Over the past few days, I’ve been voraciously downloading comedy albums by Richard Pryor and George Carlin. I definitely prefer Pryor, but Carlin’s pretty good too. Comedy albums are a great escape when you’re in the pits about the sorry state of contemporary music and bored of your old records. Really, I would argue, there’s a sort of musicality to these albums too, especially Pryor. My favorite thing I’ve downloaded so far by Richard is the 1974 album That Nigger’s Crazy. It was Pryor’s breakthrough release, establishing him as the most controversial, most scatological stand-up in comedy at that time, and it’s a real gem. Later albums that I’ve downloaded like Bicentennial Nigger and Live from the Sunset Strip are more polished than the ‘74 release, but to my mind, they’re not nearly as unpredictable and energetic. Because the ‘74 performance seems to be presented practically edit-free, there is a much more spontaneous flow and consistency, just like an extended piece of music or poetry or rap. The audience interaction is more poignant, most notably during Richard’s bit on “Pussy” when one of the audience members calls out, “You crazy!” and Richard responds with a deadpan “I know” (or something like that). Reminds me a lot of the call and response on James Brown’s first Apollo album. And for my money, the comedy on That Nigger’s Crazy is just better — more offensive, but better. Live from the Sunset Strip is more articulate and touching, being recorded just a few months after Pryor’s infamous self-immolation (originally thought to be a result of freebasing cocaine, but probably a suicide attempt during drug-induced psychoses), but the comedy is more cerebral, more rooted in a folk tradition of sorts. I’ll probably return to Sunset Strip more often in the future, but for now, the ‘74 album makes me laugh more. Also, it ends on a sort of blue note that I’m still reeling from. After an extended monologue on “Winos and Junkies,” the Wino character closes by telling the Junkie that he “Can’t deal with white man, like me. I know my place in society” — harsh, sad stuff, and definitely blue, but also dissonant like Monk’s wrong note played at the right time. A perfect end to a perfect set. I want to write a fictional biography of Pryor called The World Is a Motherfucker.
