DISGRACELAND - Chris Brown: Police Standoffs, Rejection from Rehab, and America’s Most Hated Pop Star

Episode Date: October 18, 2022

Chris Brown established himself as America’s most hated pop star when he brutally assaulted Rihanna in 2009. But long after the well-publicized attack on his then-girlfriend, Brown’s lengthy criminal record continued to unravel, as he shuffled between different rehab facilities, prison, and the custody of U.S. marshals. His reputed red-hot temper and fighting fists even resulted in a 10-hour police standoff outside of his California mansion—over an alleged charge that might have been one of the few times the troubled R&B singer didn’t actually do anything wrong. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including domestic violence. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Chris Brown are insane. He once kept police locked in a standoff for 10 hours outside his California mansion. He was kicked out of two different rehabilitation facilities.

He remained in the custody of U.S. Marshals, for two and a half months. He beat up, then-girlfriend, Rihanna, and his public image never quite recovered in the mainstream court of public opinion, no thanks to a criminal history that he adds to seemingly every year. But despite his lengthy rap sheet, Chris Brown made... All right, I cannot say it. Not in good conscience.

I can't say that Chris Brown's music is my bag. You can yell at me on Instagram in the comments if you want, but I can't say it because Chris Brown's music is actually kind of like the music from the top. top of this show, not great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron titled Tupperware Underwear, MK2. I played you that clip because I can't afford the rights to closer by the chain smokers. And why would I play you that specific slice of backseat rover cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on August 30th, 2016. And that was the day that Chris Brown relentlessly ranted on Instagram, while police and reporters waited for him outside his

house for nearly half a day, over an alleged charge that might have been one of the few times that the troubled R&B singer actually didn't do anything wrong. In this episode, police standoffs, rehab rejections, ruined reputations, and America's most hated pop star, Chris Brown. I'm Jake Brennan, and this his disgrace land. The question sounded distorted. Chris Brown struggled to piece the words together. Music, fans, restraining order.

From where he was sitting, the Good Morning America host, Robin Roberts, sounded miles away, underwater even, diluted like she was standing over him as he sank to the bottom of a swimming pool. But the reality was, Chris Brown and Robin Roberts were sitting no more than a few feet apart. He just couldn't hear her.

over the ringing in his ears. The noise started off small, just a dull little drone drumming in his ear. Then it swelled. Swelled like his chest when he was angry. Swelled until the ringing overpowered whatever bullshit questions Roberts was forcing upon him on national television. To Chris, it all sounded like nonsense.

Fucking old news nonsense. Have you all seen each other, been around each other? Robin was asking about his ex-girlfriend, Rihanna, of course. Chris hunched his shoulders, clenched his teeth in the stool next to Robin. His tattooed muscles twitched with tension. He was here to discuss his new album, fame, not his criminal history. But Robin wouldn't stop. When he tried to close the subject, she circled back to it.

His attack on Rihanna was inescapable. That night had followed him around for two years now. Wasn't that long enough? Robin Roberts even spent more time during his introduction explaining the assault than she did his new album, which is what they were supposed to be discussing in the first place. Chris tried to play a cool. He muttered something about it not being a big deal to him anymore, but the clenched jaw he was squeezing his words through told a different story.

He was grounded in the present, and the present was the new record. He peppered in some thoughts about positivity for good measure, dropping the hint to Robin, let it go. But she couldn't let it go, and neither could mainstream America. Chris Brown had just logged three number one songs in the U.S. And still, nobody could let it go. His new album was even called Fame for Fung's sake. It stood for forgiving all my enemies.

He made his amends, right? Why couldn't everyone else make theirs? He completed his endless hours of community service, completed the one-year course on domestic abuse. Rihanna's restraining order against him had been relaxed with her permission, her permission, blessed by Rihanna herself. Was no one going to mention that little detail, did nobody care about that? Why would they set him up like this?

Why the fuck would you greet America with information regarding the time he beat Rihanna until her face was purple? Robin even had the audacity to ask how Chris had put it all behind him. Chris didn't even let her finish the question. I've been focusing on this album, he spat, eager to circle back to the original topic. He fidgeted, rocking back and forth in the stool, pursing his lips, his body language radiated heat. I'm doing this for my fans. I could care less about what anybody else thinks, he concluded. But Chris Brown did care.

