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KATT WILLIAMS & Friends @ Radio City Music Hall

Instead of the two tickets we had expected for our two-year anniversary, there were actually Three...beggars can't be "bitch niggas" so we gladly accepted the extra one and tucked it away in homegirl's "record player" tote bag...for posterity.

Katt Williams & Friends @ Radio City Music Hall
A Review By Bob Freville on his Anniversary

BLUE BEAR & I  got to Radio City Music Hall at about 8:15 and immediately sidled up to the box office to pick up our tickets. It was a pleasant surprise to find that, instead of the two tickets we had expected for our two-year anniversary, there were actually Three tickets waiting for us. This surprise would have been that much more pleasant had we known and been able to invite somebody else...but beggars can't be "bitch niggas" so we gladly accepted the extra one and tucked it away in homegirl's "record player" tote bag...for posterity.

Crumblin' that herb before the show proved to be an unwise decision because it only made things peculiar and paranoia-inducing once we were inside the famed cathedral-like edifice. And it didn't help matters when we stumbled down to the Lounge in search of a cotton mouth tonic and discovered a FUCKING CAR (that's an emphatically new car, not a car that is capable of reproduction, though I'm sure they'll invent one soon)! A fucking car, shiny and brand new, parked in the corner of the lounge. That's when we put two and two together and realized that Live Nation wasn't the only partner endorsing Katt Williams and Friends' two-night sold out performances.

Once we took our seats in the theater--after humiliating ourselves by trying to sit in the aisle of Katt's closest family, friends and hangers-on--everything was chill. Everything except the volume. Shit was so loud I felt like an eighty-eight year old man. But before one complains, one must remember that this is what most of us have been dreaming about from the nose bleeds all these years: To be front and center with your hero and hear every wisp of phlegm in each of their syllables.

The opening female acts were more vulgar than funny, and that's coming from a dude who has written charmingly delicious lines like, "hot and steamy across her eyelashes" or "skullfuck the orifice of a decaying guttersnipe." But any crunk shenanigans on the part of the opening acts were ameliorated by the one brother presiding over the show, a host by the name of Red Grant. Red's inimitable laugh had me and the wifey in stitches and his off-handed comments about Katt and his friends were better than any of the material by Luenell or whomever performed prior.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, on the stage and in the audience, and that's when it became clear why the house was packed. Katt knows how to put on a show. DJ Capri blew the joint up with a medley of old school jams that filled me with the enthusiasm I was sorely lacking after the train ride in. And he presented a consummate segue into Katt's jack in the box intro.

When Williams popped out and started working his unique brand of physical comedy to a repeated hook of, "Everyday I'm hustlin'" there wasn't a dry eye in the house...some people's droors were wet too, I imagine. I know mine nearly were when some asshole half-breed in front of me started shouting through most of the show in a ridiculously forced ebonic tone, throwing words like "Damn," "nigga" and "shit" around in a drunken manner that I thought would earn him (and those of us unfortunate enough to be in his seating arrangement area) a headful of bullets. Fortunately the comedy event didn't turn into a screening of New Jack City and we all left the theater thoroughly satisfied with shit-eating grins on our grills.

Williams' act was fresher than fresh, only revisiting the ground he paved with Pimp Chronicles Vol. 1 in a quick and minor call back to his "This shit right here, nigga" line. Other than that, he was coming with a whole new bag of tricks and treats, ranging from a culturally bizarre Steve Irwin tribute (comparing the Croc Hunter to an O.G.) to a sociologically hilarious bit of advice on dating (i.e. masturbating before a date so as not to be tricked into thinking shorty's anything more than straight retarded). In shiny ones and twos and a black bow tie, Katt looked like a g'ed up millenial Pee-Wee Herman and one could say that the comparison fits like a glittery glove, as Katt's energy on stage is more closely akin to Pee-Wee's hyperactive manchild persona than anything in traditional comedic history.

Lookin' sharp as cheddar and as focused as a sniper, Katt cut his way through current events and into matters as universally important as raising a chemically-dependent child in a world gone wrong and taking responsibility as a parent with a sweet tooth for sinsemilla. Once again, Katt implored his fans to appreciate life and enjoy the hell out of the time we have on earth, something that seldom a comedian (or anybody) has ever bothered to do before. In this way, Williams has become more than simply a comic or a personality, he has risen to the status of a Guru...one that the masses can kull laughs and wisdom from rather than regret and discipline.

it's no big shocker that Katt invoked the whole Michael Richards scandal, but the fact that he could make everybody laugh at the absurdity of a rich jew attacking a disadvantaged people made this part of the act quite formidable: Once again, Katt incited thought and jubilation instead of malice or vengeance.

The Mrs. and I had hoped to meet Katt backstage, to shake his hand and pat him on the back for what his work has meant to us. Although we did not get to partake of that privelege, we nevertheless felt elated in the knowledge that we had sat in the Katt's cradle and been one of the lucky acolytes to peer up at his pulpit of pure social revelry.

The next time Katt's in town we're going to blaze him up on some Afghani haze and, with any luck, speak candidly to him about how he's helped us to pimp our lives.
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