hospitality. Although Chappelle stands
nearly six feet and is long and wiry, it is the elfin Prince, in natty out?t--a
blue blazer, white slacks, white shoes--who is the Goliath in this instance.
Dig if you will this picture: Chappelle's a kid all of a sudden, the pubescent
Dave who worshiped Prince in the 1980s. His gaunt face is tight and nervous,
and his gleaming eyes bounce like ping-pong balls from the Purple One's face
to the hardwood floor. But ain't Dave Chappelle famous, too? And for sure,
dues-paying members of the fame club are omnipresent and accounted for at this
joint: Mariah Carey, Alicia Keys, Jeremy Piven from HBO's
Entourage, and
Morris Day and the Time, the headliners for the evening.
But rather than indulge in the festivities, Chappelle retreats outdoors to
the patio area, to a double-back chair positioned against a back wall next
to one of four bars operating this evening. Swirling around him are servers
feverishly rotating finger foods, music royalty like Carey, Jermaine Dupri,
and Common powwowing near the kitchen, industry check writers making deals
over cocktails, industry wannabes swapping business cards and phony pleasantries,
party crashers whispering, pointing, and stargazing, and Morris Day and his
sidekick, Jerome, working the crowd into a sweaty frenzy as the band whips
through its classic songs like "777-9311." But Dave Chappelle sits,
and sits, and sits, from round midnight to after 4:00 A.M., methodically smoking
his cigarettes, sipping on spring water, eating the cupcakes floating on the
server trays, and engaging anyone who sits down next to him. He looks uncomfortable
in this scene. Indeed, slouching low in the chair, his spine curved into a
tight knot, Dave Chappelle looks as if he is hiding: hiding from his peers,
hiding from the attention, hiding from that part of himself that is a major
star.
After all, Dave Chappelle is really just a simple Midwestern homeboy, with
uncomplicated, wholesome Midwestern values, who happens to have a bottomless
well of talent. Through the course of the evening, from Raffles L'Ermitage
to the Grammy Awards to his cushiony seat as a spectator at Prince's party,
Chappelle seems to be having an out-of-body experience. It is him, but then
again it is not him at all. Or, rather, as he says to me during one of the
many hours we are there with Prince and company, "Man, I don't drink,
I don't dance, I don't party--this ain't really my thing." Problem is
that when you become an icon, as Dave Chappelle has become, it does not matter
what you want. The people want you. And so Dave Chappelle is trying to understand
how to give the universe what it demands of someone with his calling while
keeping some version of himself for himself. And that is why he refuses to
do a Hollywood shuffle, ever. What is evident, here at Prince's mansion, as
his bottom remains pasted to that chair, is that he is not going to budge,
not now, not for just anyone.
At the close of the night, Chappelle finally leaps from his seat when he eyeballs
music impresario Quincy Jones. Like a little boy, he shyly introduces himself,
but of course Jones knows who he is. When Chappelle was a student at Duke Ellington,
Jones came to screen the documentary film
Listen Up, brought copies
for the school, and books of the same title, for the entire student body. Chappelle
said that Jones came into the auditorium while he was onstage doing comedy,
and that goosebumps covered his body. "You never really stop looking at
these people as how you saw them as a child, as a kid," Chappelle says
in reference to Prince, to Quincy Jones, to Eddie Murphy, his boyhood idol. "I
mean, man, I
love them."
And they love Dave Chappelle, but Chappelle truly believes, in his heart,
he is not part of the club. "Look at where I live, man. I don't have that
kind of connection with me being famous. Fame for me is like a place, a country
I'm taking a tour through. You just don't walk around feeling like 'I'm a goddamn
star.' You walk around feeling like you."
Chappelle, as it turns out, stays too long in Los Angeles. He is moving in
too many directions, is too unsure of himself in that environment, too cryptic
about those phone calls he is retrieving from lawyers, colleagues, whomever,
which leave him one minute elated and the next very obviously on the edge of
dismay and anger. And when he ultimately has enough of the sun, the shades,
the posturing, Dave Chappelle decides he is going back to Ohio, to be with
his family, to detach himself, for a few days at any rate, from the showbiz
machine.
