by Bill Hicks
FM: We’re talking about a group at the Comedy Workshop who became known as ‘The Outlaws.’
BH: Yeah, it was myself, Sam Kinison, Riley Barber, Ron Shock, Steve Epstein, Jimmy Pineapple, a lot of guys.
FM: A lot of readers saw your HBO special earlier this year. How’d that work? Did you have to temper your set?
BH: No, they let me do everything I wanted except at the end where I do this beautiful speech and then you hear a gunshot and I fall to the stage. I wanted it to fade to black and roll the credits. They didn’t want that because their statistics show that the viewer will change the station within 30 seconds if left with a black screen. So I had to get up while the credits rolled to show everybody that it was ‘just a little joke.’ God knows we need those fucking marketing people out there working for us.
FM: Has your career changed much as a result of the HBO special?
BH: No! (laughs)
FM: Bill, in your act you reveal that you no longer drink and drug.
BH: Right.
FM: Do you feel you’re a better comic as a result?
BH: Definitely! My whole life is better because of that. Not to disparage drugs, because I tell ya, some drugs that I took either: a) opened my mind, or b) confirmed several things in my mind. Since I quit drinking, because I did drugs so I could drink more, I’m much, much better.
FM: What makes comedy good for you?
BH: Good question. First, wit. Someone once described wit as finding similarities in things that are different, and finding differences in things that are similar. I like that a lot as far as wit.
As for humor, I think it has to ring true emotionally, coupled with justified anger at how the world is, and how you know in your heart how the world can be. In that lies humor, and the word ‘fuck’ (laughs).
FM: Where does your comedy come from, anger?
BH: Well, not just the anger. I like to offer information on how I’d rather see the world. I’m not just yelling in the wind, I hope. So I guess I’m just trying to share the message of love, and hope more people will think that way, thereby validating my lifestyle. (laughs) The more people Bill works, the less work Bill has to do.
FM: Bill, with regards to today’s comics, the public seems to think we’re a bunch of misfits; pissed off at the world. I’d be curious to hear what kind of a read you’re getting on the road.
BH: Well, I think comedy should be enlightening, and that’s the reaction I get. As far as how the public perceives us. I’m glad they think we’re misfits. We don’t need more people saying. ‘You can make how much? I’m in! I’m in!’ (laughs)
FM: You’re regarded as a comic’s comic. Do you feel pressure from that?
BH: No, not really. I love comics and I think they’re very smart. To me they’re like the last bastion of free speech in the country. But nobody takes us seriously because we’re comics. Actually, I guess that’s a blessing.
FM: What’s your opinion of comedy in Texas?
BH: In Texas, all you guys are really philosophical, conscientious and very moral people. San Francisco had a comedy era, but it wasn’t like this. Boston is very political. You guys do this socialist kind of humor. I love Texas. Everybody has this image of cowboys and shit like that. To me, Texas is Austin, a bunch of cool people trying to make a difference.
Part 2: 1992
Hicksville UFO, New Musical Express
(18 January 1992)
Whoop! Whoop! Warning! Warning! Danger approaching! Danger! Quick, Will Robinson, into the ship! And what will young Will find in that spaceship? Well, if the man in front of me is to be believed, it could well be an American comedian in a black suit. Yes, BILL HICKS, recently seen on telly in his own one-hour comedy special and gen-u-ine BIG American name at last year’s Edinburgh Fringe, has actually been in a spaceship. And not just some tacky theme park version of the Space Family Robinson’s Jupiter, but a real spaceship, with real aliens!
‘Without going into too much detail, me and two friends had a shared vision, while not being together physically, of being taken up in a UFO,’ he says in calm, rational, measured tones not at all like a madman.
‘When we got back together, none of us remembered it and one friend said, “Do you get the impression that we’re meeting a lot of new friends tonight?” And all three of us remembered the experience. Ever since then I’ve been looking over my shoulder . . .’
Not surprisingly, Bill Hicks is now fascinated by UFOs, and the possibilities they offer to point out to people that they need not think the way the ‘authorities’ say they should.
