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Twenty years after his death, isn’t it time we saluted Bill Hicks as the best of the goddam bunch? Shouldn’t we brace up and face facts? He came. He saw. He poured hilarious, bilious scorn. Pancreatic cancer claimed him at the age of 32. And we shan’t see his like again – not in the USA, not anywhere – in our lifetimes.
They’re holding a commemorative tribute for him on the anniversary itself – February 26: an official tribute show in Camden, with a visitation from his folks (mother, sister, brother) and contributions from comedians such as Robin Ince and Brendon Burns. There will be chat. There will be clips, courtesy of the guys who made the superb bio-documentary “American”. Great, so far as it goes, but it will only be a small token of esteem scaled against his immense talent. The most provocative, outspoken, necessary stand-up of modern times? I’d say so.
Sure, I realise that praise of this sort might well have made the man himself cringe. I can imagine him frowning and pouting even as I write. “By the way if anyone here is in advertising or marketing . . . kill yourself,” ran one of his notorious asides. Much as he appreciated the fervour with which he was greeted in the UK in the late Eighties and early Nineties – a refreshing contrast to his homeland’s slow-burn take-up – I suspect he would have recoiled at glowing posthumous puffs. He would have been wary of being co-opted, irked at being labelled or neutered.