Eddie Murphy: Larger Than SNL & The First ‘Hip-Hop’ Comedian (part 1)
The affect of representation explained by one shining star
I never check for SNL.
I may catch an occasional musical guest after the fact or check a popular skit on YouTube, but sitting down and actually watching SNL — naw.
Of course we live in a different world where appointment viewing is a rare thing. Sure, GOT got some good numbers (and people watch Power…no, really, they do) but by and large, only sports can produce Must See TV.
But back in the day, back when ya only had ABC, CBS, NBC, & PBS, we all watched the same thing. We watched Wide World of Sports, we watched shows like Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Mork & Mindy, NBC had the best Saturday morning cartoons, and NBC had (and has) Saturday Night Live.
This, however, is less about the Lorne Michael’s juggernaut and more about a then 19 year old brother from Roosevelt, Long Island. A brother who for the next twelve years (80–92) captured the attention and imagination of a generation. A brother who was once the face and voice for young Black folk who had yet to experience the oversized personas of Rap.
We’re talking about Eddie Murphy.
Eddie Murphy was ours and, had Hip-Hop been the worldwide force that it is today, he would have been dubbed the first Hip-Hop comedian. This is about the beginning.
I experienced the late 70s and early 80s as a child.
But it was a childhood that was full of news. Before my mother starting working two jobs, we ate dinner in the living room together digesting local news and Dan Rather on CBS.
Recently, I’ve been retracing the time period as I study the rebuilding of the Nation of Islam that Minister Farrakhan began in the fall of 77. As I’ve listened to those early lectures, my mind has travelled back in time as he references various events: The Iranian Revolution (and later hostage situation), the Miami Revolts, the eruption of Mount St. Helens, the Chicago Cyanide Murders, the attempted assassination of the Pope and President Reagan, etc.
We swallowed those stories alongside our Swanson TV Dinners (Beans and Franks was my favorite).
As I mentioned earlier, television mostly was full of white folks in peak whiteness (Happy Days/Laverne & Shirley), historic whiteness (The Waltons), classic whiteness (Leave it to Beaver/Mayberry RFD), and patronizing whiteness (every damn show).
Sure, there was some Black representation — Diff’rent Strokes, Facts of Life, The Jeffersons — that type stuff but nothing that really felt authentic. We chuckled at Arnold, dreamed of Tootie, but these weren’t like people that we really knew. They were Hollywood creations…and we felt it.
Me and my older brother went to England the Spring of 1981 (where our favorite show was The Misfits) and when we returned to Denver our prime tv viewing years kicked in.
These are the things that fourth grade were made of (some of which we mentioned here and here): Teletunes and Videos, Single speaker radios. It’s Dr. Who, it’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and yes — Saturday Night Live.
All of the above was the beginning of me forming an identity; growing musical tastes beyond what my parents listened to or what played on the radio, interest in shows beyond the typical Network fare and humor, and Saturday Night Live…well, really it was Eddie Murphy.
Everyone knows someone like Eddie Murphy. That kid that always had everyone laughing; the one that you ain’t wanna cross because he or she would embarrass you. Our block had Bruce Cooley but the neighborhood had Nick McKinney.
Unfortunately, we lived in Denver (George McKelvey’s Comedy Works, downtown, where Roseanne Barr got her start, was a world away) and we knew nothing of stand-up as a career. It was different for Eddie Murphy. Living in New York afforded Murphy the ability to focus his energies somewhere constructive.
I started out as the class clown, and from the class clown to the school clown, from the school clown to the neighborhood clown, and like now, everybody knows me…I’m funny Murph.
A lot of kids tell their parents that they want to be doctors and lawyers and garbage like that, but I wanted to be a standup comedian. I told my parents that and everything is working out fine. Eddie Murphy, Laff Off Mini Doc, 1980
Eddie Murphy became aware of stand-up as a profession at fifteen. First, he did stand-up around the way — making fans of neighbors like Chuck D who says he’s been following Eddie since the 8th grade —and all up and through Roosevelt.
But soon, that wouldn’t be enough and he would take that hour and a half trip into Manhattan to audition for a spot at The Comic Strip.
In hindsight, this is the typical story. Most people would claim that they knew Murphy would be successful from the first moment they saw him. They would cite Murphy’s appearance in the Laff Off competition, the competition that led to Saturday Night Live.
Former cast mate and sometimes writer, Robin Duke described Murphy as, “young, confident, talented, funny — and sweet. He deserved to be a huge success.”
Of course, as the saying goes, success has many fathers and failure is an orphan. Bob Wachs, Murphy’s late manager and co-owner of the Comic Strip would claim to have discovered the teenage Eddie, in reality, he kicked him out. That Laff Off competition? Murphy came in fifth place. And Jean Doumanian still is credited with Murphy as being one of the few pluses of her stay at SNL, but come on Jean, you had Eddie sitting on a couch in skits as a glorified extra, the list goes on.
