Also …I checked on the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band & found they left town—replaced by ex-Monkee Mike Nesmith with something called The First National Band—which is just as well, because I don’t have much stomach for studio-born road-shows. But I resent your assumption that Music is Not My Bag (or whatever you said) … because I’ve been arguing for the past few years that music is the New Literature, that Dylan is the 1960s’ answer to Hemingway, and that the main voice of the ’70s will be on records & videotape instead of books.
But by “music” I don’t mean the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. If the Grateful Dead came to town, I’d beat my way in with a fucking tire iron, if necessary. I think Workingman’s Dead is the heaviest thing since Highway 61 and “Mr. Tambourine Man” (with the possible exception of the Stones’ last two albums … and the definite exception of Herbie Mann’s Memphis Underground, which may be the best album ever cut by anybody). And that might make a good feature: some kind of poll on the Best Albums of the ’60s …or, “Where it was at in the Rock Age.” Because the ’60s are going to go down like a repeat, somehow, of the 1920s; the parallels are too gross for even historians to ignore.
So, for whatever it’s worth—to either one of us, for that matter—here’s the list from Raoul Duke:46
1) Memphis Underground (“Battle Hymn of the Republic”) H. Mann
2) “Mr. Tambourine Man” (Bringing It All Back Home) Zimmerman
3) Highway 61 … Zimmerman
4) Workingman’s Dead …Warlocks et al.
5) Let It Bleed
6) Buffalo Springfield first album
7) Surrealistic Pillow
8) Roland Kirk … (various albums)
9) Sketches of Spain … M. Davis
10) Sandy Bull …#2
Jesus, what a hassle to even think quickly about a list like that. Even now I can think of 10 more I might have added … but what the fuck, it’s only a rude idea. But a good one, I think, and particularly for RS. The implications of the final list would vibrate far beyond the actual music … it would be a very heavy fucking document. You may want to give it some thought. …
OK for now. I have all the fotos together & I’m sending them along with brief captions, so we can get this thing started.
Ciao …
Hunter
TO ELIZABETH RAY:
December 30, 1970
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Aunt Lee …
Thanx as always for the Christmas check; this year it went into the campaign-debt fund. We ran up massive bills almost everywhere… and they all came due when we lost. But I guess that’s an old story with losing candidates.
Anyway, here are two campaign pieces that may or may not explain what it was all about. (The Aspen Wallposter is our monthly publication—Tom Benton does the art & I do the writing.) The net result of this last incredible campaign seems to be that I’m now plunged heavily into national politics—but on some very odd level that doesn’t seem to fit with anybody’s idea of Left or Right or Center or anything else. And that’s just about the way it should be, I think, but it’s a very hard stance to explain … and it always has been. The New York Times article comes as close as anything written during the campaign to explaining what it was all about.
If nothing else, I certainly learned a hell of a lot … I’m working on a book about the campaign. Hopefully, it will be finished in a few months. And I’ll send you one of the first copies … for good or ill. Thanks again for the check. Love …
Hunter
1971
FEAR & LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS … QUEER NIGHTS IN THE CIRCUS-CIRCUS, DRAG-RACING ON THE STRIP … BROWN POWER IN EAST L.A., TOM WOLFE FLEES TO ITALY…INVASION OF THE JESUS FREAKS, A GENERATION RUN AMOK … SHREWD ADVICE FROM THE SPORTS DESK …
The famous roadside test in Monterey during the Rolling Stone Big Sur Conference in 1971. Thompson passed the test by catching his sunglasses behind his back when they fell off his head during questioning.
(PHOTO BY ANNIE LEIBOVITZ)
(DRAWING BY RALPH STEADMAN)
Hunter Thompson with Oscar Zeta Acosta, Caesars Palace, Las Vegas, 1971.
(PHOTO COURTESY OF CASHMAN PHOTO ENTERPRISES, INC.)