He cared deeply. He cared so much that when the camera stopped rolling, he marched back to his dressing room and started a fistfight with the walls. He tore his shirt from his body as his knuckles pummeled the drywall over and over again. His eyes welled with tears. A security guard peaked in the room, and Chris warned him to keep his distance. And the walls took the beating. Each punch was angrier than the last.

The tabloid said he launched a chair out of the dressing room windows. Bullshit. The only thing that went through the window that day was his fist, already battered from hitting the wall and now bloodied from the broken glass. He left the building with bruised fists and a bruised ego, still shirtless and sweaty from his tantrum. Paparazzi snapped photos as he sculpt down the street. Then the headlines exploded.

Chris Brown flies into rage, breaks window at Good Morning America. Violin outbursts stormed off the set. Chris Brown's image hadn't been rehabilitated. It had been reinforced. There was just one moment in his life that would damage his career, and not more than an hour. But a lot of life-defining moments can happen in an hour,

just like when Chris Brown got his start. Nothing special ever really happened in Tappahannock, Virginia. Located in an hour northeast of Richmond, the sleepy town of 2,400 people, boasts 400 years of history, but little else. There are no tourist attractions, no rowdy clubs, no concert venues. Excitement doesn't come to Tapahannock. On rare occasions, it merely zips through.

So when representatives from hit mission records drove around town looking for a place to fill their tank, Chris Brown's father, Clinton, had reason to perk up. His job at a local gas station was about to put Tapahannock on the map. Hell, Clinton's quick thinking that afternoon slapped the Brown name on magazine covers for decades to come as well. As Clinton approached the out-of-town car with a smile, the reps rolled down their window and gave him the scoop. They were just passing through, in search of talent to add to their growing roster of entertainers.

Clinton didn't hesitate. He volunteered the few words that would change Chris's life forever. Well, my son sings. Hit Mission Records didn't need much convincing once they saw the exuberant 13-year-old Clinton was referring to. A kid was a fully-grown showman trapped in a teenager's body. He could say he'd been performing his whole life. because he literally had been.

Chris mimicked Michael Jackson's moves at age two. Well, he tried to at least as well as a toddler could. He communed with God and church choirs, stole the spotlight and talent shows. If there was an entertainment opportunity in Tappahannock, Chris Brown was there, and he was front and center. Who was watching didn't matter.

He just wanted to move his body. As Chris two-stepped through his teens, he wanted to move his hustle elsewhere, too. Life in Tappahannock felt claustrophobic. not exactly the most lucrative place for up-and-coming artists. It was a small town where everyone heard each other's business the same way Chris could hear his stepfather beat his mother through the walls of their trailer.

For years, Chris trembled as he heard the violence unfold in his mother's bedroom. The screams, the sound of knuckles hitting flesh. He didn't dare move when his stepdad was lashing out, even if that man he had to avoid using the bathroom, and even if it meant he had to wet himself instead. Other times, when Chris had nothing better, her to do. He refined his sweet talking skills with the ladies. He developed his charm early and parted with his virginity at age eight. Yes, eight. And the girl was nearly twice Chris's age.

But maybe he fist-bumped his friends over the ordeal or how or eight-year-olds congratulate each other, but Chris quickly learned that was about as exciting his life got in Tapahannock. He had too much talent, too much energy to stay cooped up here like an animal in a cage. Chris already knew where his life was headed, and the folks had Hit Mission Records knew too. Enough with the small town shit. Bring on the arena stages, the stadiums. A new life in New York was calling. Teenage Chris split from Essex High School in late 2004 before he could earn his degree. Hit Mission Records helped his transition to the big city by arranging vocal lessons and prepping demo packages to distribute to industry bigwigs. Once Chris uprooted his life in Virginia,

he had his pick of the record labels. An offer came in from Def Jam, from Fame, from fame, Music Industry Mobile, Ellie Reed, himself. Chris shot them down. Instead, choosing Jive Records in favor of their success with the biggest pop stars of the day. Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, Usher. Because that's what Chris Brown was going to be. A pop star. It didn't matter what he's saying.

