by Bill Hicks
‘Rock and roll would not exist without drugs,’ he delighted in pointing out in his shows, adding, ‘The Beatles were so high they even let Ringo sing a couple.’ But drugs, especially alcohol, were slowly getting the best of Hicks, who would later tell crowds, ‘I was a weekend drinker – started on Saturday, ended on Friday.’ His routines became more meandering, his words less comprehensible. By the mid-eighties, Hicks began to see in the faces of the audience the sentiments of his former principal: ‘You’re pathetic.’ This time around he began to believe it.
One night was particularly grim. Hicks spent the entire evening on a binge, then had to do a radio show at seven the next morning. ‘I was up all night with the most satanic thoughts,’ he said, ‘thinking, “I have chosen evil.” Somehow I did the radio show – and was really funny. But my heart was pounding and I thought I was gonna die. I went back to the hotel. And this guy I was working with who used to have a problem also, he was up whistling and looking peaceful. I said, “Man, you going to one of those AA meetings today?” He said, “I’ve been waiting three years to hear you ask that. There’s a meeting in fifteen minutes. Let’s go.”’
Going straight was not easy for Hicks, who had come to think of the whiskey shots as stage props. He wondered if he would be funny without drugs. ‘But I also realized,’ he says, ‘that I wouldn’t be funny if I was dead.’ That Hicks’ shows are now more sharply focused is a matter of personal pride for him. Yet Bill Hicks does not sell his sobriety either as a story or as a stage sermonette – beyond telling his audiences, ‘I admit I’ve had bad experiences with drugs; I mean, look at this haircut.’ He continues to insist that hallucinogens changed his life for the better, maintaining, with deadly seriousness, that he was taken aboard an alien spacecraft during a mushroom trip. He says that Debbie Gibson and Hammer are proof of what a lack of drugs does to rock and roll and that ‘marijuana should not only be made legal, it should be made mandatory.’ If anything, his own misadventures have strengthened his convictions. ‘People from AA come up and say, “Bill, I loved the show.” If reformed addicts aren’t offended, why should anyone else be?’ he asks.
In 1988 Hicks moved to New York, in large part to redeem himself with Letterman’s people. He quickly did, and in January of this year, he again packed his bags and returned to Los Angeles. There he hopes to increase his exposure. He also wouldn’t mind if he happened to gain the favor of the Tonight show, soon to be hosted by his old friend Jay Leno and those elusive Hollywood producers. Until then, he remains one of the few comics in America popular enough to pick and choose where he performs.
Which is not to say that Bill Hicks has it easy. Unmarried and forever on the road, he’s living a life that’s hellish-lonely anyway. But as with everything he has survived, Hicks has managed to turn bad karma into good material. ‘All this travelling, all this moving from town to town, living out of a suitcase,’ he murmurs to his audience, affecting a pout. ‘You know, it’s a hard life for anyone to comprehend. It’s really going to take one very special woman . . .’ The crowd ponders this with him. Then the silence is broken by Hicks’s cackle. ‘Or a lot of average women,’ he says.
THE QUESTIONNAIRE (SUMMER 1992)
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Playing music – Performing – Creating.
2. What is your greatest fear?
Answering introspective questions about myself.
3. With which historical figure do you most identify?
Don’t identify with anyone historically but there are several people in the future who I am a dead ringer for.
4. Who do you most admire?
All the poets, all the prophets.
5. What do you most deplore about others?
Ignorance, dishonesty.
6. What vehicles do you own?
A left foot and a right foot.
7. What is your greatest extravagance?
My guitars.
8. What do you always carry with you?
My guitars.
9. What makes you most depressed?
Human suffering – especially my own.
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance?
My receding hairline.
11. What is your favourite smell?
Women.
12. What is your most unappealing habit?
Smoking.
13. What is your favourite word?
Release.
14. What is your favourite building?
My home.
15. What is your favourite journey?
The inner journey or my home, whichever comes first.
16. What or who is your greatest love?
Laurie, Pamela, Jennifer, Robin, Massie, Lisa, Sue, Jessica . . .
17. Which living person do you most despise?
Every politician, no exceptions.
18. Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Cool, later dude, look!, a pumpkin!
19. What is your greatest regret?
Laurie, etc.
20. When and where were you happiest?
March 6, 1986, 3.30 p.m., Raleigh NC.
21. How do you relax?
Playing guitar.
22. What single thing would improve the quality of your life?
Quit smoking.
23. Which talent would you most like to have?
To be able to sing.
24. What would your motto be?
Let go and let God.
25. What keeps you awake at night?
Loneliness and fear.
26. How would you like to die?
Rich, happy and very old.
27. How would you like to be remembered?
Rich, happy and very old, but serious as an artist who was true to himself.