Yellow Springs is a sleepy outpost in southwest Ohio, population
hovering near four thousand, and address of the ultraliberal Antioch College,
where Dave Chappelle's late father was once a professor. Everyone seems to
know everyone, everyone speaks, nods a head, or proffers a wink, a peace sign,
or a thumbs-up. The Underground Railroad, that gateway to liberation for escaped
slaves from the South, ran through some of Yellow Springs' older dwellings,
with secret hideouts still intact. And it is in this mostly white community
of artists, intellectuals, and activists that you can get a supersized cup
of espresso or herbal tea at Dino's Cappuccinos, a vegetarian meal at the Sunrise
Cafe, and be Dave Chappelle, regular American citizen. Practically from the
hour he hits the pavement on Xenia Avenue, the hub of this remote village,
Chappelle is rejuvenated.
There he is borrowing a random kid's skateboard and darting, skillfully, between
moving and parked cars. There he is chasing one of his two teeny sons, like
a giant monster, into his family-pack Toyota SUV. There he is teasing and making
faces at his lovely wife, a petite Filipina from Brooklyn. And there he is,
in a montage of scenes, with his brother, home for a spell from his postgraduate
religious studies in California; with his sister, clad, like Chappelle's brother,
in full Muslim garb; and with his mother, a prominent African-American-studies
scholar and the first black woman in this country to be named, in 1981, a Unitarian
Universalist minister. And his mother, too, is a Muslim.
For Dave Chappelle, there is a tranquillity about this town, where no one
probes his or his family's faith or personal lives; where no one asks for an
autograph or photo but once during the five days I am here with him; where
an employee at Yellow Springs' lone movie theater shrugs her shoulders indifferently
when told, by Chappelle himself, that
Dave Chappelle's Block Party will
be coming soon; where he, in spite of the change in environment, blazes cigarette
after cigarette like a fireplace burning log after log. Except here in Yellow
Springs, his lips do not clamp down as hard on the cigarette, and the sucking
in of nicotine is not as resolute as it was in Los Angeles.
But Dave Chappelle is still not entirely at peace. And he is finding himself
incapable of pausing to talk.
I don't think I can do this, he says.
In a way, he still seems to be fleeing whatever he was fleeing when he left
for Africa. He is in constant motion, pacing up and down Xenia Avenue on the
cell phone and thumbing, as usual, through the BlackBerry. And each time we
settle into Dino's or the Sunrise to talk, it is not long before he is up again,
his mind and soul so tormented, it appears, that he is not even sure enough
of who he is at this very moment to talk about himself. It is not until I am
here for two days that we climb into Chappelle's Toyota and begin driving in
circles around Yellow Springs, during sunlight and late at night for hours,
for three straight days, and he begins to speak.
It comes in a swirl, impressionistic and crackling funny, and Chappelle's
reticence is swept away in a cascade of words and turns of the steering wheel. "I
got crib memories. I can remember people looking down at me when I was in the
crib. I have a
loooong memory. Perfect for holding grudges! . . .
In the last year, I started getting perspective on how my machine works--my
joke machine, or my creative process. Which is at odds with how this business
works to some degree, 'cause I'm a complainer by nature, which is just part
of my machine. . . . I left in pre-crack Washington and came back in post-crack
Washington, so I got the before-and-after picture. It was literally jolting,
like, what the fuck happened? My freshman year of high school, over five hundred
kids my age were murdered. . . . Miles Davis said it was his fantasy to choke
a white man, but he made some of the best music he ever made with Gil Evans.
It's like artists can transcend race like nobody can. . . . I finished my first
show and the crowd went fuckin' nuts. All the comics were in a lounge, and
they go, 'How old are you?' And I said, 'I'm fourteen.' And they said, 'Goddamn.'
. . . Years later I was pulling up to a hotel in D. C. I had a nice car at
the time. And I get out and this old white man is the valet, with a red sweater
on. And I hand him the keys, he hands me a ticket, and he goes, 'That's not
my car.' He goes, 'I wish it was my car.' And I go, 'Oh, yeah, that's nice,
thanks.' So then, finally I realized--I'm thinking he's the valet, and he's
thinking I'm the valet. But I said, 'Well, at least I was thinking that 'cause
you have on black slacks and a red sweater.' He was thinking that 'cause I
have black skin [
laughs], 'cause nothing about me was lookin' like
a valet. . . . I'm the first person in my family that wasn't a slave that didn't
go to college. My great-grandparents were slaves and still went to college.
. . . Suffering and humans go hand in hand. Look at comedy. It's dominated
by black people and Jewish people. That is American comedy. And if blacks and
Jews didn't do comedy, we'd be relying on the Irish. 'Cause they were the next
funniest thing. . . . The only movie they kept offering me over and over was
fuckin'
Soul Plane. They kept giving me the script and I'd say, 'I
passed on this script.' And it would just keep coming back. 'No, I don't want
to do
Soul Plane!' . . . Maybe the pendulum is swinging back and people
want entertainment that has a little more substance. Dude, the number-one song
on the radio is 'Shake That Laffy Taffy.' There's a group of people out there
that rebel against that. Like, this is the shit you're cramming down my throat?
