The sky is the grey of old skin. I walk the Regent to Camden accompanied by bootleg Black Box Recorder. London offers the usual blessing of indifference. Even with an eyepatch and a growling black coat, I am rendered anonymous, all but invisible. Only children seem to notice me, an appropriate canalside figure for those enjoying the Pirate Castle.
At Jongleurs I am interviewed as a talking head for a DVD extra on a forthcoming Bill Hicks documentary. I am not at my best. Paid in trinkets and Tiger beer, I ramble without any of the coherence and insight Bill deserves.
I want to explain how he was an inspiration, how beyond the laughter they evoked, his words did more than make me think. Explain how after listening to Bill, being a hypocrite is near impossible. Explain how he gave voice to my anger at the illusions of the Black Iron Prison. How the truths he told were so deep and universal they will keep resonating no matter how many times the heads on the statues are changed.
Of course, I fail. I do not even explain that I would probably have never written a conspiracy book without him. I do not even begin to convey how Bill Hicks still haunts me. Nudges me to scrape the black spray paint of the lens, reminds me to laugh, to be angry and yet approach the madness of the world with a loving spirit.
Drinking afterwards with fellow fans and interviewees, there is an immediate bond. If you get Bill, you tend to have something in common aside from a passion for a man who referred to himself as ‘Chomsky with dick jokes’. I hold one of the trinkets, a memorial card made up by Bill’s mother Mary Hicks. I turn its words over and over: ‘I left in love, laughter, and in truth, and wherever truth, love and laughter abide, I am there in spirit.’ Their power makes me feel even worse over the hash I have made of the interview.
The rest of the night is spent with Surreal Girl, something always guaranteed to raise my spirits. We drink champagne while eating popcorn, see an unfinished edit of an upcoming movie. It is a strange experience. Not only do I have to contend with hearing the voice of Doctor Who say ‘fuck’, I am front row with 11 lesbian vampires. This results in a lot of unavoidable actress leg and cleavage. Somehow I suspect Bill would have liked that.
11 comments:
Oh, David....
What a beautiful final paragraph you wrote here ofr Hicks!
You know how much I LOVE Bill Hicks! Not only do I envy you because you write the way you do about London, but also because you met Bill, you met this man who had a brain like a vortex and the sharpest of wits.
Transcedental indeed. That night lives on in memory forever. That t-shirt, it is truly one of my most prized possessions.
Female vampires are fine, in all their glory. Female lesbian vampires are a waste of pretty vampire skin.
Some of the comments are getting too sycophantic. What does ‘Oh, David …’ mean? While we are at it, why not set up a Southwell School of Writing About London?
Kid Atari: yeah, why not? I'd like to attend a few classes meself.
You speak so well of Bill Hicks, and being from down under I have to admit i do not know who he is. Can you explain please? I am curious...
I think that interviews, be they celebrity or job related, can be broadly tarred with the same brush as used to describe education, to wit, "There are no bad interviewees only bad interviewers".
If the time and the place don't create a relaxed and comfortable ambience then it's hard to get into the zone, especially when summoning forth a ghost such as Bill.
It be good to see that you not lost yer depth perception after all this time.
Wish Me coudda shared a pint or two with you, and a few of the matriarchs of Lesbos as well.
STOMP.
Made me die laughing, but left me drained.
You went from one side of the circle to the other.
What a day.
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