Intro to Scotland (Summer 1992)
Hello. My name is Bill Hicks. I am a comedian from the USA, and I’ll be appearing soon at the Edinburgh Festival. This will be my first trip to Scotland, so the promoter of my show thought it would be a good idea for me to write an article as a way of introducing myself to you, while also procuring him some free publicity. So here goes . . .
I’ve been a comedian for most of my life. I feel I was destined to be a comedian, as I started very young and have done little else by way of work. My love of comedy and my dedication have paid off handsomely. Through years of touring and performing my hilarious, hard-hitting comedy, I have become what’s known in the states as a ‘BIG STAR’. I’m so big, in fact, that this isn’t even me writing to you now. This is Lars, Mr Hicks’ tireless and loyal man Friday. Mr Hicks is currently indisposed, confined on doctor’s orders to a hot tub with his tireless and loyal nurses Heather and Dusty. (I hear giggles now, where earlier I heard groans. I feel confident a full recovery is imminent.) To be on the safe side, I will suggest Mr Hicks bring his young, nubile healers with him on his trip to your fair country. They may also come in handy during Mr Hicks’ shows, in case someone passes out due to oxygen loss to the brain brought about by excessive laughter. This has posed a considerable problem here in the States. It was how, in fact, during just one of these crises that I came to be in Mr Hicks’ employ.
Years ago, I was living in Poteet, Texas, under the name of Larry Sloman. Poteet was a small, mean town that God never heard of, and the Devil found uncomfortably hot. You couldn’t buy a breeze in Poteet, which explains why most of the townspeople spent their nights in the relative cool of Stumpy’s Strip Joint and Bait Shop, hoping the sweat on the girls would make their panties fall off. (This never happened, although I did see several runny tattoos.)
One night, the disc jockey interrupted our half-hearted ogling to announce a comedian was going to perform, and we should all shut up and listen and not cause a stink. It was too hot to argue, and the only stink being raised was coming from the bait shop (at least I hope it was coming from the bait shop), so Bill Hicks bounded onstage and began his show.
Suddenly the place came alive. People were howli
ng and screaming with laughter. I knew then I was in the presence of a great man, ’cause I didn’t understand a word he was saying. One by one, people started passing out around me, until the only folks left standing were myself, and two of Stumpy’s best looking girls – Heather and Dusty.
After the show, Mr Hicks walked over to me, stepping carefully over the still unconscious audience. He told me he was on a world tour that could take him as far as Louisiana, and he might need someone to help with the driving. He was impressed by the fact that I had stayed conscious during his show, and he felt I was a man he could trust with his life. He would gladly take me along under one condition – that I shorten my name to Lars. Well, I had nothing but a string of debts holding me in Poteet, and the collection agency was looking for a fellow named Larry Sloman. I told Mr Hicks Lars was at his service. Later that night as I drove through the vast desert of Texas, with Heather, Dusty, and my new boss giggling in the backseat, I wondered what could make a man so funny that he causes an entire audience to pass out laughing. Aw, Hell! It was probably just the heat . . .
The Counts of the Netherworld (July 1992)
TREATMENT
Beethoven’s 9th begins playing softly.
Close-up – glass bauble filled with water and little figurines of Big Ben and Tower Bridge, which when shaken makes snowfall scene. Behind bauble we see warm fire flickering in fireplace.
Bill (v.o.):
Mankind’s Unconscious Mind must be awakened. That Unconscious Collective Mind in which we share . . . memory of Hope’s ember burning there.
Close-up – warm crackly fire in fireplace.
Bill (cont.) :
Round which the Voices of the Soul commune . . . A starfilled twilight and radiant moon . . .
Shot of dazzling milky way and full moon, then close-up of feathered plume in someone’s hand, scribbling furiously.
Bill ( cont.):
Calling for the spark in every brain . . . To recognize it is the same . . . As the spark in everyone . . . And in joining to become . . . From an Ember, to a Sun.
Close-up of Bill’s enraptured face as he ends the poem. We pull back to reveal Bill sitting in french window looking out at the stars and the moon. Fallon sits at desk, feathered plume in hand, reviewing what he has just written.
They are the Counts in their beautiful salon – bookshelves lined with leather-bound classics. Red velvet furniture sits atop plush Persian rugs. An ornate mahogany desk, littered with reference books and baubles and curiosities such as the snowfall scene of Big Ben and Tower Bridge. Old World globes and maps, and a telescope placed about the room give the easy impression there are minds at work here. The whole salon speaks of extreme warmth, safety, and comfort.
Bill:
Did you get all that?
Fallon (looks up from writings):
Hmmm? Get all what?
Bill (incredulous):
The Poem!
Fallon:
Sorry, no. I was just writing to this girl I met who works at the fishmongers.
Bill glares at Fallon, then leaps up from the french window and storms over to the red velvet couch where he plops down boredly.
