Lil Dicky is a rapper, and not a particularly good one. His music has never truly felt as reflective or original as he claims it is, rather capitalizing off of whatever seems hit-worthy and packaging it as “innovative.” Lil Dicky is also an asshole, both in the show DAVE and in reality, and it’s hard to tell if it’s by design. What started as a seemingly harmless viral video maker turned rapper evolved into somewhat of an industry leech, utilizing any and all connections possible to make the next big thing. It’s worked many times. “Freaky Friday” with the insensitive inclusion of Chris Brown? Quadruple platinum. The atrociously bloated (30+ celebrity “cameos”) and eerily orchestrated “Earth” that was supposed to make the world love him? Somehow, that went platinum too.
Season one of DAVE was hard for me to give a proper watch when it premiered last year. I hated Lil Dicky, and I was not looking to give into whatever pampered passion project he thought was worth the time of day. When I eventually gave it a try, what I found was a rough start that showed incredible potential: an almost overwhelmingly meta look at an egotistical white rapper attempting to prove that he’s no joke, while consistently contradicting himself. He’ll rap about his whiteness, but fail to understand any of the implications of actually being a white rapper; he’s a guest in the genre, not a member. But that’s news to him. Dave has no humility or self-awareness, especially when it comes to social interactions, giving the show its cringe-fueled comedic value. But in between this and handfuls of shoehorned cameos lies an engaging conversation about the communal strive for fame in the entertainment industry, bogged down by the endless complications of being human and not just an entertainer or a creative.
Season two starts off with an Atlanta-inspired episode, where Dave plans to expand his fan base by making a K-pop song, blind to the irony of yet again gentrifying a genre for his own benefit. A more prominent career means bigger stakes, with the difference this season being that the people around him finally become real people who are sick of his bullshit and are acting upon it, and Dave seems to be finally waking up to this fact.
The responsibility this season takes of its sensitive themes and the development of its characters is what drew me in immediately. There are visible repercussions to Dave’s actions, like his intern being jailed because of Dave’s negligence while in Korea, an event that only comes back to haunt him in later, more reflective episodes. But these prior misdeeds have to literally come to his front doorstep for him to even recognize past wrongdoings and the consequences that come with them. Does Dave understand that he’s been sidelining everyone in his life in pursuit of his own dream? What will those consequences look like? Regardless, he always claims that he is the oppressed one in most situations, as if there isn’t a crew of people around him acting as a body shield.
Emma, played with pragmatic ease by Christine Ko, is a perfect example of someone who didn’t get the necessary wiggle room as a character in season one. She’s a reserved friend of Dave’s who truly believes in him, but he treats her as another resource in his artistic journey. It’s almost to the show’s benefit that these characters were glossed over initially, as Dave begins to understand the empathetic behavior that is necessary for any healthy relationship. In episode seven, Dave and Emma are both working at an ad agency years before Lil Dicky’s rise to stardom, when the two of them come up with a song to pitch to the board of Mountain Dew. Emma does the graphics and art; Dave does the song. But, per the entertainment industry, the presenter/performer gets all of the credit. Dave doesn’t recognize this in the moment; hell, he barely recognizes it years later. Getting Emma’s perspective is done through discreet editing, cutting back to her eager and disappointed face as Dave shows little appreciation after his song and dance.
It’s better to spend more time in these moments, learning more about those who’ve shown disdain towards Lil Dicky. We get to see Dave’s antics through the eyes of his closest friends and collaborators, who can see through his musical facade. The Hollywood persona only goes so far, as even his trusted hype-man and de facto best friend GaTa gets sick of his egotistical artistry and way of life as a whole. GaTa is also Lil Dicky’s real-life hype-man, further elevating the show’s authenticity to a heightened level of meta-references. So high that, like the depiction of the title character, it’s almost overwhelming in its ambition to pull it off.
This real-life partnership is thankfully just one of the many meta-references that make DAVE’s second season something grander than season one even tried to tease. It finds the shared feelings of frustration, anxiety, and stagnation that many feel, but shows us what’s behind the curtain without being ostentatious. The budding relationship between Dave and GaTa is less of a punchline to end a scene and more of an integral plot element to enhance the show’s narrative focus on learning to be empathetic, even as a wannabe superstar. GaTa will do anything to help Dave get Lil Dicky’s name out there, but the support doesn’t seem reciprocal.
Dave never shows any real enthusiasm towards GaTa’s music, pushing it aside as a mediocre hobby. It’s never about making the best track or the catchiest hook for GaTa, though. He genuinely enjoys it, just as he genuinely enjoys propping up Dave on a pedestal as his main gig. Dave claims he’s a musician, but struggles to put a pen to paper most of the season. As tensions rise, with Dave’s label pressuring him to make an album and GaTa only getting as much work as Dave is able to do, things eventually have to reach a climax. GaTa gets Emma to direct a music video for him, something that Dave does not take well (surprising, right?). GaTa has bipolar disorder, and seeing Dave try to help his best friend through a manic episode and wrestle with his own ego at the same time is a testament to Dave’s performance as much as it is the writers: this situation feels like it has happened before, as if the two friends have previously been in this spot. Feeling as nuanced as it is natural, everything clicks.
While a lot of shows struggle to find purpose after concluding a first season, DAVE plays contrarian and, like the title character, learns from its mistakes by focusing less on the behind-the-scenes celebrity culture and more on what’s going on inside the head of an incredibly anxious and flawed person who also has a record deal. All of these elements culminate in an emotive, serotonin-filled send-off that seems almost like a fairy tale, but a well-deserved one.
Even as I’m writing this, GaTa posted Lil Dicky being interviewed on Jimmy Kimmel on his Instagram, with the caption: “Ain’t nothing LiL No More @lildickygram.” It’s these kinds of incidentally heartwarming sentiments that just elevate season two’s emotiveness and ability to walk the meta-line to create something equal parts original and unexpected. I may not like Lil Dicky (or Dave) any more than I did before, but this season around I know that I was never supposed to look up to him or think he’s cool. He’s an asshole, after all.
