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Starring at a gay rights fundraiser, the great standup saw other black artists being treated with racist contempt — and launched into an astonishing tirade that the 17,strong audience would never forget The enduring genius of Richard Pryor. The good vibes had dispersed; a night of unity had turned into a hot, steaming mess.

Still others sat poleaxed, trying to grasp how, in coming to the Hollywood Bowl, they had taken a detour into the Twilight Zone. It was like watching a person come unglued in front of you and then, as in a cartoon, disappear piece by piece. The meltdown at the Hollywood Bowl was, in its own way, a vintage Pryor performance: artful and impulsive, merciless and hapless, and above all, devilishly attuned to the hidden dynamics of the moment.

The driving force behind the benefit concert had been the Save Our Human Rights Foundation, a San Francisco group composed largely of gay professionals, formed in response to the anti-gay crusade spearheaded by Anita Bryant and other Christian conservatives in Florida.

Dignity was of utmost concern. Over the course of the evening, Pryor grew increasingly allergic to the atmosphere of moral superiority. Other resentments gathered. He scanned the sea of faces in the audience and spotted only a handful of black people. And he noticed that the Lockers, a young black dance group on the bill, kept suffering from poor treatment.

When the dancers asked stagehands for help with the lights, the stagehands paid no notice; when the dancers performed onstage — one jumped over six chairs in a single bound — the audience sat in their seats. To Pryor, all this was racism in action. He simmered, and awaited his turn.

He had brought into the open the basic demand of the gay struggle: sexual freedom in the face of police harassment. Had to leave it alone. Wilbur had some good ass-hole. And Wilbur would give it up so good and put his thighs against your waist. That would make you come quick.

Everybody else was bullshitting. Now that he had worked the audience into the palm of his hand, Pryor became indecisive — addled by some combination of drugs, alcohol and the complexity of his feelings. Was he on the side of the police or the side of sexual freedom? Or simply on the side of Richard Pryor?

Pryor had left a mess that no apology could clean up.

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The Los Angeles Times devoted over a full page to the original event, then ran 17 letters in two instalments in response to it. The bad feeling lingered. Among the commentators, most numerous were the moralists who judged Pryor an obscene homophobe who should never have been permitted onstage at the Bowl.

He hates blacks, fats, women, and himself most of all. If one refuses to believe, let any person who is fat, black, ugly or female try going to a gay club alone. Lily Tomlin felt that gay men tended to look down upon lesbians, and she appreciated how Pryor had asked everyone to consider their prejudices.

Lost in the swirl of postmortems was the taboo Pryor had broken and the anecdote he had revealed.