Rolling Stone staff, Big Sur Conference, 1971. Left to right: Tim Ferris, Andrew Bailey, Grover Lewis, Paul Scanlon, Bob Kingsbury, Jann Wenner, Jon Landau, HST, Brian Cookman, Jerry Hopkins, Tim Cahill, Bob Greenfield, Joe Eszterhas. Front row: Tim Crouse, Charles Perry, Ben Fong-Torres, David Felton.
(PHOTO BY ANNIE LEIBOVITZ)
Hunter Thompson in Las Vegas, 1971.
(PHOTO COURTESY OF HST ARCHIVES)
Official certificate from the District Attorneys’ Drug Conference.
(PHOTO COURTESY OF HST ARCHIVES)
FROM WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, LOOK:
Thompson’s friend William Kennedy had a new job.
January 25, 1971
Hunter:
Some you win, some you lose.
I’ve been named book critic for LOOK magazine. My first column will appear in the March 23rd issue, on sale March 9th. This assumes that they print what I write. Signed a contract last week after only about a month’s worth of waiting. They knew my work from about a year ago, things I did for the Observer and the T-U [Albany Times-Union]. I won’t get rich but I won’t want for much for a while either. Out of the blue, really. I hadn’t given a thought to it until they called me up and asked me to be a candidate for the job.
I talked to Selma Shapiro and she hooted mightily: “From Albany to LOOOOOOOK!!!!! I don’t be-LIEVE it!!!”
So much for Selma’s faith.
I’m writing Peggy [Clifford] tonight also and will send her a copy of the article as soon as I can find one. I am in the usual chaos, topped by some unusual frenzy. I get about 12 books a day. My predecessor says some days you get 60. Stop by with your wheelbarrow when you’re in the area.
All right for now. Will you make sure to send me your Stone piece? I don’t get near a newsstand. I’m subscribing to it but I’m afraid I won’t get it in time to see your work.
Got a call from Dick Elman1 the other night. He’s got a 600-page novel coming out about a professor who murders his wife. He’s getting restless with his agent who thinks the book is too strong. Don’t understand. Elman also divorcing. Denne Petitclerc’s2 novel on LeMans coming out around May, I think.
Yes, yes, yes.
Kennedy
TO ROBERT LIPSYTE, THE NEW YORK TIMES:
Thompson pitched the sports angle on the rape-of-Aspen story to an editor friend at The New York Times.
January 27, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Bob …
It just occurred to me that we’re sitting on a really wonderful sport-story out here, but for some reason the hired ski-press can’t seem to get into it. What’s happening to Aspen is that it’s faced, very suddenly, with the same kind of socio-political reality that’s stomping down the aisles of every other sport from boxing to pro-football … or at least trying to. Anyway, the town is committing financial suicide, rather than cope with all these terrible new afflictions that have suddenly rushed in from the Outside World. The merchants have chosen to hunker down in a brain-swamp of Nazi/Agnew platitudes …and their lunatic stance is all that keeps local politics interesting. The Ski Patrol, for instance, just voted to unionize under the Teamsters, and now there’s talk of a savage strike, complete with picket lines on the ski lifts & imported thugs pounding strikebreakers, etc., etc…. and all this with another (Mayor & city council) election coming up in May … and tonight I attended Aspen’s first John Birch Society rally, at the new Holiday Inn. The Fatbacks are gearing down for Waterloo, a last stand … and like I said, it looks like a king-hell Sport Story. FYI …
Hunter
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, LOOK:
January 30, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Dear William …
Your note inre: LOOK was the best news I’ve had in fuck knows how long. I didn’t realize
those fuckers even reviewed books, but if Selma’s into that action I know it must be important. Indeed, you’ll probably blow up to about 300 pounds of free booze by mid ’71 … you’d better be watching yourself; this is a very ominous watershed for us all, and since I’ll probably never have an opening to say it again, I might as well belch it out now…. Yes … You have just Been Bought? Sold Out? Bought IN? What is it …? I’m no longer sure.
Are you?