R&B. Pop. Pop stood for popular, right? He was going to make R&B pop from mainstream radio speakers. By the time he was 16 years old, Chris Brown had popular on lock. His first hit, Run It, captured the attention of every teenager in America, regardless of race, region, or religion. Chris Brown redefined R&B for a new generation,

one who previously thought of the genre as slow jams their parents' bump to back in the 90s. Run It shot up to number one on the Billboard Hot 100, where it stayed for five weeks, making Chris the third youngest solo artist to top the chart. Only Stevie Wonder and Peggy March had him beat. When Run It, went platinum, it made R&B more accessible, than ever before. And if the hokey charm of the song didn't get people on their feet, and his dance moves did. He bobbed, he bobbed, he swerved, shuffled. His footwork left him

levitating off the ground, jerking his legs with such speed that he was barely more than a blur. His dancing was so fresh and so precise that it made you want to dance. Your parents and your grandma, too. He had the same infectious charms seen once in a generation, much like Usher directly before him. Directly before Usher, Chris's ultimate inspiration. Michael Jackson. Chris Brown was in complete control of his body, but only on the dance floor. Everything major in Chris Brown's life happened fast and happened when he was young. He was 13 when he was discovered. 15 when he was signed by a major record label. 16 when he achieved his first platinum record. 19 when he ruined his reputation for the rest of his life.

February 7, 2009, Chris Brown pushed down on the gas pedal of his rented Lamborghini. His reputation faded in the rearview mirror. After departing Clive Davis's 2009 pre-Gramie Awards gala, Chris Brown's hands should have remained on the wheel of the $2,000 a day car. Driving Rihanna, his girlfriend of two years, should have consumed all of his attention that night. But instead, he beat Rihanna until her face was barely recognizing. that he did a lot of the damage while he was driving.

And then, when he wasn't driving, he bit her, put her in a headlock and throttled her arteries until she began to lose consciousness. Rianna said she didn't see a soul behind Chris Brown's eyes that night. She didn't see anything behind the mouthful of blood she spat in his face. Prior to that evening, Chris professed he was ready to give Rihanna a ring. Instead, he gave her a cracked lip, swollen cheeks, a purple eye, and a broken heart. He gave himself a reputation, too. Chris Brown's career cooled to a simmer.

Once word got out that he had beaten a woman, he began to receive death threats mixed in with the love letters. Where his swift feed had once earned him nearly $20 million in endorsement deals, now his swift fists took those deals away. His relationship with Rihanna naturally dissolved, and so did his relationship with the public. America watched Chris Brown accept the consequences in what would become his second home,

a courtroom. He surrendered, pleaded guilty. He accepted his punishment of 1,000 hours of community service, one year of domestic abuse classes, and five years probation. But grudgingly, he also accepted that he wasn't America's heartthrob anymore and wouldn't be for a long time. Chris could live with that, at first. But shit, that was five years ago.

It was 2014 now. Where was the love? Wasn't this getting a little ridiculous? The thoughts tormented him when he lay awake in the night. in his stiff bed, no phone to distract him, no fangirls to console him about the state of his career. Chris had plenty of time to wallow. In fact, Chris had nothing but time. Because in 2014, Chris Brown was in prison, held captive by U.S. Marshals for the foreseeable future, not because of what he'd done to Rihanna, but because of what he'd done after that. He went and got angry

inside a place that was supposed to be teaching him out to manage his anger. He was pissed that he was doing time for being pissed. And that damn ringing returned to his ears louder than a siren. His cheeks flushed with frustration. He redirected his fury with the marker in his hand and pushed down with conviction to doodle on the mirror in his cell. His sketches ran free across the glass, hands doing all the thinking. His elbow bumped the wall, smacking his funny bone into concrete. He winced, but he was used to it by now. Life in the hole was cramped, crappy. If Chris so much had stretched his arms out, he could touch both sides of the tiny prison side. a suitable space for someone who didn't know how to control himself.

In the environment was the perfect recipe for rage, something he was trying so hard to quell deep inside him, even at times when the law wasn't forcing him to take a class to perform community service. Another court case loomed over his head at the moment. Chris Brown racked up yet another assault charge earlier in 2013 when he punched an over-enthusiastic fan outside of a hotel in Washington, D.C. He threw a homophobic remark in the mix for good measure.

Stupid. Even Chris knew it was stupid. So he checked into rehab for anger management. Two weeks passed. Chris reflected, recuperated. He refrained from rage. Right up until the moment that he launched a rock through the window of his mother's car, simply for suggesting he stayed at the facility a little bit longer.

And the act blatantly violated his non-violence contract at the facility. He was escorted out. His stay was roughly 17 days. His mother, of course, didn't press charges. His parole officer, however, had plenty of new paperwork to file. A judge sentenced Chris to 90 days of treatment in a different facility with one condition. If Chris was removed a second time, he'd go directly to prison. Do not pass go.