‘I like to use aliens in my act to point out a fear of strangers, xenophobia. Aliens landing in Alabama – like Alabamans hate everybody but I had to use aliens to make it a more universal thing – and they’re afraid of these aliens. What are you afraid of? Are you afraid they’re going to take your jobs? “We’ve come to work at the Sonic Burger! C’mon!”
‘And these people, they hear about a UFO sighting and they all take off to see the UFO carrying guns. Why? What are they going to do with them? These creatures have travelled millions of miles and you’ve got a shotgun? When are you going to stop?
Born, already jaded, in Georgia about 30 years ago, Hicks moved with his parents to Texas and later based himself in New York, along the way becoming a chain smoker (‘How many do I smoke? I’m a two-lighter a day man’) and rabid campaigner against intolerance and banality (‘I hate it when people come up to me and say. Bill, it takes less energy to smile than frown’. Yeah? Well it takes less energy for you to leave me alone . . .).
The self-styled King Of Rationalization, Hicks claims not to be a political comedian, though almost everything he deals with can be traced to an acute awareness and amazement at how political systems rule our lives, tell us how to think and teach us not to question.
‘Comedy is a double-edged sword; on one hand no-one gives you any flak because you’re a comedian and it’s all a joke, on the other hand it’s not a joke – I’m serious about what I’m saying but they think it’s a joke.
‘For instance, when Reagan got elected, that was when all this comedy boom started, and all these comedians all over America are getting on stage and saying, “Have you seen what this guy is doing, he’s a demon.” And the crowd laugh and go, “He’s a demon, hahaha!” “No! Listen, he really IS a demon, we’re serious.” “A demon, hahaha!” And you’d run down exactly how this guy was a liar and an idiot and they laugh and go and elect him again. Same with your Mrs Thatcher.’
By now Bill, who tends towards a Van Morrison silhouette although he is a good six feet tall, has worked up a head of sweat and is not about to relinquish the floor. He is a serious comedian. What follows is all off the top of his head, not part of his act . . .
‘Look at Reagan, the guy’s a moron. His IQ was like 100. You know why he was elected president? The average American IQ is 100 – it’s like an idiot, right? Isn’t that like a moron? And then this weasel Bush came in, he’s a sleazebag, they’re all sleazebags.’
Could Elvis have been elected president?
‘These guys all do commercials and they have f— ing publicists, it’s all showbiz, so maybe Elvis could have been president. What strikes me as funny about Elvis is that all the impersonators choose to do the Vegas Elvis; not the young, cool guy, always the bloated fool.’
Worshipping Elvis seems to be an excuse for Americans to be fat and stupid.
‘Probably probably, they love vulgarity. Look at McDonald’s. You have a McDonald’s in Moscow now, and that’s something I really don’t care for – the Americanization of the world.’ Hicks continues. He’s off on a tangent but it all makes seamless sense to him. ‘Yeah! (Holds out his hand with fingers splayed like an advertising exec showing a client the new campaign slogan) The Americanization of the world – Bad Products Served Rudely, hahaha!
‘But I’m an American who loves an America which doesn’t exist, which is a land of freedom and free ideas. The business of America is not
business, to me it’s the creation of ideas.’
But isn’t the American dream all the money you could want and a condo by the beach – money that buys your freedom? Considering how laid-back a man Bill Hicks is, he nearly explodes.
‘Nah, that’s a lie! Money doesn’t buy you anything, it’s an illusion. If there was no money on this planet there wouldn’t be any less food. It’s a big cocksuck, man, money’s time is up. That’s what people are realizing, hopefully. The grossest thing about poor people is that they crave money. Everyone should wear blue jeans and three T-shirts and eat beans and rice and break every f—ing company, break ’em. Don’t buy McDonald’s – we’re gonna break your ass Big Mac, OK? Quit makin’ such shit.’ He pauses, looking more startled than out of breath. ‘Where the f— did all THAT come from, Jeeeezus!’
It’s no surprise that you’re also not a great believer in organized religion. Did you have a previous bad experience?
‘Well, my whole philosophy in life,’ he starts in top Tapesque manner, ‘is that we are all one and the minute you call yourself one thing you immediately separate yourself from all the other things. And yes, I had a bad experience.’
