Cory Frye, Editorial

I consider myself lucky in many ways: One, I was born early enough to remember Richard Pryor primarily for his stand-up; two, I was born late enough to not have to hide his albums from my parents, who welcomed Richard to the house stereo anytime; and three, that the fates led me to Rhino Entertainment, where I got to work with Reggie Collins, Steve Pokorny, and the tireless Jennifer Lee Pryor to help preserve Rich’s legacy—one I too felt had been ill-served by the CD format: Until the …And It’s Deep Too! boxed set in 2000, the only Pryor album available in crisp, digital motherfucker was Is It Something I Said?. And that was wrong. As the man himself would’ve said, “Ain’t that a bitch?”

I can’t say much else about Rich, except that I love him with all my heart, and I wish he were here so I could say it to his face. Bore him with a story he’s heard a million times: white kid from the suburbs cutting up on the playground: “I shot the motor… Motor say, ‘Fuck it!’” White kid from the suburbs with a Live on the Sunset Strip poster on a bedroom wall bordered by The Police and Van Halen. White kid from the suburbs who felt a pain (not pork-related) clutch his heart at the idea of a Pryor-less life.

Rich was a rarity in this world. A human being who copped to being human. He made the painful funny in its truth and its hurt. He publicly plumbed the ugliness of even his own life to find the answers we all seek. But, even more importantly, dude could wrestle that laughter from your body, even if it didn’t want to leave the easy way. He could put you on the floor, whether you were white, black, man, woman, 12, 30, or 105.

His Web site says it best: I Ain’t Dead Yet, M*therF@ck%r! And you know what? That’s the stone truth, forever.

Mac Dunlop, New Media

My first memory of Richard Pryor is from the film Silver Streak, when he was attempting to give Gene Wilder a crash course in how to act “black.” Oh, and Gene Wilder was in blackface. They were trying to slip out of Grand Central Station without being noticed. Hilarity ensued.

Inauspicious first impressions aside, I liked Richard Pryor then and I love him now. Over the years I began to listen to his records (which I wasn’t allowed to buy when I was young because they was too dirty), and to realize the totality of his impact on our culture. His biography almost reads like a rock star’s, rather than that of a comedian. This is what I loved about him the most. Of course he was funny, of course he was brilliant, but to me he was cool… ice cubes in his pockets. I’m honored to have shared this sweet, spinning, sphere with Mr. Pryor, even for just a little while.

John Srebalus, New Media

I’m not gonna say what Richard Pryor pioneered and what he didn’t—as I’m a bit of a weekend warrior, I’ll leave that to someone else. What I will say is that, along with Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, and, more recently, David Cross, and Chris Rock he brought truths about our society to a lot of folks who might have resisted had they come from another source. I wish it were otherwise, but the messenger is often as important as the message. Pryor delivered that shit with a bag of laughs, and we’re a better people because of it. In his hands, the language of the street became the stuff of sagely wisdom. “Profane but profound,” I believe is how he put it.

Jeff Spector

Not long after I fully became of Richard Pryor (courtesy of Superman III, which most 11-year-old boys were genetically predisposed to seeing upon its release), I was busted for putting an Eddie Murphy cassette inside a floor-model Teddy Ruxpin at the local K-Mart. I had this theory that the doll’s eyes and mouth would animate regardless of whatever tape was playing inside it. I was proven right, and this fearless act of guerilla comedy was unjustly rewarded with an achingly stern lecture by the store manager and a less-than-ceremonious escort from the premises. A single act of fearlessness in the name of laughter and I was back to subverting the system from the inside.

Richard Pryor lived his entire life on the outside, completely fearless. It was about as honest a life as any public figure (let alone comedian) would ever lead. There was no separating the comic persona and the man—everything he lived he offered up for public consumption. And we ate it up as fast as he could deliver it. He was a self-effacing storyteller who laughed at himself as we laughed with him.

Our collective split sides are better for having had Richard Pryor in the world, and now he’s on to the next. They’ll never know what hit ’em. Lucky motherfuckers.

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