Do not collect $200. Prison. Stat. No one was surprised when Chris Brown fucked up again. Not even the threat of doing time could keep his hands. in check. The second facility claimed Chris violated a specific set of rules, namely a rule about demanding he remained two feet away from women at all times. And that protocol only applied to Chris because, well, you know, and they really rubbed the Rihanna incident in his face with that shit.

Chris said he didn't do anything wrong and cried victim from behind bars. No one cared. U.S. Marshals didn't listen as they dragged in between correctional facilities to hash out the verdict of his assault case in D.C. to recap, Chris Brown was in jail for getting kicked out of a second rehab center, was carted between coast while settling a case about assaulting a fan and still had yet to complete his five-year probation for assaulting Rihanna. All of this was happening at the same time, and he had the audacity to wonder why people thought he was the bad guy.

But at least when he was locked up, it was hard for his parole officer to complain. Chris couldn't get himself into trouble if he could barely move within his cell, as was often the case. He'd only stretch his legs when his mother, visit it, usually on a weekly basis. Guards would escort him to a new room, a new set of four walls, and chain him to the table inside. The metal jingled when he waved at his mother. He reminded them both of what he was, a criminal, mixed in with the robbers, the rapist, and the murderers.

In Chris's mind, those were the real bad guys. They weren't like him, right? I mean, he really had to wonder. And then again, they were in the same correctional facility. Perhaps the only difference was that he liked to wear diamond studs in his ears and hung platinum records on the walls at home. If Chris was lucky, the guards would throw him a bone and he'd get an hour outside once a week, allowed to inhale some fresh air from the discomfort of a cage on the roof of the facility. Fresh air isolation. It was a welcome change in comparison to the reek of shit and piss from fellow inmates soiling the floors indoors.

In some facilities, like today, he went straight to the hole where he suffocated in a cell that was barely a glorified closet. He passed hours doodling with a marker or parsing through the Bible. Head down, hands clean. He just had to hold out a little longer. It was 2014 now, and his probation would be over soon. There was a clean slate waiting for him on the other side straight ahead if he could stay straight at himself. But Chris Brown couldn't keep a slate clean if he tried. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Chris Brown didn't exhale until he heard the judge slammed the gavel.

It was over. Five years probation, done. Look at me now. No more legal papers. Finally. It was March 21st, 2015. Chris let out of breath and relaxed his shoulders for what felt like the first time in his adult life.

The evening with Rihanna that he fancied a mistake had been looming over him since 2009. And now it was finally settled and done with. He was free. But free from what exactly? Free from the watchful, prying eyes of a probationer. officer for one. That was a good start. He and the law were square. The court of public opinion, however, was still very much in session, and the folks in the comment section of every article

on Instagram post weren't so forgiving. He knew because he read them all. Maybe that's why he was so goddamn angry all the time, but I digress. It's how Chris Brown quickly learned he wasn't free at all. The world had already made up its mind about Chris Brown. People didn't see him as a musician. They saw as a monster. Every new headlines served as a reminder of 2009. The headlines reinforced 2009. Chris Brown throws a tantrum at Good Morning America. Monster. Chris Brown assaults a fan, uses a slur while he's slugging the poor dude. Monster. Chris Brown gets kicked out of not one but two rehabilitation centers. Come on, who even does that? A monster, that's who. No one could forget 2009 because Chris kept finding unique ways to remind people of his character, the same character

that bludgeoned Rihanna. As far as most people were concerned, Chris Brown belonged in a courtroom, not in concert halls. The fans who remained were unshakable. Members of Team Breezy spent their days mashing keyboards locking radio requests for his newest songs and defending his dignity online. That was the power of a bad boy image, and a bad boy image was the one thing Chris Brown still had. Some people either didn't believe Chris had done any of the crimes or they just didn't care, and their allegiance was ironclad. Chris Brown heard his keys jingle when he slipped his hand into his pocket. His footsteps felt heavy, tired from days of sauntering around the Las Vegas Strip on vacation.

Now that he was home, he was eager to rest those dancing feet in the comfort of his Agora Hell's mansion. Outside, the sun slipped below the Santa Monica Mountains and the final streaks of orange and violet it blended into the skyline. The streaks of paint across Chris's car, on the other hand, weren't going anywhere. Chris's eyes nearly popped out of his skull when the paint caught his eye. Was this an illusion? Too many days in Vegas could do that to a man.

