Rudy Ray Moore as Dolemite.
Many movie buffs will trace an emphatic comeback for Eddie Murphy to a Netflix perennial called “Dolemite Is My Name” — the story of an elder comedian whose rude-and-raunchy routines had influenced Murphy in his younger days. Few will identify the subject, Rudy Ray Moore, with a comeback of his own that began in Fort Worth, back in 1988.
“Dolemite Is My Name” trades upon Moore’s fictional character: Dolemite, a heroic outlaw. Moore’s frankly impolite routines of the 1970s had inspired Murphy, as a youngster, to become an entertainer.
“Dolemite Is My Name” landed a wealth of critics’-circle awards during a big-screen run of 2019. Murphy’s symbolic nod of gratitude depicts Moore’s stubborn defiance of obscurity: His failure as an R&B recording artist only triggered larger ambitions. Then, his DIY comedy albums attracted a commercial record label — leading to a self-financed career as a movie star.
As “Dolemite Is My Name” ends, Moore’s raggedy film of 1975, “Dolemite,” has become a draw, despite nay-saying critics. Moore had sensed that Black audiences yearned to see Black talents as leading characters, undiluted.
His endearing amateurism stood out even from the larger, better-financed films of the period’s Blaxploitation movement, such as “Shaft” and “Blacula.” Moore would persist through 1979s “Avenging Disco Godfather” — a case of diminishing returns.
I met Moore in 1988 — partly on newspaper business, mostly with an interest in his unique station. White-haired and grandfatherly at 61, Moore was visiting church-folks family in Texas, for whom he would perform “some of my more G-rated comedy routines” as a courtesy.
Moore (1927-2008) also used the occasion to resurrect his “Dolemite” trademark at The HOP on West Berry Street. A filmmaking colleague, Thomas C. Rainone, and I had booked the appearance as an experiment in rediscovery. Rainone and I claimed no stake other than to pay homage and reconnect Moore with a strayed audience. (The name HOP was an abbreviation of House of Pizza, but the place also was an entertainment hub.)
Finding this customarily white-bread collegian venue an unlikely showcase, Moore warmed up with a reminiscent ramble: A singing career had eluded him, he explained — never a quitter, but relentlessly hopeful and resourceful. This condition persisted, he said, “until I dropped the hit-record pretensions and began talkin’ down-and-dirty,” seeking censor-baiting commercial acceptance — the first entertainer to commit expressly bawdy, Black-tradition material to mass-produced recordings. Although Moore meant no harm greater than an ironic jolt, still he tacitly encouraged imitators. Accept no substitutes.
The occasion had arisen from a conversation about favorite (impolite) entertainers while Tom Rainone and I were meeting at his family’s Rainone Art Gallery in Arlington. The name of Rudy Ray Moore came up as one of the groundbreakers who had made the world safe for “Saturday Night Live.”
“Wonder what ol’ Rudy Ray’s doing these days?” I asked.
“How’s about we find out?” Rainone challenged.
Some digging turned up an unpublished LA telephone number. Moore answered without so much as a secretary to run interference.
He wasn’t working much, he explained. Just some church-group comedy, pro bono. Moore said he had quit moviemaking after “Avenging Disco Godfather,” hinting at a backlash from mob-connected investors. He would visit Texas soon. Moore wondered whether any Texans might have an interest in his old-school Black-on-Black comedy.
“There’s got to be somebody out there besides y’all white boys that’ll remember,” Moore averred. If Moore was coming to town for one narrow purpose, then we would assure him of an incidental payday.
Come-lately enthusiasts trace the resurgence to Moore’s early-1990s appearance on television’s “Arsenio Hall Show.” But the beginnings of a larger rediscovery, to Moore’s direct benefit, date from September of 1988 at Fort Worth’s HOP — first time the club had seen more than one or two Black customers in an evening. Moore strolled in, darted backstage, and reappeared in a dense Afro wig: Dolemite, the Human Tornado, reborn.
The culture is predisposed to amnesia, but the genuine enthusiasts never forget. Most of The HOP’s turnout on that occasion consisted of fashionably middle-class, middle-aged Black couples who remembered Moore’s appearances of the 1960s-1970s. He treated them to customized insults and preemptive counter-heckling. The crowd responded with surprised delight, as if remembering some secret language.
An upheaval of frankly frank frankness more than half a century ago in American comedy produced aftershocks that resonate yet — although what seemed underground-radical in the 1960s has become standard discourse, even in prime-time network television. Moore’s uninhibited delivery remains unique, despite the repetitive dilutions of rap and its commercialized derivatives.
Moore had tackled comedy as a refuge. The Black sector of funnyman recordings was dominated by Redd Foxx (1922-1991), whom Moore considered a cop-out, depending on double-meaning gags. “So, I thought, ‘Why not just come right out and say whatever rude language came to mind?’” said Moore. “No harm done, if done in an unthreatening manner.”
Moore recalled a neighborhood eccentric “who spoke in rhymes — about this Dolemite cat, the toughest badman… So I’d get him to tell me all about this Mr. Dolemite, and I’d give him some money, and then I made a record. Pressed up 100 copies… Some customer heard the first line about ‘the baddest [expletive] you ever seen...,’ and said, ‘I’ll take that record!’ Once the word-of-mouth caught on, I had an order for 1,000 copies.” A corporate recording contract followed, and Moore expanded in 1975 into movies.
Moore traced his style to “this old-time Black tradition called toasting —rhyming insults. That’s where my style comes from — good-natured cussing.”
“I put up ‘Dolemite’ with $175,000 of my own money,” he said. “I didn’t have any knowledge of filmmaking, but the people lined up to see it.
“I’ve got somewhat of a reputation, I guess, “but I am not all that famous, although Eddie Murphy once announced himself as a fan to me, back when he was first coming up.
“I believe I am an outstanding comedian, and at the rougher style of comedy, I am the best of ’em all...,” Moore concluded. “I can alter my show from what you might call X–rated down to G–rated, as suits the audience — yeah, I’ll throw the kitchen sink at ’em if they want me to!”