'Shake That Laffy Taffy'? . . .
Genius is such a grandiose term. I
didn't do it all by myself. Sometimes I get credit for things I don't really
deserve. And other times I
don't get credit for things that I
do think
I deserve. . . . This phrase kept coming up: It's not personal, it's just business.
If you ever hear a white man say that, even if you are white, run for your
motherfucking life.When a person tells you something's not personal, it's just
business, that means some ice-cold shit might be about. . . . I want to, like,
play Sambo, but I want to give those characters some depth. No, just kidding.
No, I'm just kidding, man. . . . You know, nowadays it ain't easy to be
anygoddamnbody."
And Dave Chappelle flows so freely now, on and on, his Toyota SUV seemingly
a safe space, a therapist's couch. Round and round Yellow Springs until I have
the town memorized and we're mainlining the coffee. Until, on one particular
side street, Chappelle presses the brakes and prods the vehicle along and mutters
somberly, "That is where my father is buried." It is a quaint, one-story
stucco home. His dad's grave is in the backyard, and his widow, Chappelle's
stepmother, a white woman, is home right now. We drive on, and I think back
to when I first met Chappelle, how he'd introduced me to a young white man
whom he described as "my brother." Today it makes sense. It was his
stepmother's son.
It is this sort of double consciousness into which Dave Chappelle was born
in Washington, D. C., on August 24, 1973, in the shimmering shadow of Watergate
and Vietnam, amid civil-rights-era residue, a precocious boy who, by his own
account, had a very happy childhood. His father, "a hippie," held
down a corporate job for years as a statistician but was really a lover of
music, of art, of books, a man with an IQ of 185. His mother, the more overtly
rebellious of his parents, once worked for the revolutionary Patrice Lumumba
in the Congo and was an independent thinker and dedicated intellectual, constantly
reinventing herself in the pursuit of a better grasp of life. Though together
only for the initial brushstrokes of Dave Chappelle's life, the two shared
duties in shaping the mind of their youngest child. "Growing up, I knew
kids who lived with both their parents that didn't have as close a relationship
with their parents.
"I grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland. We were like the broke Huxtables.
There were books around the house, everybody was educated to a college level.
We used to have a picture of Malcolm X in Ghana. Last Poets records. We were
poor but we were cultured."
And there was the home education money could never buy: little Chappelle sitting
among adults as they watched and debated
To Kill a Mockingbird. Organizational
meetings to abolish racism. Regular visits by people as diverse as folksinger
Pete Seeger and jazz balladeer Johnny Hartman, the only singer ever to record
with the legendary John Coltrane. In fact, on one visit it was Hartman, noticing
that the seven- or eight-year-old Chappelle had a knack for humor, who first
planted the seed of his being a comedian.
"I was the funny dude. I was real comfortable with adults. I was cutting
up in front of Hartman and he was like, 'Man, you're a funny kid.' And he says
to me, 'You're gonna be a comedian.' And I was like, 'What's a comedian?' And
he's like, 'It's a guy who tells funny stories for a living, like Richard Pryor
or Redd Foxx.' I said, 'I want to be a doctor.' And he was like, 'Eh--' "
And why not? African-Americans of Chappelle's generation, carried along in
the wake of the civil-rights movement, could be anything, they were told. For
they were the first generation of blacks to be raised in an integrated America,
to attend multiracial schools, to have friends of many backgrounds. "I
use to hang out with the Jewish kids, black kids, and Vietnamese immigrants," says
Chappelle. The truth is, many African-American parents like Chappelle's struggled
and sacrificed so that their children would not have to, so that they could
attend a different kind of school, live in a different kind of neighborhood,
dream a different kind of world. What they conceived, ultimately, was the first
wave of African-Americans who were what the writer Trey Ellis once described
as "cultural mulattoes." Born to two progressive black parents, one
a we-are-the-world bohemian, the other firmly rooted in black nationalism in
Washington, D. C. ("Chocolate City," as dubbed by Parliament Funkadelic),
Chappelle followed his father, during his middle-school years, to Yellow Springs,
where his friends and his new family were suddenly, well, white, which created
this unique capacity to stand out and blend in, to cross boundaries and set
up roadblocks, to make fast friends and quick foes. Or, as the black sage Dr.
