To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With

http://www.neatorama.com/2014/06/19/To-Russell-My-Brother-Whom-I-Slept-With/#!4hR9c

When Bill Cosby peeked out from behind the curtain at Cleveland’s Public Auditorium, he saw a performer’s nightmare. The 10,000-seat venue was the biggest the young comic had ever played, and minutes before showtime it was rife with empty seats.
January 27, 1968, wasn’t the best night for a performance. Cleveland was in the thick of a serious ice storm, making travel near impossible. The 30-year-old was about to record the most important show of his career, and no one was there to laugh.
With no other options, Cosby delayed the set until it seemed the last of the stragglers had arrived. The scene that followed is a staple of comedy lore. As he took the stage, a lone woman entered the hall and walked the length of the aisle, the click-click of each step reverberating through the room. Cosby stepped up to the mike, cupped his hands around it, and boomed, “You’re late.” It brought the house down.
The routine Cosby was about to perform—immortalized on the landmark album To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With—represented a turning point in his career. A full 16 years before The Cosby Show debuted, the performance would serve as the blueprint for the themes that would define his work: the father as a loving disciplinarian; the siblings who could switch from screaming at one another to plotting together at the drop of a hat; the confidence that no matter what conflicts and tragedies arise, the bonds of family will hold. In To Russell, Cosby didn’t just find his voice; he tapped into something deeper.

Early Work

Bill Cosby grew up in the projects of the Germantown district of Philadelphia. His family crammed into a tiny apartment, where the four Cosby boys fought for every inch of space. As the years passed, Cosby’s father, a welder, fell into a deep alcoholism. By the time Cosby was 9, his father had abandoned the family for life in the Navy. Cosby’s mom, a maid, worked hard to make ends meet, but as the eldest of the boys, Bill picked up the slack. When he wasn’t shining shoes and pocketing cash from odd jobs, he was tending to his brothers. Once asked whether he had a happy childhood, Cosby responded, “It will be—onstage.”
Cosby had never seriously considered a career in comedy until college, when the part-time bartender noticed that his jokes were improving his tips. He began performing at small clubs, first in the Northeast, then around the country. By 1968, the comic had recorded five albums in five years and made waves costarring on the TV show I Spy. Cosby’s acting debut was especially remarkable. With James Bond films spinning box-office gold, I Spy was NBC’s attempt to capitalize on the action genre. The show followed two undercover agents—one was white and the other, black. The latter made it historic. The show turned Bill Cosby into the first African-American costar in a dramatic TV series, but it did it without making race a focal point of the plot. As Cosby told reporters, “People can see I’m a Negro. We don’t need to say anything else.”
Offscreen was another story. As the premiere approached, NBC execs openly worried about losing sponsorships and affiliate buy-ins. But when I Spy finally aired, only five affiliates refused to broadcast the series. Advertisers didn’t flinch. All of the real-life controversy surrounding Cosby seemed to have little impact on his act. At that time, Cosby was still trading in the sorts of observational humor most stand-ups were doing. His prominence made him a target, however. Within the black community, he was criticized for not confronting racial issues. The truth was, Cosby had made a conscious decision to ignore race and stick to topics that were universally relatable. But not because he wasn’t interested in challenging stereotypes. “A white person listens to my act, and he laughs, and he thinks, Yeah, that’s the way I see it too,” he said. “OK. He’s white. I’m Negro. And we both see things the same way. That must mean that we are alike. Right?”