Chris rubbed his eyes and looked again. In big capital letters, the spray-painted words, Mrs. Brown, redecorated his silver Rose Royce. Chris dropped his keys and dashed over to his black rangeover at the other end of the garage. Same spray paint, same message. Brown, but there was no Mrs. Brown. Chris's eyes focused on the door of his house, and it hung askew, hinges broken. A total stranger was inside his house right now.

Chris bolted inside. He tossed the broken door out of his way, nearly tripping over a pile of women's clothing in the foyer. He rushed through the halls, kicked open the doors to every room. He passed countless I Love You, scuttle on the walls. All cap, same handwriting. Was that dinner, he smelled? Had someone been cooking?

Never mind that right now. He found the final, I Love You, spray-painted across the kitchen counter, where the so-called Mrs. Brown had taken the time to cook dinner for him with great care. That's when it hit him. 21-year-old Amira Ayyip awaited him in his bed, half-naked and wrapped in a towel from one of the mansion's many bathrooms. As one of Chris's frighteningly loyal fans, Amira was star-struck when her so-called soulmate entered the room. Chris would have been pissed if he wasn't so flattered by the under-nurt.

display of admiration. The light in Amira's eyes quickly faded and she was handcuffed and carted away in the back of a cruiser before she could ruin any more of Chris's walls or countertops. Chris snapped the photo of her and posted it on Instagram, labeling her a quote-unquote crazy individual as if he himself had never done anything crazy in his life. Police scoped out the scene and found enough evidence in the kitchen to suggest that Amira had been waiting for Chris for days, days while he was away in Vegas. Chris felt haunted, even haunted by her presence. It didn't feel so good to be the person calling the police for once. Bailey Carvin's heels clicked on the tile floor as she stepped into Chris Brown's mansion. She slid the glass door to the back deck shut and shivered as she stepped

into the crisp air conditioning. Bailey, aka the former Miss California, was eager to show off her newfound notoriety in one of Chris's music videos. She arrived at the R&B singer's that day to discuss what she called quote-unquote business opportunities, modeling, acting, whatever Chris wanted for his next video shoot. Bailey herself was no stranger to scandal. She was crowned Miss California earlier that year in 2016, but was stripped of her title shortly thereafter when nude photos surfaced online. In August of 2016, she was also wanted by NYPD

in connection with the Grand Marcity case from three years earlier at the Grand Plaza Hotel. Needless to say, Mingling with a convicted felon like Chris Brown wasn't a concern for Bailey. But after stepping outside for some fresh air, Chris was nowhere to be found. Chris's friends lounged around the house, divided into their own clicks, nursing top shelf liquor, rolling joints, and shooting the shit. Rumor had it that singer Ray J was getting a tattoo somewhere. Bailey fell for her phone in her pants. Shit, that was right.

She surrendered her phone the moment she entered the mansion's gates. That was Chris's rule. And Bailey wasn't about to argue with a man who had very very very good. public anger issues. Feeling bored and frustrated that she'd gone unnoticed, Bailey turned her attention to a few men hovering over a jewelry box at the other end of the room. She could see the gems sparkle, diamond-encrusted watches, gold chains, earrings with jewels

so large they looked like their weight could rip your earlobe right off. Bailey approached the case, eyeing a diamond-studded cross on a gold chain. She folded her hands behind her back and leaned over the case in admiration. But Bailey wasn't invited to the viewing. One of Chris's posse popped out of nowhere and nudged her towards the door. Get away from the fucking diamonds. He backed Bailey into her corner across the room, and her shoulders smacked the wall. She couldn't retreat any further, but that wasn't enough.

Suddenly, Chris Brown rounded the corner of the room. Bailey thought she could see something in his hand. He was gripping it with unflinching confidence. What was that? He pointed it directly at her. He was getting closer. He asked her what the fuck she was doing. And what was that, she thought?

Was that a gun? She couldn't be sure, but she didn't want to wait to find out. Bailey didn't care about business opportunities anymore. She ducked outside. She stumbled around the grassy backyard and down the driveway towards the safety of the street. And as she made her escape, two members of Chris's entourage approached her. One pulled out her phone, and the other pulled out a pen and paper. A non-disclosure agreement.