What, were you beaten in a coven as a child?
‘Well, with a five minute UFO experience I got a taste of holiness I never got in 20 years of religion. All the things I talk about are foils to point out perceptions, so I really don’t have anything I’m against so much as I’m for, and that’s what I think my material keeps pointing at – deflating balloons, deflating fantasies and trying to find some element of truth.
‘Ah, that’s pretty pompous, but I have to have somethin’, some kind of belief. ’Til that f— in’ ship comes back anyway.’
Roll over Jimmy Swaggart, and tell the Venusians the news . . .
‘We are the perfect and holy children of God, and I don’t see, being the perfect and holy children of God, how any limits could possibly be put upon us . . . not at all. That’s the point of my act. I just want to be free of the fears and anxieties of death and the superstitions of religion. Being raised in a Baptist . . . with an avenging God, a God who created hell for his children. I’m sorry, but . . . no. Wrong. You’re wrong. That’s an insane God and therefore not mine. Because, see, God would be very sane, don’t you get it? That’s my act. Everything branches off from that.’
Mr Malcontent
By Robert Draper, Texas Monthly
(June 1992)
Perhaps the most talented American comedian working the circuit these days is a native Houstonian who looks about as funny as a death in the family. Bill Hicks is a pallid, limp-haired, sad-faced, hostile thirty-year-old with a taste for black clothes, black humor, and musicians who die before their time. He tells his audiences, ‘People like to come up to me and say, “Takes more energy to frown than it does to smile!” I say, “Yeah, and it takes more energy for you to tell me that than it does for you to shut up and leave me alone.”’
Hicks gets his laughs the way Lenny Bruce (to whom he is often compared) did: by attacking conventions of every sort, including those that govern what should and should not be fodder for humor. During last year’s flush of national patriotism for Desert Storm, Hicks proclaimed on Late Night With David Letterman, ‘I’m for the war, but I’m against the troops. I’m sorry, I just don’t like those young people. Don’t get me wrong, though – I’m all for the carnage.’ Despite his provocations, or because of them, Hicks’s reputation as a comedian of ferocious passion and intellect has led to ten appearances on the Letterman show, as well as a spotlight segment on CBS’s 48 Hours and his own HBO comedy special. More important, his success has earned him the ultimate compliment in a cutthroat business: a rash of lesser competitors who pattern their acts after his.
‘I only wish that the people who think I’m so worthy of imitation had production companies,’ says Hicks, who, after fifteen years of live performances, has begun to wonder if his resentful demeanor is too forbidding for those who parcel out movie deals and TV series. Such offers have gone to comedians like Roseanne Arnold and Andrew Dice Clay, who are punchier, raunchier, louder, fatter, and possess a more camera-ready wardrobe than Hicks. Yet what Bill Hicks lacks in these areas he makes up for in sheer comic inspiration.
The titles of Hicks’s two live albums – Dangerous and the recently released Relentless – tell something about his bombing-raid approach. The ground he strafes is familiar enough: Bush, Baptists, the National Rifle Association, his parents, his ex-girlfriends. But his humor gets its edge from the punishing force of truth behind it, whether he is belittling the war in the Persian Gulf or the farmers in Fyffe, Alabama, who saw a UFO and immediately scrambled for their guns. Between bits, he paces the stage, grimacing and scratching violently at his scalp while the audience, mindful of his talent for eviscerating hecklers, maintains a respectful silence. At times Hicks will solicit an audience reaction, such as when he asks, ‘How many nonsmokers do we have tonight?’ After taking stock of the applause, Hicks will light a cigarette. ‘I hate you nonsmokers with all my little black heart.’
‘The richest kind of laughter is the laughter in response to things people would ordinarily never laugh at,’ says Hicks, whose own laugh recalls the impudence of Eddie Haskell in Leave It To Beaver. In person he is engaging, though there is an unease about him, as if at any moment he expects to be asked to leave. Hicks gives the impression that his search for humor is a mission to avoid despair. That Hicks grew up idolizing Woody Allen, a comedian with an entirely different style and range of targets, is not surprising – ‘The connection is a low self-esteem,’ says Hicks.
