Hicks' disdain for shilling celebrities is both prescient and precious: Sure, nowadays you can't turn on the TV without seeing Diddy yapping about Pro-Activ, and Julia Roberts can make $1.5 million for a 45-second clip of her sipping Italian coffee; but we also live in an era where The Who, who actually made an album mocking "sell-outs," perform at the Super Bowl halftime show, sponsored by every product ever made. Martin Scorsese stumps for American Express, Bob Dylan for Victoria's Secret. The Simpsons—a show Hicks loved—has lent its image to Coke, 7-Eleven, and Butterfinger. The battle for artistic autonomy has been pretty much lost in this constantly shifting new-media landscape, and nowadays, getting riled up over "sell-outs" seems almost quaint. Which once again raises the question: Would Hicks still be ranting about this stuff today? Or would he dole out the same sort of special dispensation he gave Willie Nelson and move on?
It's unfair to judge Hicks' subject matter when it's a decade and a half past its prime, and not all of his material is specific to the cred-conscious early '90s: Some of it is timeless misanthropy, such as his assertion that "your children aren't special," or his spittle-flecked love letters to smoking, drugs, and porn. And despite easy labels like "ranting" and "curmudgeon," Hicks was, in essence, an idealist, which shouldn't be dismissed even in our current age of lowered ideals. He expected more of the world and his audience; those expectations just happened to manifest themselves in the form of curmudgeonly ranting.
The above clip also demonstrates one of Hicks' biggest assets as a comedian, one that can be appreciated regardless of subject matter: his energy on stage. Listening to The Essential Collectionon headphones for the first time, I was a little put out by Hicks' frequent yelling and tendency to swallow the mic for effect, such as on the track "Rockers Against Drugs Suck." But a video of that same routine—from the Relentless album and accompanying DVD—throws it into much sharper relief, revealing the bounding energy and almost jovial physical presence that accompanied Hicks' ire, making it seem significantly less grating.
This isn't one of my favorite bits, but it does a good job of demonstrating that, like any good comedian, Hicks' appeal extends beyond the sound of his words. Which isn't to say his words are meaningless. It's easy to brush off his vulgarities and repetitive cussing as crutches, but Hicks' tirades were carefully crafted and sometimes borderline-poetic: His description of Billy Ray Cyrus as a "homunculus mongoloid" is "cellar door"-caliber wordsmithery. Although I may bristle at Hicks calling me a "sheep" for liking the summer, I will never again be able to go to the beach without thinking "it's where dirt meets water." (To be fair, Hicks' willful antagonism of his audience was a large component of his contentious appeal; whether you're amused or infuriated, it's hard to not at least be engaged.)
Hicks wasn't quite 30 when he filmed the set that would end up being Relentless, but he had already been performing stand-up for nearly half his life at that point, which surely accounts for his ease onstage—though judging from the DVD component of The Essential Collection, which includes video of Hicks performing as a teenager, much of that might just be natural ability. Whether you connect to the material or not—and I'll admit, I had a hard time connecting to much of it—it's hard to deny that Hicks was both a practiced professional and a fiery ball of potential that was snuffed out too soon. Listening to Hicks for the first time in 2010 isn't necessarily a satisfying or cathartic experience, as it mostly serves to raise the sort of "what ifs" I've been pondering for this entire article; but it is an interesting, almost anthropological glimpse into the evolution of comedy, American culture, and how we talk about both. I think, as someone who was a philosopher at heart, Hicks would be satisfied with that legacy.