W. E. B. Du Bois wrote, "One ever feels his two-ness--an American, a Negro;
two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in
one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder."
On my last night in Yellow Springs, Chappelle takes a path
foreign to me. When I ask him if this is the sixty-five-acre farm, his "anti-Hollywood
estate," as one journalist coined it, Chappelle smiles mischievously and
says, "Uh, this is one of my houses. I'm going to smash a rock over your
head and take those tapes. You'll never know which house I'm living in." Because
it is pitch-black, save some strategically arranged lighting sprinkled about
the property, all that can be said about Chappelle's real estate is that it
is expansive.
Back on the familiar route, Chappelle noses the SUV through and around the
empty streets of Yellow Springs with much on his mind. His face, creased with
a smile just a second before, droops. He is a man with monumental decisions
to make. The Comedy Central haze is so damn thick that Dave Chappelle wants
to say, Fuck the world! all of it, but he knows that he cannot. It is evident
now that there is pressure from all sides for him to return to the show, to
pay off former associates (or deal with the legal consequences); that he is
saddened by the wedge that has been driven between him and others, most notably
Neal Brennan, his former longtime friend and writing partner on
Chappelle's
Show. This is the crux of why Dave Chappelle left the show, why he went
to Africa to breathe amid his stunning success, why he prefers life in Ohio.
He doesn't like to feel, as an artist, as a comedian, as a black man in America,
like he is being controlled, told what he should and should not be doing--ever.
This is why, at the close of each episode of
Chappelle's Show, there
is that image of a shirtless Chappelle with slave shackles on his wrists. This
is why Chappelle prefers live stand-up to television, and especially to Hollywood
films. And this is why, throughout the course of these final few hours together,
Chappelle repeatedly brings up David Mamet's recent
Harper's essay, "Bambi
v. Godzilla: Why Art Loses in Hollywood," as well as Spike Lee's hotly
debated flick
Bamboozled.
Then, out of the blue, he begins talking candidly, for the first time, about
his conflicts with Comedy Central, his voice lower than before, his words coming
a little more slowly.
"I don't want people to think that I feel completely victimized. Like,
I always try to make a point of trying to acknowledge the fact that I made
mistakes in this process. But believe me, I wasn't making 'em by myself. As
a matter of fact, I had an enormous amount of help making mistakes. More help
than I get when I'm doing the right thing.
"So basically the renegotiation during the show's second season was what
it was. I felt like I was really pressured to settle for something that I didn't
necessarily feel like I wanted. The DVD comes out, it's a whole 'nother ball
game. Everyone's asking me, 'When you coming back, when you coming back? You'd
do it for
x number of dollars, wouldn't you?' Like, real specific
questions, and it was like, I don't know. You know, I just got real tight-lipped
about shit, because the same questions kept coming up over and over, you know,
so when that happens, you stop assuming that these are idle questions. You
start assuming that somebody wants to know something, and they're asking you
via a bunch of different people. And if I would divulge that information, and
I did want to come back, it would give me a very weak negotiating position
if they knew what I would do something for. Common sense. 'Nigger be careful'
is what they say on the streets, right?"
Chappelle asks me to turn off the tape recorder. Should he vent, should he
be careful? He sparks a cigarette and continues.
Between the first and second seasons, Comedy Central was sold. "There
was a lot of new faces. Viacom had acquired the entire asset of Comedy Central.
Certain things happened that were strange at the time." Chappelle straightens
his back and mimics the voice of an older white executive: " 'Dave, we're
having a symposium on the
n-word, and we wanted you to speak about
your use of it. It's just for our information.' And I did it, but afterward
I was like, That was real stupid of me. Why the fuck would I explain to a room
full of white people why I say the word
nigga? Why on earth would
I put myself in a position like that? So you got me on a panel, me and all
of these, like, Harvard-educated, you know, upper-echelon authors, me, and
a rapper. So here I am explaining, and I was real defensive 'cause of what
was going on at the show at the time--we had just shot the Niggar Family sketch,
and I was at a symposium on the word
nigger. So I'm feeling like I'm
fighting censorship. They say, 'We just want to know how far we should go with
something like that.' And the subtext of it is, 'Do you want to know, or do
you want to
tell me something?'
"You have all these Harvard-educated people saying, 'I think the word
is reprehensible' and talking about the destructive nature of blah, blah, blah.
. . . You know, pontificating."
Silence. A sigh.