I think that’s a righteous question. And I’ll start reading LOOK to find out some hints at the answer. But in a nut I see this as a really terrifying development all around. The deal continues to Go Down. For us all. And where, they ask, were you when the Great Ace fell?
Where indeed? Denne Petitclerc turned up in my driveway last night, leaning nervously on his horn & yelling that last year he made 250,000 dollars & the Taxman took it all & where could he rent a peaceful cabin in Aspen? What could I make of a scene like that? What could you make of it? What will the Taxman say next week when he comes for his crucial One Grand—according to the schedule [Thompson’s tax adviser] Shellman rigged up—and I tell him I can’t be bothered with that kind of cheap left-handed shit because all my 250K per yr. buddies are embarrassed to be seen in a house that is known to be haunted these days by the Taxman?
Horrible, horrible …
Anyway, it’s a weird but absolute truth that about 30 minutes before I got your letter inre: LOOK I was standing in the shower & for some reason thinking about The Rum Diary, which led to a side-shot on your action & found myself wondering why my life was so bound up in the failed dreams of crazy Irishmen (Clancy, Hinckle, you …) and I came out of the shower sort of slumped & ill-humored and grumbling at Sandy … & then she gave me your letter, which I opened with a baleful sort of snarl … and I tell you by christ it was the first honest ray of light I’ve seen since Election Day. If you were anywhere around I’d smack you on the fucking ear and drink off the rest of your whiskey. With a crazy burst of laughing & nasty raps on whatever gang of assholes stumbled into that kind of hopeless mistake …
Yeah … good show. For good or ill. The terrible irony, of course, is that it should have happened at least 10 years ago. Why do the bastards always learn so late? And so long after the crucial eviction-or-else rent was due? You should make it your business to focus on the High Things that are happening Now— which is risky, because it involves a constant kind of out-front value judgement act that nobody else on the Publishing/PR Grog scene can possibly understand. Their gig is “Whatever’s Safe” … and that leaves a lot of room for “Whatever’s Right.” Consider it … and Good Luck. OK …
Hunter
TO SELMA SHAPIRO, RANDOM HOUSE:
January 30, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Selma …
Bill Kennedy just sent me a note containing a nasty quote from you about hicks sneaking into the Big City. I always suspected you of living behind a rude, commercial eye … and the raw, naked & supremely focused ambition that drives you was never more clear than when you turned your back on all your best aesthetic instincts and stripped that naked bird/shooting/California shotgun photo of me off your wall and sent it back for revisions. That was a callous, rotten act—and it plunged me into a savage, mindless sort of drug frenzy that lasted for maybe two years.
In any case, I’m enclosing the latest issue of the Wallposter—including my most recent Personal public-release style photograph. This one is a real fucking Winner, and when I tell Silberman that it has to be the jacket foto for the next ugly book, I don’t want any tasteless shit from your department. I have all the graphics well organized … and beyond that I’ve lined out a fantastic Hired Pig campaign that will bend them all stupid. All that’s left, of course, is The Book—which I must get back to, for now. It’s stone gibberish, but what the hell? These goddamn kids will buy anything, won’t they?
Best commercial wishes,
Hunter
TO JANN WENNER, ROLLING STONE:
Thompson was toying with committing to write a regular column for Rolling Stone.
January 30, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Jann …
This comes in the midst of a certain amount of work/priority/message chaos—some of which resulted from those fucking telegrams of yours that got here three days late. Jesus, you should know by now—don’t ever fuck with Western Union (I got your first one in the midst of writing a proposal for various acts geared to the 1, 2, 3 notions you outlined in your last letter …but when I figured you’d be here in a matter of hours I said, Well, fuck this, we’ll wait & talk about it … then I called Rock3 & he said No, maybe Wednesday … or maybe now, but in any event I’ll gear the fuckers back up and send them off ASAP). And Rock, in the meantime, will get the brunt of the Wild Boar message … yes, we need that heard.