The truth of the matter is, and Doug Hill gets it right in Saturday Night: A Backstage History, Eddie Murphy made Eddie Murphy.
I’ve always had very strong confidence in myself, and the confidence came because I have a lot of initiative. I know I want to make something of myself. I guess that because I’m not indecisive like a lot of people, it makes people uncomfortable. Eddie Murphy
It was that confidence that we identified with. Eddie Murphy may have been nine years my senior, but he was more of my generation than Richard Pryor or Bill Cosby — both funny — but those were my parents’ people. Richard Pryor was like that don’t-give-a-fuck uncle next to the straight-laced father that was supposedly Bill Cosby. I ain’t ever think I could be either of them.
Eddie Murphy though, that’s who I wanted to be when I grew up.
I thank the SNL site.
For one thing and one thing only — putting the dates that sketches aired because otherwise I would be searching for dates like it was Ramadan.
I can’t say it if was the first skit of Eddie Murphy’s that I ever saw, but what I can tell you, it was the first Eddie Murphy sketch that I half-assed memorized (and my older brother memorized it word for word, like I said many times, he was a superhero). That sketch— Prose and Cons aired Saturday 3 October 1981 — the season opener of the seventh season.
Tyrone Greene:
[angrily intense, directly into camera]
Images by Tyrone Greene …
Dark and lonely on the summer night.
Kill my landlord, kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking — Do he bite?
Kill my landlord, kill my landlord.
Slip in his window,
Break his neck!
Then his house
I start to wreck!
Got no reason —
What the heck!
Kill my landlord, kill my landlord.
C-I-L-L …
My land — lord …
Yo. That was the funniest shit ever. And it was on TV? Seriously. When folk throw out that phrase, generally they mean — the funniest thing they heard…that hour, or that day. No. It was the funniest thing that I had ever heard. Period. I wanted to watch it again. And again. But I would have to wait.
Although the VCR was out, they cost beau coup dollars and Aiyetoro KMT’s family were the only one on the block that had one. If you saw something and enjoyed it, ya had to wait for the reruns. Oh. You don’t know what reruns are?
Back in them days, a season always began in the fall, around holidays (and during the spring and summer) you usually got a rebroadcast of a previously aired episode, that, boys and girls, is called a rerun.
So if you missed an episode (or immensely enjoyed one), you had to wait for the rerun. The last time I longed for a rerun, the characters of What’s Happening!! were bootlegging the Doobie Brothers.
We were still buzzing the next day, shook to the point where the Broncos blanking the Raiders 17–0 was a minor event. And let me tell you, it takes a helluva thang to overshadow the Broncos biggest rivalry.
I know of what I speak because that Monday while we waited for the bus to carry us off to Southeast Denver, Eddie Murphy was the conversation.
But it was then that I realized — oh, I have a dark sense of humor.
There are the popular sketches and characters — Buckwheat, Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood, Velvet Jones, Gumby, etc, that I loved and enjoyed like everyone else (there were also unmemorable ones like Rock & Roll Heaven and Loser’s Locker Room where Eddie was taking one for the team), but the ones that I identified with the most — even inside those characters above — were the ones that included dark humor.
Take Eddie’s (7 Nov 1981) SNL’s Weekend Update segment.
The set up is: Murphy is the new hot star on the show and has finally moved out of his parent’s Long Island home into a 10th story high-rise. Being in the high-rise sparks Eddie’s curiosity — if you throw a cat in the air, will it land on its feet.
So he throws his cat, Mitten, over the tenth floor terrace, along with his gold fish, and dog, Bruiser (who Eddie coerces from hiding under the bed), he clips the wings of his parrot, Mitchell, and hurls him over as well. His super comes up to confront Eddie…he too is thrown over.
When Brian Doyle-Murray quips, “sounds like you got a regular zoo over there, Eddie?”
Eddie responds, “Oh it was, was. You oughta come over and visit sometime, Brian…bring your kids.”
That, my friend, matched my sensibility 2,000%. From the timing, to the dead pan delivery, if I wanted someone to understand my sense of humor, that sketch is the blueprint.
Another favorite was from a few years later, the murder of Buckwheat (19 Mar 83).
Like I said, we were familiar with the news and had watched John Hinckley Jr. attempt to assassinate Reagan hundreds of times. When it happened in March of 81, that thing was damn near on loop. So to see that incorporated in an SNL skit, that shit was magical to my eleven year old eyes.
SNL writer, David Sheffield broke it down:
..we staged it downstairs, and we kind of reproduced the Reagan assassination attempt. He was standing at the door of his limo and somebody yelled, “Hey, Mr. Wheat!” And then “Yes?” And pow-pow-pow, he gets shot. David Sheffield
And that was only half of it. The other half was watching the assassin of Buckwheat bucked down Lee Harvey Oswald style. So well done. So funny.
But it was then that I realized — oh, I love intelligent, referential humor.
The summer of 82 sucked.
