“Showbiz!” is a flexible declaration in Murray Hill’s world. It can be a celebration of the best parts about his job as a comedian and entertainer. It can be an ironic comment on persevering through the worst parts of the gig. And it’s also the title of his new memoir, “Showbiz! My Life as a Middle-Aged Man,” released earlier this month.
“Showbiz means the jazz hands, the spotlights, the good times, the laughing, the tuxedo, the bow tie, the cufflinks,” he said, speaking by phone from Florida, where he was getting ready for a book event. But it also means getting stiffed by a booker, or the microphone cutting out on your best joke, or missing a flight to the next gig. “It’s irreverent and kind of making light of a tough situation. So that’s the two meanings it has for me.”
The 54-year-old has seen extremes in his personal and professional lives, paths that weaved together and led him to become Murray Hill, which is the main thread of the book. “I identify as a trans man in solidarity with and to support my community,” he writes. “But I would rather not constantly be asked how I identify and what my pronouns are.”
When people ask how he identifies, he writes, “I’m just me, Murray.”
Before he was Fred Rococo in “Somebody Somewhere” with Bridget Everett or Murray in “Life & Beth” with Amy Schumer, or hosting the “King of Drag” competition show on Revry network, or hosting cabaret shows around the world, he was a student at Boston University trying to figure out who he was.
Born in Franklin and raised in Connecticut in an abusive environment, he struggled with gender identity. His mother would try to force girly clothes on him, but he never felt feminine, which led to frequent fighting.
There were no role models in his community or the media he was consuming from whom he could learn about queerness. “I felt isolated and I didn’t feel represented in Connecticut growing up,” he said. “I didn’t see myself anywhere in books, in media, paper, you know, pop culture, anything. So eventually I became what I didn’t see.”
Boston University, and the Boston queer nightlife scene, helped him take the next step in sorting out his identity. “Boston is really when I started to realize that life was bigger than the suburbs, and there was a lot to learn,” he said.
Murray was a painting major, but frequently displayed his photographs from queer life in Boston. The camera allowed him to observe the culture he had not yet joined from a safe distance. He would tell venues he was with The Boston Phoenix and shoot in places like Club Café and Jacque’s Cabaret.
In 1992, he photographed a group called GLIB, the Irish-American Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual Group of Boston, which had been denied participation in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. “I wasn’t even out yet,” he said. “I wasn’t marching with them behind the banner, but I was watching. I was kind of marching with them on the side, but the camera really did, at least in my mind, separate me from identifying like them.”
The joy he saw in the queer clubs was in strict contrast to the hatred he saw in the street for GLIB. Being half Irish himself, the invective was confusing. “I didn’t understand how Irish people, Boston Irish people, could discriminate against another minority group,” he said.
There are two elements of Murray’s life where he felt the world moved from black and white to Technicolor. One was finding queer spaces and drag culture in Boston. The other was watching Johnny Carson every night, seeing old school comedians like Don Rickles, Shecky Greene, and Don Rickles. “I hadn’t seen people so expressive and loose and with so much personality,” he said. “At least in the old days, part of New England is being very kind of repressed, right?”
When he outgrew what Boston could teach him about art and photography, Murray moved to New York City to study at the School of Visual Arts. Inspired by feminist performance art and female old school comedians like Rusty Warren (who grew up in Milton), Belle Barth, and Totie Fields, Murray increasingly aimed the camera at himself. One of Murray’s professors, Shelly Rice, encouraged him to put the camera down and step onto the stage. “She was like, ‘Become Murray Hill, go all in, and then your thesis is you’re going to have to give a performance for your graduation,’” he said.
Murray Hill, the entertainer, and Murray Hill, the person, merged. He began to cohost cabaret and variety shows, learning to croon a bit and work the crowds in New York City clubs. Murray’s experience makes for a big tent at his shows. He brings the world of drag kings and queer culture together with campy classic comedy and original music. With a warm smile and a snazzy suit, he’s looking to put people at ease by evoking the persona of an old-timey vaudeville host. Showbiz! “I reference those characters, but I’m like a postmodern version,” he said. “I’m like the safe space version of Don Rickles.”
His two guiding principles are read the room and don’t punch down. “I create the environment that I want to be in,” he said. “We can all laugh at each other. We can feel safe. We’re not going to be gay bashed or called a whore for wearing gym clothes. That’s never part of my show. I’m very conscious of who’s in the audience, what’s going on in the world, and trying to make it positive using camp humor, but still commenting on all the things that are wrong out there.”
Once the book tour wraps up, Murray is hoping there will be a final “Somebody Somewhere” movie to give the series a proper sendoff. He’s also working on a scripted comedy show he’s called “Shorty Big Time,” and will launch a podcast next year. “That will be very much like Johnny Carson and ‘[The] Dean Martin Show.’”
A lot of Murray’s story as presented in “Showbiz!” was a surprise to even close friends. He hadn’t talked much about his family history, or his early years in Boston. Those stories held a lot of pain and negative energy. Writing the book lifted some of that weight. “There is a relief now,” he said. “I don’t know if I have closure yet, but there is something that’s happened. It’s like I’m not holding on to it anymore.”