Fallon (cont):
I think she works at the fishmongers . . . either that, or she likes me a whole lot more than I first imagined.
Bill is holding a book of Carl Jung’s work, which he is leafing through thoughtfully.
Bill:
You see, Jung had this idea of a Collective Unconscious which mankind shared . . . and I agree. But! I think this Collective Mind is supposed to be conscious, not unconscious! And that is our job as the Agents of Evolution to enlighten – to bring light into the dark corners of that Netherworld and thus awaken our Mind to Truth and complete the circle that was broken with the dream of our fall from Grace.
As Bill is saying this, he is leafing through a copy of the Madonna ‘Sex’ book, which sits on the coffee table before him.
Bill:
Did you get all that?
Fallon looks up from what he’s just written.
Fallon:
Hmmmm?
Bill:
Don’t tell me you weren’t writing that down.
Fallon:
Sorry . . . I’m writing to the girl I love so when I finally meet her all the paperwork will be in order.
Bill (disgusted):
As the Scribe and Recorder, I’d like to know exactly what you think is important to get down here.
Fallon:
Sorry.
Fallon puts away his personal correspondence. Bill continues leafing through the Madonna book, finally focusing on what he’s seeing.
Bill:
Say, what is this?
Fallon:
That’s the Madonna ‘Sex’ book. It’s been out a while . . .
Bill:
Cool! She’s naked squatting on a dog’s face!
Fallon begins scribbling again with his feathered plume. Bill looks up.
Bill:
What are you writing now?
Fallon (reading):
‘Cool! She’s naked squatting on a dog’s face!’
Fallon looks up.
Fallon:
Is that right?
Bill:
Yes . . . perfect.
Bill continues to flip through the book. He yawns and throws the book aside.
Bill:
Surely this isn’t what passes as risqué these days.
Fallon:
It’s caused quite a stir actually. Some people even consider it pornographic.
Bill and Fallon look at each other and burst out laughing.
Bill:
Good God! I wonder what those people would think of that special Anniversary Edition of the Kama Sutra I own?
Fallon:
You mean the Director’s cut?
Bill:
Exactly. You’d think people would know by now that pornography, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.
Fallon:
Exactly.
Bill:
And this to me is pure tripe. I’ve been more aroused by soda ads and less offended by snuff films.
Fallon:
Yes, sex is in the mind, and that book’s vision is the product of a child, to be sold to children. At least intellectually.
Bill:
Yes. Penis and breast size notwithstanding, there is no sense of proportion here. The one picture that displayed promise is never again explored.
Fallon:
Perhaps the Canine Union has stricter laws than we imagine.
Bill (disgusted):
Probably. And of course all in the name of ‘progress’.
Bill shakes his head sadly.
Fallon:
Say, what was the fellow’s name who wrote that book you liked?
Bill motions to the bookshelves sagging under the weight of thousands of books.
Bill:
Uh, could you be more specific?
Fallon:
The one you were reading to me from the other day. About money.
Bill:
Oh, yes! ‘Money.’ Martin Amis wrote that.
Fallon:
Yes. Didn’t you say Mr Amis fancied himself a porno connoisseur?
Bill:
Well, the character in the book did.
Fallon:
Maybe we could talk to him and see if he can shed any light on this subject?
Fallon begins scribbling furiously.
Bill:
An excellent idea! Let’s invite him at once!
Fallon:
It’s done!
Fallon seals an envelope then writes ‘Mr Martin Amis’ on the front. He hurls the envelope into the fireplace where it bursts into flames, causing sparks to fly up the chimney.
Close-up – chimney outside as sparks fly up into mankind’s darkened mind. Beethoven’s 9th crescendos.
INT. - SALON.
Martin Amis and Bill sit in red velvet chairs in front of fire. Fallon re
mains at the desk. Martin is reading a scene from his book ‘Money’. It is a raucous, hilarious scene. When he finishes, Bill and Fallon laugh and applaud. Bill asks him what he thinks of the Madonna ‘Sex’ book. A conversation ensues covering pornography, censorship, fantasy, love, death, gardening, and anything else that comes to these philosophers’ minds. This spontaneous conversation is filmed at our leisure, then edited to its most exciting kernels to get the full breadth and depth of our beloved guest’s intellect and worldview. If the guest is an actor, perhaps a scene from current work will be acted out with Bill and Fallon playing the supporting roles. A singer might sing acoustically, a painter might paint during the interview. A dancer might dance to an old-fashioned wind-up Victrola playing classical music. In other words, we will remain true to the time period of the salon, and true to the integrity of the salon – a place where interesting people came to discuss the ideas of the day, socialize, and entertain one another and themselves by exercising the formidable skills of their imaginations.
As always, Bill and Fallon celebrate the talents and intellects of their guests, who have enlightened the Counts, who in turn wish to pass on to others from their inner space ship – the Salon.