| Date | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 02/01/1997 |
Bill Hicks' provoking stand-up acts live on even after his death
JOHN ST. DENIS Daily Texan Staff
A handy definition of good comedy is the juxtaposition of two seemingly dissimilar ideas in such a way that the mind gains pleasure from making the connection, hence laughter. The comedian's job is to act as the bridge, the guide from one idea to another. I can say without a doubt, that Bill Hicks was the best guide I've ever had.
Bill Hicks had been a performing comedian from the age of 15, sneaking out at night and getting an older friend to drive him to his gigs at the Comedy Workshop in Houston, also the stage home of Sam Kinison.
Through many years, he slogged through comedy clubs, all over the country, almost every night of the year, honing his trade. The razor-edged sword of satire he wielded cut through the hypocrisy of American culture, leaving a wake of wisdom and laughter everywhere that enlightened souls saw him.
Bill was on a mission. He didn't deliver jokes; he offered bits of wisdom and thoughtful critiques stated so as to amuse and educate the public. The subjects he tackled -- abortion, the war on drugs, politics, religion -- were not the pre-chewed fodder of airline food and dating that so many second-rate comics relied on. Bill wanted to wake people up, to challenge the public's notions about the way things are.
Among his fans were David Letterman (on whose show he made 11 appearances), Jay Leno, Dennis Miller, Richard Belzer and a score of others including the band Tool, which featured him on their album AEnima and in the liner notes. Often, more established comedians would stand at the back of the clubs he was playing in awe of his power and talent. Friend and fellow comedian Brett Butler described Bill best,
"It was Jesus Bill wanted to be. He wanted to save us all. But Bill got freeze-framed in the scene where Jesus went through the temple and said, 'This is my father's house and you've turned it into a den of thieves.' Bill wanted to be Christ at his angriest."
The confrontational style of Bill was probably the reason he never achieved widespread fame in the United States. In addition, he turned down all sitcom, film and commercial offers, and refused to alter his act to pander to the bland taste of TV executives and their imagined audience. In a telling anecdote, his last appearance on the David Letterman show in 1993 was cut by the producers because, in their opinion, it contained too many "hot spots." This despite getting a overwhelming positive response from the studio audience, his mother (no big fan of his more raunchy material), and a Florida audience in front of whom he performed the entire seven-minute bit.
He did achieve a huge following in England and Australia, in part because of a performance titled Revelations (which was also shown in a truncated version on HBO in the United States) filmed in January 1993. His shows there would play to packed 2,000-seat theaters, a stunning reaction to a stand-up comic. He later was commissioned by Great Britain's Channel Four to create a show, Counts of the Netherworld, with fellow comic Fallon Woodland.
Just when everything seemed to be going well (he had also gotten engaged), a terrible tragedy struck. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He continued to tour and completed his album Arizona Bay.
Working on more projects than ever before while undergoing chemotherapy, he recorded Rant in E-Minor, wrote a screenplay, started on New Beginnings, a book of his cancer experience, and developed a television show and another screenplay. After the Letterman incident and a profile in the New Yorker, the press began paying him overdue attention and he was invited to write a column for The Nation, in addition to the one he already wrote for the English satire magazine Scallywag.
All this was for naught. In January of 1994, in failing health, Bill moved in with his parents at their home in Little Rock, Ark. He spent his final weeks with his family reminiscing, discussing his ideas, encouraging them to try out new ways of thinking. He even bet his brother that he could get their dad to try mushrooms. Mr. Hicks asked some questions and said he'd think about it. He called all his friends and said his good-byes. And then he stopped speaking.
"I've said all I have to say," he told everyone. Though he lived for two more weeks, he never spoke again.
Bill Hicks died on Feb. 26. A tribute to him was shown, on the Comedy Channel in the United States and on Channel 4 in Great Britain, in which fellow comics and friends recalled their memories of Bill and offered thoughts on his vision. Now the final recorded fruits of his labor have finally been released to the public.
Today, his box set comes out from Rykodisc to the eager anticipation of his fans everywhere. Included in this set are four albums, Dangerous and Relentless, which were previously released on Invasion records in 1990 and 1992, but have been out of print for a while, and two new ones, Arizona Bay and Rant in E-Minor. Never before has such an explosion of philosophical comedy been loosed upon the world.
Bill's albums are carefully crafted pieces of comedy. They preserve his hilarious musings and the genius of his timing. I have often exposed people to Bill's earlier records and the result is always similar. Their eyes grow wide, they laugh out loud and say, often gasping for breath, "I can't believe he's saying that!"
Attacking anything in America, or the world, that he saw as hypocrisy, he often used fairly strong language, much to the offense of some people. But despite this, he was a gentle man who had grand ideas for universal peace and the wonders of space exploration. It's just that he couldn't contain his rage about the current state of affairs. All over his albums he rails about his personal dislikes: pushy non-smokers, pro-lifers, rednecks, comedians that sell out, Rush Limbaugh, and on. But always, his albums end with an uplifting vision.
Arizona Bay marked a stylistic change for Bill in that it incorporates the music he wrote with his band Marblehead Johnson into his routine. Playing underneath a track of his act, the song swells on the next purely song track only to fade into his next bit. While an interesting idea, it hurts the comedy as Bill was heavily influenced by Eric Johnson, Jimi Hendrix and especially Stevie Ray Vaughan. The somber mood of the songs interferes with his critiques, but only nominally. Nothing could really decrease the power of his words to any significant degree.
Rant in E-Minor is Bill at his angriest. Organized into parts and chapters, it builds and recedes as he introduces notions and riffs around them. Creative editing has creates bits of crowd noise with Bill screeching at some unresponsive audiences in powerful cathartic moments. Praise to Bill and his best friend and producer Kevin Booth, who have managed to move past simple bits strung together to a cohesive unit of humor and criticism.
On a personal note, I was at one of the performances in Austin whenRant was recorded, and it is among my most treasured memories. So I was shocked when I heard Bill heckling my friend and me on the CD some three years later. I had not thought the bit would make it onto the album, but there it was.
Later in the recording, another pal of mine is heard asking Bill a question to which he elaborates his Orange Drink bit. All through the record, I can hear, here and there, our laughter. And while it doesn't really concern most people out there, I'm happy that my memory is in some way contained on this recording.
Bill's thoughts still possess incredible power, even after his death. I received many calls when I played cuts from his albums on my KVRX radio show. From friends and new converts I heard praise for Bill and his stand-up philosophy. I hope his legacy will spread as his screenplay work may see the light of day.
For more information, Rykodisc has set up some web pages at www.rykodisc.com, which feature samples of Bill's work and a place to leave your comments. I heartily recommend it as a way to experience Bill without having to rely on news quotes of his material that fail to capture his timing and essence.