After watching the Sixers edge by the hated Celtics, led by Andrew Toney’s 34 points, a blowout in Boston no-less, we had to suffer through watching Dr J and company fall to the Lakers in a series that the Sixers always trailed in.
Then came “The Conflict of 82.”
We lived in a tight-knit, insular neighborhood and at the time, Park Hill was super Black and full of children that were in our same age bracket. We did everything together: roamed the streets, raced bikes, read comics, played sports, played hide and seek, climbed on top of our duplexes, you name it, we did it.
To be outside of that, would mean total isolation and that’s what happened during “The Conflict of 82.”
Although I’ve never interviewed all parties involved, the story went something like this — my older brother, Ade was “going with” one of the most popular, attractive, and loved girls in our neighborhood and he had found out that she had been hanging out with some otha dude. He broke up with her and tremors were sent through our small community. When rumors were spread that Ade had bad-mouthed o’ girl, her older brother confronted mine…which led to a fight.
Everyone sided with his ex and her brother and we spent the summer of 82 sequestered to our apartment.
I told that story because it was the impetus for my brother and I to begin making our own sketch comedies. Inspired by the humor of Eddie Murphy, Rocky III, Mad Comics, and our own sick sense of humor, my brother and I filled cassette after sixty minute cassette with skits, faux ads, and experimentations.
We had skits where we carried swords on the plane and chopped off heads (“his head is rolling down the aisle!”), we had skits where we fought Mr. T (of course), and most memorably we had an ad entitled “Electric Bootys,” butt attachments for the gluteus challenged that provided battery operated jiggles.
Eventually The Conflict would blow over, but we kept making cassettes and we eagerly awaited the next season of SNL. Little did we know, something bigger was coming down the pike.
My mom had long taken us to movies that we were too young to see.
But she knew her children. Watching Halloween, Friday the 13th, or whatever didn’t give us nightmares. If nudity popped up, her hands would attempt to cover our eyes (she failed). So it was no thing for her to take us to see 48 Hours.
I mean, we grew up in a household of Red Foxx, Richard Pryor, and Millie Jackson and Eddie’s first feature film was released around the same time that his debut self-titled album was released — that wasn’t Sesame Street listening either (and to this day, my older brother and I can probably recite that album word for word).
What we didn’t grow up on was relatable Black men on the screen. I grew up after them Black films in the 70s. And who we have? I mean, think about Lando Calrissian. You got Billy Dee Fucking Williams…and ain’t no women trying to get at him…but Harrison Ford?
And no disrespect, but I doubt 48hrs would have meant anything to me had the original cast actually did the job. Not to say that I didn’t enjoy Clint Eastwood. I rocked with him as a bare knuckle boxer and a vigilante. And Richard Pryor was that dude…but see above. Not ours.
Nick Nolte was all grizzled, gruff, and racist. And when we see Eddie Murphy for the first time, he’s imprisoned and like me or my older brother, ya boy was in there singing The Police. Eddie was cool.
Eddie was voicing our thoughts. His character was shook and shocked over aerobics — us too. Growing up, you ain’t see legs unless you pulled up a Cosmopolitan or Jet Beauty, but aerobics, which used to be on early in the morning — that shit was like porn.
We imagined ourselves doing like Eddie did in the racist country bar. Talking shit, breaking shit up, kicking ass (“There’s a new sheriff in town…and his name is Reggie Hammond”). Despite how people may view the 70s and 80s, we were definitely exposed to racism — we were bussed to white neighborhoods for goodness sake and they ain’t want us. But we couldn’t whop no one’s ass like Eddie did.
Most importantly, he talked like us. Most characters in movies happened to be Black, you could tell then (and you can tell now) when a role was written for a white man but given to a Black man. I ain’t never known a Black man or woman to say, “gee, you look like shit.”
And when white folk wrote for Black people, lawd have mercy. Eddie read the script and had to change it up.
When white writers write for a black person, they use ‘sucker’ and ‘jive turkey’ and all that. When I do a black character, it doesn’t offend blacks because I just act normal, which isn’t offensive to whites or blacks. And if what you say is funnier than what’s on paper, how could you not change the dialogue? Eddie Murphy
Eddie Murphy was just plain o’ cool. Cool to the point where many years later my brother Sayyed and I would reenact the Nolte/Murphy brawl from “I forgot to tell you nigger, I fight dirty” to “you lucky your boys came, I was about to get in that ass.” Hell, we probably could still recreate that scene.
48hrs made Murphy a breakout star and it took a toll on many of his supporting SNL cast.
According to Murphy, resentment was beginning to build between him and members of the cast. He attributed it to two things: the fact that SNL wasn’t his priority, but most importantly that he wouldn’t do anything that he didn’t think was funny.
The only major difference — and no bullshit, cut me off if you think I’m lying — is that his participation is now that of a performer. He takes the material — given material — and molds it into what he wants it to be, whereas up until he started making Trading Places in December 1982, he was a big part of the day-to-day creative process. Dick Ebersol
That was just the beginning.
And the end.
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