Anyway, the nut of what’s left hanging here is some idea of consolidating what we have on Aspen, along with some hazy ideas on LA/Chicanos vs. Vietnam (with lengthy notes & samples) … along with a very definitely double-edged idea about the notion of doing a regular sort of column for Rolling Stone—which is always a good idea, in abstract, but I remember I agreed to it once for Ramparts, [and] the idea of filling one page a month was never quite hashed out between [editor Peter] Collier & myself—much less that wiggy bastard Hinckle. But it was a good idea; I never denied that—although it was hard to lock into for $150 or $200 a month. Because what happens to anybody who gets into any kind of forced/regular writing is that he’s bound to make a useless fool of himself now & then … and it’s hard to set a price on that kind of reality.
But to hell with that for now; at best it’s just a vague notion—maybe born of my continuing frustration at always having to dump about nine-tenths of everything worth writing about, the inevitable free-lancer’s compulsion to always fire your best shot … which kills all of the fast raps & left jabs en route to all those classic Kayos.
Right … but let’s not forget that the KO’s are where the main survival/ nerves live, and we all have to scrape those evil fuckers once in a while, if only to pay the rent. Or maybe the real word is “dues.” Which I suspect maybe you might have a hard time understanding. No fault of your own—or anyone else’s, for that matter … just some accident of history, and maybe the main thing you lost with Lombardi4 was his gut understanding of that concept. Which lent a definite depth, or dimension, to most of what he did or got into. But what the hell …?
Excelsior! Right?
I’ll get this jangled package to you as soon as I get it all straight … & meanwhile I’ll eat some snails with Rock & bug him a bit about all the scenes that he should, of course, be In To. Right! Wild Boar & Wolverines. But discretion is the word, eh? And why not? We’re all discreet when we see the need. Even me … And that’s about it for now.
OK …
Hunter
TO U.S. SENATOR WALTER F. MONDALE:
Minnesota senator and future vice president Walter F. Mondale—one of the few Washington politicians Thompson respected—had taken less than a month to reply to his July 31, 1970, letter.
February 1, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Senator Mondale:
Sorry to be so late with a reply to your letter of August 24, ’70 … but my correspondence & indeed my whole lifestyle were plunged into limbo last autumn when I became involved in one of the most savage & unnatural campaigns of modern times. I refer, of course, to my “Freak Power” bid to unseat the incumbent sheriff of Aspen, Colorado. Which failed—by a roughly 40/60% split when the local Democrats & Republicans combined in a last-minute coalition to beat us.
There’s not much point in explaining this tragedy, but for your general amusement or whatever, I’m enclosing a New York Times clip for some background. And also one of our Wallposters … and if I can find one, a copy of a thing I did for Rolling Stone. I’m not sure what any of this might explain to you, but my general idea in sending it along is that we might pos
sibly have stumbled on something very important out here. Aspen is a solidly GOP town by registration, but in 1970 all four city precincts voted solidly for a “Freak Power” ticket—which is not quite as bad as it sounds (see Rolling Stone), but bad enough to generate a landslide against us in the two rural/suburb/trailer-court precincts; and that was what beat us….
And that’s about it for now … except maybe to urge you to think about the weird implications of this Aspen/Freak Power thing. On the surface it seems entirely local, but stripped of those menacing fright-words the Aspen campaign boiled down very simply to the notion of running a completely honest political campaign—saying exactly what we thought & what we planned to do. My platform was a bit heavy & towards the end we were forced to tone down the language—but not the realities, and in the final analysis it hardly mattered whether we planned to “tear up the streets” or merely “ban autos from the city-center & turn the streets into malls.” The real issue was Power …and Who was going to have it. This was clearly understood on both sides, and as a result we turned out an incredible number of voters, more than anyone thought was possible.
What I’m getting at here is the fact that we managed to tap a huge bloc vote that nobody even suspected was alive in this town. These were the people—nearly all under 25—who understood that our “freak power” slogan was not an insult but a compliment. This was a difficult thing for the local ACLU-type “liberals” to understand; they didn’t like being appealed to as “freaks.”
Fear and Loathing in America Page 49