"But the bottom line was, white people own everything, and where can
a black person go and be himself or say something that's familiar to him and
not have to explain or apologize? Why don't I just take the show to BET--oh,
wait a minute, you own that, too, don't you? Same thing happened with the Rick
James episode. They gave us the notes and there were like forty-six or some
insane number of bleeps that we would've had to put over it. 'Well, Dave, then
why don't you go in and explain to them yourself.' So now I'm sitting in a
room, again, with some white people, explaining why they say the
n-word,
and it's a sketch about Rick James, and I don't want to air a sketch with that
many bleeps over it; it will render it completely ineffective. Give me another
week and I'll just come up with something else. Run a rerun. 'No, we can't
run a rerun, we've got ad buy-ins' and blah, blah, blah. Okay, well then, fine,
I don't want to do it then. And so then there was a compromise. It was the
only episode that aired with a disclaimer. But again, it was a position where
I was explaining to white people why the
n-word. It's an awful, awful
position to put yourself in.
"I'm just saying it's a dilemma. It's something that is unique to us.
White people, white artists, are allowed to be individuals. But we always have
this greater struggle that we at least have to keep in mind somewhere."
Particularly if you, like Dave Chappelle, hail from a family of intellectuals
and if you, like him, have been studying history since you were a child, are
attuned to the world in a particular way, have a great-grandfather who is remembered
in the Smithsonian Institution, and believe, in your heart, that you are a
bridge builder between different cultures. That you can have close friends,
like Neal Brennan, who are white, a wife who is Asian. That you have the right
(and the bruises) to use the word
nigga any way you choose. But at
the same time, you feel that you also have a specific responsibility to black
America, that you have to think about the sights and sounds you put out there
on television because you are not interested in being merely a source of enjoyment
for white America at the expense of black America. This is what occurs when
black art goes pop, and that black artist happens to have a functioning soul.
One
ever feels his two-ness--For sure, it is Chappelle's birthright to talk, provocatively, in his art,
about race in America. Yet somewhere in that process of journeying from a grossly
underestimated comic to the funniest man in America, Dave Chappelle began to
feel trapped by the reactions from the suits, from the fans, from the media
from the scholars, from that voice inside his head.
These jokes are dangerous
in the wrong hands, he would say. That pressure, from all sides, from
himself, would lead you, if
you were living inside Dave Chappelle's
head, to make a mad dash away from the money, real and projected, the fame,
the pressures to do season three, of being labeled a brand, an icon, a genius.
Just to think--
He drives on, through the dark Ohio night. "I'm in a much better place
than I was when I went to Africa. And now things are starting to make more
sense, like a fog that's lifting. But there's a part of me personally that's
still like a work in progress. It's like the blood's rushing back into me.
I feel more optimistic, more hopeful. But I still don't have the definitive
course. People are thinking that I'm out here to avoid fame, and that's not
it. What I'm trying to avoid is corruption."
And what of the relationship with Neal Brennan, who worked the door at Boston
Comedy Club as Chappelle first began to make a name for himself? When Chappelle
was in Africa, Brennan told
Time of an exchange he'd had with Chappelle,
in which he said he had told the comic, "You're not well." Now parking
on Xenia Avenue, the lone vehicle on the strip, Dave Chappelle pushes a sigh
up from his chest, rolls his window up and down to blow out cigarette smoke,
and weighs in on the question:
"I think Neal is a brilliant dude. We were close, man. These situations
are intense. I'm sad. I'm not going to say I am angry. I was angry. The thing
about show business is that, in a way, it forces dysfunctional relationships
in people."
Chappelle falls dead silent one final time, not wanting to say too much about
his former partner. Lights another cigarette. Blows. Talks again, becoming
nostalgic as he fans the smoke and the subject away from Brennan.
"I have to say, it was by far the best experience I ever had working
in television. When you hear me say, like, 'I quit' and all this stuff, I mean,
that was literally just like the tension and the dramatic situation of creating
something. And the network executives have their responsibilities and I have
my responsibilities, so this is a natural tension of these relationships. By
far, it was better than any situation I ever had in corporate television.
"It was like taking somebody on a tour through a young black man's subconscious,
and I don't think America has been there. So in a way it was kind of like reality
TV, right"
As he steers his Toyota home, I ask him, if not
Chappelle's Show, then
what is it that he wants to do next? Beaming with that mischievous grin again,
Dave Chappelle tilts his head against the driver's seat, shoots smoke out of
his mouth like an erupting volcano, then says, deadpan, "Spit hot fire."
He laughs. "I want to tell my jokes. I want to have time with my children.
I want to entertain people. And at one point, I'll walk away from show business.
But I don't want to walk away empty-handed."