Exile on San Pablo Avenue

From SFist.com: grainy camera-phone shot of Dave Chappelle, on Market Street in San Francisco a couple of days ago. Dave Chappelle. He pretty much held the title belt for funniest man on the planet for a cool couple of years. And then he dropped into an epic, self-imposed exile that few if any could comprehend, much less understand. But this week he showed up in the Bay Area. And last night he dropped an epic four and a half hour set in Oakland. FTB was there. I was there. The Dalai Lama was in Berkeley on the same day. I watched as his motorcade sped up University Avenue with all of the ironic security posturing any visiting royal would command. Meanwhile, some hours later in downtown Oakland, Dave Chappelle announced that he had taken BART to the gig. And in some circles his arrival probably carries at least as much weight as the arrival of a religious leader, so great is his gravitational pull. Yet, I can believe him when he said he took BART to his own show. Because of what else he had to say. And to whom he was talking. When he left that epic $40 million dollars on the table in his negotiations with Comedy Central and decided to go underground, I always had my own suspicions as to why. Last night, he offered a rare glimpse into this decision. First, he was performing at a venue that was opening for the first time in its renewed form. Formerly called Sweet Jimmies, the spot was known for its pure Oaklandish-ness and pimptastic improbability. Now, it is reborn as Oakland Town Hall, a perfect forum for a public hearing and confessional. But why were tickets only available through Twitter and then passed out in a bizarre, circuitous ritual? Why an unknown, unopened venue? Because. This is how Dave Chappelle plans to reclaim himself with his core constituency. To hell with the Eddie Murphy plan and the blockbuster films. He took his ten milly from Comedy Central and thats enough. From here on out its about reclaiming his authenticity. And that starts at root level. On the bare, close-cropped stage of the old Sweet Jimmies. Starting at eleven thirty and ending at four. Telling stories to his disciples. Revealing just as much as this particular audience deserved. Bridging the gap from Saturday night to Sunday morning. When the dawn broke as I got home, I realized where I had been. I had been to church. What did he say? Oh, he had jokes. For days. Literally. Somali pirates. Gay Bin Laden. The personal call from Obama asking him to lay low in Ohio during the election. That shit was funny. Delivered by the funniest motherfucka on the planet at the top of his form. But it was the after-hours dilligence with the audience that was surreal. There was Supernatural, the epic freestyle-rap king, in an impromptu rap battle with Oaklands own (and former Meschery disciple) Do D.A.T. On D.A.T.s birthday. Which was also Nats birthday. Digital Undergrounds DJ Fuze on the ones and twos. Then there were the stories. Eddie Murphy as the genius in repose. The unanswered call from his seven year old son at 3:30 in the morning (kids get up early, man!) that spawned a 45 minute riff. The one about watching an argument in the Tenderloin between a pants-less man and a shirtless man. From a limo. With Mos Def. The call and response with the audience (the Iraqi-war vet!). The inspirational stories told directly to Do D.A.T. about what it was like for him getting started in show business (getting booed off the stage at the Apollo at 15, Martin Lawrence talking shit to his grandma at a show). It went on and on. And on. To the break of dawn. There is no possible way that I can capture the totality of the experience here. Besides, Im really, really tired right now. But there is one thing that I am now certain of, where before I could only speculate. And it is this: Dave Chappelle chose a different reality because he wanted to reclaim his life, to choose who he wanted to be, and to disseminate his message to those of his choosing. He has done so. And early Sunday morning, he let a few of us make a pilgrimage with him. On his terms. And at some degree of sacrifice. His time for ours. His reality for ours. Because hes a funny motherfucka and he can demand that. But to get the full message, he wanted something in return. A taste of normalcy. Some real talk. With real people. And this dialog was the real-est shit that comedy can ever deliver. True freestyle. Off the top of his dome. Chain smoking on the stage of the old Sweet Jimmies in the middle of the goddamn night to a couple hundred folks. Church. Turman