Late into the set, in a way that almost made it seem like comedy relief from the bludgeoning reality of his comedy act, Rock degenerated into an antique, battle-of-the-sexist blue rant ` la Redd Foxx. No sensitive new-age puss-male, Mr. Rock. This material was weak, offensive without being particularly funny and had already been chewed to death in the '60s and early '70s by every seedy hack-bastard comic who ever emceed a strip club. I'm not the type to get my panties in a ringer about this type of misogyny-lite, as long as it's funny, but this section was all shite we'd heard ad nauseam: how women should be willing to give more blow jobs; how women really need to shut the fuck up, because they talk too much; how women are mostly in relationships to get their bills paid. Blah blah blah. He also mused on the tried and true clichi of how all men are dogs, incapable of fidelity, if tempted. "A man is only as faithful as his options," sayeth the Rock.

It was all more or less a seamy look at the inner workings of Rock's agitated sex life and his surprisingly unenlightened relationships with women in general, and seemed, well, (cough) beneath him. I didn't identify with it at all, but maybe I wasn't supposed to; maybe it was a black guy thang. But seriously, compared to Chris Rock, Richard Pryor is practically Dr. Leo Buscaglia.

What I found the most hair-raising in Rock's monologue, and which I've encountered a bit of lately in other venues, is that there is a recent public trend of black people, in a relaxed fashion, outspokenly and without malice, talking about how much they hate whitey. This isn't due to weird, zealoty white-devil rhetoric or fevered militancy, but is the honest result of a simple, profound, multi-generational resentment, which has always existed, but is usually kept hidden under the mild social politeness that has always kept integrated society from dissolving into total mayhem. This hatred is well deserved and understandable, I reckon, but it will make you just the slightest bit uncomfortable if it is being brazenly acknowledged by a beloved comedian and you are one of 15 white people in the entire sold-out Apollo Theatre in Harlem. We weren't nervous, everyone was perfectly nice to us, nobody mad-dogged us at the bar, but there was definitely a "one of these things just doesn't belong here" vibe. It wasn't scary, but it was a real eye-opener. Harlem is a real eye-opener. As robust and fierce-humored and vivid as the inhabitants are, if you have any kind of sensitive, bleeding heart, Harlem will bust it right in the chops and knock your privileged liberal worldview sideways: It's just so goddamned poor. Even the walls of the legendary Apollo are peeling.

"There's a policy here at the Apollo," teased the warm-up comic. "If you're white, and you've never been here before, welcome -- just remember to give all of your money to the nearest black person upon exiting the theater. We call it 'reparations.'" The Apollo audience erupted into the deafening white-noise blur of claps and howls louder than any audience I've ever heard; a sound so thick and round it feels like you can walk off the balcony onto it. We clapped too. Heh heh heh heh heh, ho ho. Ahem.

Rock, at this point, for all his expert funniness, is like a severed head on a post: eloquent, but above all, a warning, and evoking of a marrow-deep chill. Maybe there just isn't room for really funny material nowadays. Maybe that would just be unforgivably irresponsible. Maybe things have just gotten way too unfunny, at this point. It's a shame to feel denied a totally unencumbered Chris Rock, a soaring, radiant talent that didn't have to be weighed down with all that socially important shit. But, well, things need to change. If the world were a nicer place, Chris Rock would be a funnier guy. Whoomp. There it is.

Recent Stories