Audio By Carbonatix
Anti-comic Neil Hamburger is traveling from Detroit to Pittsburgh and his cell phone service is failing miserably. After the third disconnection, he issues this apology: “We passed some skunks back there. The smell was too strong for the satellite. I stuck some Ding-Dong wrappers on the antennae. I hope they work. They’re very expensive.”
Now, snack cake wrappers may not seem like much of a luxury. However, very little goes to waste when you’ve made a living telling jokes in pizza parlors for the past decade. “Last week we played Geno’s … Gebo’s … something like that,” he recalls. “I demanded a pitcher of water to go. They wouldn’t let us keep the pitcher! The guys in Canned Hamm [Hamburger’s opening act] have big hands, I’ve got big hands — but by the time we hit the Ohio turnpike it’s all over the seats!”
Such indignities are commonplace for Hamburger, who until recently lived in a La Verne, California, storage locker. “It got seized by the storage company and I lost all my possessions,” he says sadly. “All the contents were sold to the scrap plastic factory.” Among his vanished treasures were thousands of comedy cassettes that Hamburger was attempting to sell through the Love’s truck-stop chain, hoping they’d be stocked next to the Johnny Rebel tapes in the display case. “They were water-damaged, but they were still salable!” he complains. “I researched the truck-stop situation, and found that glory holes, hastily drawn pictures of penises, and speed were a large part of it. But Love’s didn’t seem to appreciate the truth. At least [the tapes] did come out — if by coming out you mean being melted into dishwashing liquid.”
Tragic it may be, but as Hamburger says, “Thaaaaaat’s my life!” Despite the pizza-parlor mishaps and storage-locker eviction, his profile has risen dramatically, especially considering his humble beginnings on tiny indie label Amarillo Records. Amarillo was best known for putting out records by The Satanic Bible author Anton LaVey until it released 1993’s Great Phone Calls, a hilarious collection of prank calls highlighted by a preternaturally upbeat, high-pitched Hamburger phoning San Francisco comedy clubs (“Hey, what’s going on Friday night there? Cancel it! NEEEIIIILL HAAMBURGER’S IN TOWN!“). While the record kick-started his career, media accusations that Neil Hamburger is actually the stage name of Amarillo owner Gregg Turkington have haunted Hamburger ever since. “I don’t know who that is!” he whines. “I just don’t understand. A lot of these people, these journalists, they stretch the truth. You probably work with a lot of these people. They have no scruples. You give these guys obituaries to write and before the paper comes out, they’re at the [dead] man’s house — having sex with their wife! They’ll do anything! They’re disturbed people!”
It’s no secret that show business and family life don’t mix. By the time his third album, Raw Hamburger, came out, Hamburger’s wife had left him for her dentist. While his drop in self-esteem and musings about suicide and depression were to be expected under the circumstances, there was a surprising side effect: His voice dropped a full octave. “In the time since the divorce,” he explains, “what happened is, in addition to the heartbreak and the garnishing of the pay, the testes tend to back up with reproductive fluids. Which can lead to a change of timbre in the human voice. There’s a documentary on the Discovery Channel about it.”
His new delivery led him on a career path with more highs and lows than a manic-depressive mountain climber. Hamburger’s fourth album, 1999’s Left For Dead In Malaysia, was recorded in a Kuala Lumpur bar in front of a completely silent, non-English-speaking audience. The album ends with the karaoke machine cutting him off midway through his set of horrific Montezuma’s revenge and Spice Girls jokes. “That was not good,” he says. “I’m very sorry that the record label chose to release that.” Despite that embarrassment, the next time Hamburger traveled to the South Pacific he performed at the Olympic Stadium in Sydney. “It was a big rock festival,” he cracks. “P.K. Harvey and Jane and his Addictions. You wouldn’t wish some of these people on your worst enemy, but they do entertain the kids.”
Another feather in Hamburger’s cap was his recent appearance on Jimmy Kimmel Live! After his performance perplexed the mouth-breathers in the audience, Hamburger shared the couch with Yoko Ono. “It was mind-blowing to be so close to so much fame and talent and money,” he enthuses. “After the show, I was getting some stuff signed and she was so nice and we got along so well that you might see a Double Fantasy II with Neil Hamburger! I think it would be more of a comedy record. Let’s hope so. Or else I’ll have her career.”
In the meantime, Hamburger continues to tour behind his latest work, 2002’s tremendously conflicted Laugh Out Lord. A string of George W. Bush punch lines are bleeped out while religious jokes that rocket past the blasphemy threshold (“Why did God invent Fleetwood Mac? Because he was high on PCP. Why did God invent the Internet? So he wouldn’t be seen buying his gay pornography in public. Why did God make homosexuality a sin? Because his boyfriend said it would be more of a turn-on that way.”) remain uncensored. Is our 43rd president scarier than God Almighty?
“At this point, I do think that was a concern,” Hamburger concedes, but to him it’s just show business. “God is a marketing gimmick. Any of your chart-topping records by the Backstreet Boys or whomever, they all refer to God as a PCP addict. I find it vaguely offensive. But the show must go on.”
