BILL BURR

You gotta love comedians in general, because if they’re any good, they make you laugh.

And to laugh, beats the bejabbers out of the alternatives.

My mother always said, “Pete dear, better to laugh than to…”

But comedians with Boston roots are a different breed.

Sure, it has something to do with that flat, nasal Boston accent, and a distinct and profound inability to pronounce the letter ‘r,’ or ‘ahr,’ which is immediately identifiable.

Y’know, “ya pahk yaauwh cah in Hahvahd Yahd,” etc.

But that’s just part of it.

If you’re funny, you’re funny, but it’s about material, delivery, intuition, intonation, timing, basic understanding, audience understanding and lots of other stuff.

Boston-born comedians cut a wide swath–historically and currently.

We could perhaps start with “The Master of Malaprop,” Norm Crosby from Dorchester, who has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

The more contemporary roster is loaded.

Leno.

Conan.

Lenny Clarke.

Steve Sweeney.

Carell.

Dennis Leary.

Amy Poehler.

Steven Wright.

Dane Cook.

Mindy Paling.

Rachel Dratch.

Rob Delaney.

Gary Gulman.

Paula Poundstone.

Jenny Slate.

The Newton, MA. quartet: Louis C.K., Matt LeBlanc, John Krasinski and Bo Burnham.

Jimmy Tingle.

Dana Gould.

And what of Bill Burr?

Canton’s own.

William Frederick Burr, not yet 54, is a superstar…period.

If you listen to him for one minute–or less–it’s a slam-dunk that a broad smile will crease your face, followed by hearty laughter.

His name matches his schtick: informal, punchy and insouciant with a quick staccato snap and flurry.

He features that Boston wiseguy accent and inflection, accompanied by a palpable air of flamboyance.

Couple that with his physical movement.

The way he moves.

Struts.

Jaunty, with a puffed out chest.

Like a proud peacock.

Ever see Jon Voight play Mick from Southie on Ray Donovan?

Same deal.

Right down to the boulder-sized chip resting on his shoulder.

He saunters over to the microphone stand, leans in and then lets it rip.

His expressions of annoyance know no bounds.

Political correctness.

The easily offended.

Nerds of all stripes.

But all this is simply the precursor.

Two of his greatest pet peeves are judgment and being told what to do.

He hates that!!!

Could be today’s fairly innocuous GPS voice, or God’s voice in the afterlife, assessing Burr’s estimable ‘jerk quotient,’ displayed on Earth.

He asks incredulously of the Almighty, his maker,

“You judging me?”

Followed by, “You made me. This is on you.”

It’s Burr’s magnetic voice, building comic momentum, which sets him apart.

Popular podcasts and a small role as one of Saul Goodman’s henchmen on “Breaking Bad,” raised his profile and certainly didn’t do him any harm.

Several years ago, he was touted as the next Louis C.K., — which turned out to be the definition of a dubious distinction, given C.K.’s well-documented travails.

But it was about the talent…just the talent.

And it was meant as a compliment.

Two hard-working Boston Everyman Redheads–when they had hair–who have the unique and uncanny ability to tell jokes and elicit responses.

Laughter.

Waves of laughter.

Their knack is a given.

Guaranteed.

They can go off script and risk losing the crowd, but their self assurance allows them to resurface and not only dig out, but capture, and then dominate.

Like a jungle animal.

Sometimes they seem to go deeper than they might, in an effort to challenge themselves.

And ultimately to win.

In live shows, Burr gives you a conversational intimacy, to air and detail his laundry list of grievances.

Cocky, frustrated and emasculated.

Pissed off.

Steve Jobs?

“What did he do?” Burr asks, flabbergasted.

“He told other people what to invent.”

In a bit from his 2010 special “Let It Go,” reputed to be one of his finest–a dozen years ago, mind you–he meticulously describes how anxiety about being manly enough, represents a source of constant frustration to him.

He tells the story of trying to buy a pumpkin under the duress of a million voices singing in his head.

The bullies/demons on his shoulder, chime in any time a guy does something remotely sensitive or heartwarming.

He explains the enforced machismo which bubbles to the surface, with the gravity of a Soviet citizen describing life under Stalin.

An early and premature death is inevitable.

“It’s literally from five decades suppressing an urge to hug a puppy, admitting a baby’s cute, saying you want a cookie.”

Burr is one of five brothers, which should, in and of itself, tell you all you need to know.

He walks the tightrope of good taste and sensitivity, periodically stumbling to make sure the audience is paying attention.

It’s a clever ploy.

It works.

He says ad nauseum that he’s stupid, just another dope telling jokes, which allows him wiggle room to explore the thoughts best left unspoken in polite company.

While plenty of comics employ a similar strategy, Burr is able to pull it off without compromising his persona: a (Boston) hothead and sorehead who’ll say anything.

As evidenced by his response to a booing crowd in Philadelphia–what a surprise–-his temper is consistent with his red-headed German-Irish heritage and Boston mentality.

To parry the booing, he launched a ten-minute profanity-laced tirade, a fusillade bombarding the audience with vulgar abuse.

The City of Brotherly Love in his crosshairs.

Went viral.

Focused passion and trash talk, made into an art form.

He exploits anger.

He will use slights–real or perceived– as motivation, and never let it derail his comedic approach.

Only enhance it.

With that Boston mug and fresh tone, driving the bus.

This ‘hugging a puppy’ business?

Maybe.

But I’m not sure.

[Editor’s Note: This piece was written by Mr. Kaplan in February 2022.]