THE CROWD CHANTS. The music fades. The curtains rise. Everyone stands and cheers as he steps into the spotlight.
“Thank you. Thank you!” He smiles and waves. “Have a seat, be comfortable, relax. Let’s go. Let’s go!”
Let the show begin.
Sixteen years ago, he quit and left, walking away from a $50 million contract. He’d become bigger than he was comfortable with, so he travelled to South Africa to find the person he needed to become – and he stayed there until he did. Now, he’s back.
On the stage behind him in The Fillmore, Detroit, his logo shines brightly: A capital “C” on a red, black, and green background. He stands up, for courage and respect.
The audience is hypnotized. He is a master of his craft and they hang off his every word. He oozes cool, and that’s also what he projects – but the knot in his stomach, the one that’s been there since the beginning of his career, the one he gets ever time before he walks out on stage, that knot is there for him and for him alone. It’s there because he’s about to drop the truth – and not everyone is going to like it; it’s there because his material is at the edge and over the line – and he’s going to speak it; it’s there because he knows what he’s about to say is difficult to say – and it’s even more difficult to make it look easy to say. But he’s got a right to say it. So, he carries the knot until he steps onto the stage, and suddenly… it’s gone. He’s liberated by the flow. Now he’s in his element where he weilds great power.
His jokes are about racism; but it’s not a joke – it’s education. His jokes are about feminism; but it’s not a joke – it’s self-realization. His jokes are about gender and transphobia; but it’s not a joke – it’s a call for peace. His jokes aren’t just for the laughs, they’re there to send a message. He speaks a truth, he makes you think, he inspires by wearing his heart on his sleeve. He talks about suffering, individual and collective, and he tries to convey: We all suffer – but to put your suffering against mine is folly. No one’s suffering is mutually exclusive.
He laughs and smacks the mic to his knee. He makes it look easy – but now he’s 48 and he tells you straight up: It ain’t easy. It’s hard. He’s done all the things that most shy away from, and he’s done what’s right when it was most difficult, and it put him ahead in the long run. Stay true to yourself. Fuck the game. The money will come. And that’s what he did.
At the beginning of the show, he announces: “This is gonna be my last special for a minute,” because he knows, the backlash is coming. On the internet they’ll say: “Cancel Dave Chappelle!” – but you can’t cancel what he’s already announced to be over.
A work of art is for the viewer to interpret, and in this case the viewer should be able to see: He’s hopeful for real change, and that’s why he gets on the stage. The big paycheck is a bonus – naturally. He doesn’t speak from a place of malice. He believes in his art deeply – the art of comedy – and he loves it dearly. And he uses its power to progress conversations that have become stale and one sided; what some might describe as audacity, to others represents an unwavering sense of integrity and courage.
This courage, this integrity, this wit, this truth. This embodiment of the real: That is who he is and what he represents.
And he delivers it with a smile. For you and for me.
That’s why he is known as the G.O.A.T.
THE END
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