Hicks was a fourteen-year-old introvert living in the suburbs of west Houston when he first saw Allen in What’s New, Pussycat? It was the funniest movie he had ever seen, and the notion of its nebbish screenwriter having cast himself as a hero rang all the right bells. Hicks began to write comedy stories. One morning while reading the newspaper, he noticed that a downtown club called the Comedy Workshop was sponsoring an amateur night. Hicks called and asked to perform, and the manager said he could. Hicks’ parents forbade him to do so, but he was undeterred. He sneaked out of his second-story window, crawled across the garage, and ran to a nearby church parking lot, where a friend with a car ferried him to his first gig. That night he earned $8 with such rehearsed lines as, ‘My girlfriend is very small – she’s a stewardess on a paper airplane.’
Gradually, as Hicks continued his clandestine pilgrimages to the Comedy Workshop, his material advanced from the merely absurd to the poignant: ‘I’ve been with the same girl for five years now, so I finally popped the question: “Why are we still seeing each other?”’ His popularity grew. He performed his first solo show at the age of fifteen, at a church camp. His first major fee was $150, earned at a breakfast party at Sakowitz at six-thirty in the morning. ‘There was a huge buffet,’ he recalls, ‘and they said, “We don’t have time to do the show. Just be funny while we get our food.” I stood between the ham and the powdered eggs.’
The management and the older comedians at the Comedy Workshop adopted Hicks as a talented apprentice. His teachers and classmates at Stratford High School began to show up to see him perform, and before long Bill Hicks was accorded outlaw celebrity status among his peers. One night after a football game, he showed up at the local Wendy’s and was goaded into what became ninety minutes of stand-up before a packed house of hamburger-eating students. When word spread at school one afternoon that Hicks would be doing his routine in a nearby vacant field during lunch, more than two hundred students flocked to see the free show. Not everyone was enamored of the campus rebel. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he remembers one of his principles telling him. ‘You have the sense of humor of a third-grader.’
Hicks knew a setup when he heard one. ‘Well, then,’ he replied, ‘you must have the comprehension of a second-grader.’
Following his graduation in 1980, Hicks and three other Houston comedians – including the late Sam Kinison – moved to Los
Angeles, hoping to find work at the burgeoning Comedy Store nightclub. They did, but Hicks grew bored with the scene, the city, and the very act of telling jokes for a living. He enrolled at Los Angeles Community College and on his first day got his nose broken in karate class. Taking that as a sign, Hicks returned to Texas and signed on at the University of Houston.
‘It was the Great Postponement,’ Hicks admits of his stint at the university. ‘I figured that if I hung in there for four years, something would strike me. I started off taking public speaking and philosophy. I thought it would be good to start off my college career with a couple of A’s. The public speaking guy tried to turn me into a Rotary Club speaker, with all the right gesticulations. I did my speech – muttered and paced and smoked and yelled at someone. And the philosophy professor wanted us to prove David Hume’s there-is-no-God thesis right at a time when I’d just taken mushrooms for the first time. He turned purple every time I raised my hand. I failed both classes.’
Sulking, Hicks returned to the Comedy Workshop, where he knew he could get free drinks. It was 1982, and for reasons Hicks now insists have something to do with Reagan’s presidency, the American comedy scene was exploding. The nightclub’s booking agent urged Hicks to rejoin the circuit. ‘It literally went like this: “Bill, we have a gig for you in Victoria, Texas. Oh, and while you’re there, a club just opened in El Paso.” It happened in every state.’
Hicks and his menacing stage act became much in demand. In 1983, at 21, he opened for a hot New York comic named Jay Leno in an Austin nightclub. ‘What’re you doin’ down here?’ Leno demanded after seeing Hicks’ performance. ‘Why aren’t you on TV?’ A few months later, Leno arranged to get Hicks on David Letterman’s show. Subsequently, Hicks appeared several times, on the third visit incorporating an attack on the Reverend Jerry Falwell that greatly displeased Letterman’s producers. Hicks was not invited to hurry back. His defiance only fueled his renegade image – a reputation that included an overt fondness for alcohol and drugs.