All Bailey had to do to get her phone back was sign along the dotted line and promised to keep her lip-zipped about everything that had happened inside Chris's mansion today. Fuck that. Bailey swiped her phone from the first man's grasp

and beat it down the street, sprinting as fast as her pageant queen heels could carry her. And then she used that same cell phone to call the police. At least that was the story she fed the police when she called emergency responders in the wee hours of August 30th, 2016. Chris claimed that he never heard the cruisers that pulled up to his mansion at 3 a.m. that

morning. He says it was the police helicopter looming above his house that tipped him off instead. Police surrounded the mansion. Reporters clustered together with their cameras quietly streaming the standoff on Facebook live. Somehow, Chris Brown stayed cool. Cool by Chris Brown's standards anyway. He knew his constitutional rights. The cops were going to need a warrant if they wanted to barge in. He insisted Bailey's story was all devoid. drama, 15 minutes of fame. So until the police had that special piece of paper, they could just wait outside and watch the sky go from black to orange to blue. The police helicopter could run out of gas and crash for all he cared.

Chris could wait. He kicked back on the sofa in his living room, folded his arms behind his back, crossed his legs on the ottoman. He could sit here all day because those cops weren't getting in without a warrant. While he waited, Chris did what he always did. when he was in trouble. He aired his dirty laundry online through a series of Instagram posts. The news could keep their live stream rolling for as long as they wanted. They couldn't compete with him. He knew the real scoop was that there was no fucking scoop at all. Good luck when you get the warrant

or whatever you need to do. You're going to walk right up in here and see nothing, you idiot, he spat. And for once in his career, Chris Brown had it right. Police opened drawers, turn to you. turned over laundry baskets, looked in kitchen cabinets, poured over the nooks and crannies of the massive mansion. They entered Chris Brown's home around 1 p.m. on August 30th, 2016, 10 hours after they first arrived that morning. They left with nothing more than their search warrant. They didn't find any guns, let alone the gun Chris supposedly pulled on Bailey. They didn't find the diamond necklace amongst Chris's bejewel chains and watches either. It just didn't add

up. Bailey had been specific, maybe too specific. for her own good. Chris Brown left in the back of a cruiser anyways, arrested on suspicion for assault with a deadly weapon. The cops booked him and tossed him behind bars before he made his hefty $250,000 bail. He didn't panic this time. By 2016, Chris was well acquainted with this kind of sterile scenery.

He just slipped in the cash and slipped out of his cell, returning home to Agora Hills, disgruntled and disheveled from the day-long affair. When the newspapers reported that the cops had me, culled anything from their search of Chris's mansion, a related headlines started making the rounds. Chris's lawyer supposedly possessed a text message from Bailey to her friend that exposed the entire situation as a hoax. But those headlines didn't make it very far beyond TMZ and hip-hop news sites. No one wanted to read them. They wanted to read the juicy stuff. The latest entry in Chris Brown's

never-ending book of bad behavior in the social media meltdowns that accompanied them. A 10-hour standoff that involved police helicopters and insults hurtled at the fuss via Instagram, that was the story. What came after it? Not so much. Chris Brown didn't just have an established rap sheet. He ruined his chances of expunging it over and over again. When he had public fits, when he subjected rehab facilities, fans, and fellow musicians to the wrath he could never wrangle.

Probably because he never stayed in a rehab facility long enough to make any true progress. By 2016, Chris Brown had appeared in a courtroom so many times that it was just assumed at this point. Chris Brown was guilty, always. He had too many priors, too many strikes against him from striking women and fans. It was so assumed that the one time Chris Brown might actually be innocent, no one seemed to notice. He had lost the luxury of innocent until proven guilty, and he only had himself to blame, really. Charges were never filed against Chris Brown for the incident, and the case was dropped. The general population devoured the standoff story as Chris returned to the studio to record his next single,

a collaboration with Usher and Gucci Main called Party that would go two times platinum. He followed it up with a 45-track monstrosity of a record titled Heartbreak on a full moon. He says the double album was inspired by his breakup with Karuchi Tran. The same woman who earlier that year very publicly acquired a five-year restraining order against Chris, citing allegations of physical abuse, even death threats. While Karoochi feared for her safety, heartbreak on a full moon sold

more than 900,000 album equivalent units by the end of 2017, 330,000 in pure sales alone. To this day, Chris Brown, the man who can't keep his fists in his pockets and refuses to truly atone for his violence, still earns platinum albums. He can still move nearly a million albums

in record sales. He can collaborate with an icon like Usher because fans allow him to. Because no matter how often he behaves badly, fans want to see he's going to do next. And that is a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly

and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axus member, Thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelampod.com slash membership.

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