sad news indeed....... RIP

Whatever your idea of gonzo journalism is, it should be pointed out that some journalists would indeed see Thompson as an "incorrigible maverick", but one who damaged journalism, at least what I understand it to be. He certainly had a style, amusing to read in parts (Hells Angels) but also incessantly self-mythologising (his eternal casting of himself the 'Outlaw Journalist' from the 70s onwards). In the end he wound up a bit like his contemporary, Tom Wolfe - both are writers whose reputations were cast in momentary flashes almost 40 years ago. (I'll concede Bonfire of the Vanities to any Wolfe-ites though). The albatross around Thompson's neck, and exhibit A in my initial argument, is Fear and Loathing. At times funny, at times drug turgid, never objective, it sums up why I dislike but somewhat admire Thompson. Like Mailer, the closer he became to the centre of his work the less interesting it/he was. Of course fans of his writing would disagree, but once the author becomes the story (the story being a well-written and well-worn drug trip), and the story is sold as innovative 'journalism', I zone out. The bulk of journalism is editing, and Thompson rarely exercised that faculty (it's not surprise to me that it took him 30 years to publish his Rum Diary). Dylan described some of his (Dylan's) unedited writing as 'pages of vomit', and that's what often came to mind on reading HST's flurries of fiction. I won't deny that some of his early work is entertaining, though. If there is a thing called 'gonzo' journalism, I'd argue that its leading proponent is Martin Amis...a writer who wrote his generation in an often sensationalist fashion but whose work never crossed the boundary to chemical biography/ego fiction. As I said, I have found things to admire in HST, but I doubt his work will be read in 100 years time, and I think that, as time passes, readers may come to see the gonzo emperor as well and truly naked. Rest in peace, all the same.

Its a sad day indeed, Hunter S was a truly great journalist, at times he was slightly self-mythologising, but most who knew him claim that he actually lived that way, (so can reality be myth...) I loved his writing, found it entertaining, unique, and thought provoking, (kingdom of fear exspecially) I dont think he peaked at all in the 60s either, his output since has been excellent, including his recent article for Rolling Stone on the American Presedential Election, and his last two books, going to order "Breakfast with Hunter" as soon as possible, and im looking forward to the remake of the Rum Diary, (got to be worth it for the scene where he describes seeing the blonde girl in the airport and plane) RIP and f**k the fascist swine!

RIP the doctor. see you in hell. Have a drink ready...

arthur miller last week, hunter s this week.... two writers who genuinely tackled the evils they saw in their society, who lived it as they wrote it, who tried (and succeeded) to expose the craven opportunism and selfishness of the ruling class (it exists in every country, not just theirs). there'll be a lot written in obituaries this week about how thompson was the conscience of his generation (late 60s/early 70s) just as miller was the voice of decency and humanity in the post-WW2/cold war era. miller's plays and ideas still hold true, and thompson too will be remembered as someone who used his writing to try to make society a fairer and more just place....and to entertain us too!

well writ

I forgot about Arthur Miller. I studied one of his plays in college last year. A truly great writer.

Arthur Miller? That name is familiar. What did he write? I'm not familiar with Thompson, to be honest, but on the strength of Gars heartfelt and admiration-filled post, and everybody else's response to same, I will check him out as soon as possible. Forgive my ignorance, but what actually is gonzo journalism?

gonzo journalism is a style of writing, its fast, and the writer places himself in the story, Hunter said that it came about when he was up against the wall for a deadline and just started sending in his hand written notes, he thought it would be the last story he ever wrote but it was hailed as a break through in journalism and writing, he also said that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was a "failed attempt in gonzo journalism" if you want to check out his stuff, The Rum Diary is an excellent novel, but he also wrote Kingdom of Fear (which might be a good introduction as its topical) Hells Angels (he rode with them for a year) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 (probably my favourite) and a whole s**t load more

Arthur Miller was a playwrite (Death of a salesman and the crucible being his 2 most famous works), former husband of Marillyn Monroe (when the lucky bastard stopped being the envy of every writer who wanted his talent and became the envy of pretty much every straight man in the world; except for JFK who didn't have to marry her ) and as far as I can recall he refusd to cooperate with the house sub-comittee on unAmerican activities (Joe McCarty's anti-commie witchhunt). These things come in 3's, my money's on Roddy Doyle for next week.

Maybe gonzo Journalism would some suffering, if they stopped killing themselves. Perhaps.

Death of a Salesman, that's why I know the name.

Just saw this over at pitchforkmedia and thought that some of you might be interested in it: A Savage Journey Story by Rob Mitchum To my knowledge, Hunter S. Thompson never wrote a record review. His famous involvement with Rolling Stone was incidental to its focus on music, and due merely to Jann Wenner's willingness to publish lengthy screeds and pay both relatively well and on time. But, despite some people's opinion, we at Pitchfork are all writers, and as ones prone to the occasional experimental flight and its frequent partner self-indulgence, we live in the shadow of Hunter just as much as those of Lester or Greil. Predictably, most body-still-warm retrospectives on Thompson's life have been drawn to wrongheaded discussions of drug use and general debauchery rather than his influence on the writing world. But it's hard to get to self-righteous about this treatment-- by the time of his death, HST had long been something of a caricature, both literally, in Doonesbury, and figuratively, through his increasingly bizarre rants about paranoia and football gambling published on ESPN's Page 2. Whether drawn by Trudeau or Steadman, Thompson is cursed to be forever portrayed with cartoon circles orbiting his Panama hat, nothing but a Halloween costume or a t-shirt. Few seem to have noticed that the absurdly exaggerated drug use of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas is given a portrayal that is far from enticing, note-perfectly enacted by Terry Gilliam's film of the book. To Thompson, his persona's ingestion of drugs wasn't a celebration of counterculture mind exploration, but a desperate self-inoculation against the increasingly diseased American atmosphere closing in on all sides. Fear & Loathing didn't earn its place in American literature as a celebration of pharmaceutical joyriding, but rather as an obituary for the delusional promises of the 1960s--it's a literary Altamont. Also seemingly misunderstood are Thompson's politics, often summed up merely as being anti-Nixon and, as such, implicitly leftist. In truth, HST's views ran much closer to libertarian recluse, with his main political issue being the right to own very large guns, and his lunatic run for sheriff on the Freak Power ticket mostly a reaction to ski resorts moving in on his Colorado compound. If Thompson had a political agenda, it was primarily against the invasion of government into private life, and recent times had only given him renewed reason to trot out the phrase most often associated with his work. But the truly lasting impact of Hunter S. Thompson's life will forever be his subversion of traditional journalistic technique, injecting pure subjectivity into the sometimes pious, self-deceiving arm of reporting. Realizing that it was impossible to completely subvert one's personality towards the end of objectively stating facts, Thompson took things to the opposite extreme, placing himself in the scene whenever possible and running off on fantastical tangents when reality got too dry. He knew riding with and subsequently getting beat down by the Hell's Angels would get the story better than interviews and microfiche, knew that the Kentucky Derby's snobbish depravity was better covered drunk and betting profligately than from the detachment of the press box. Yet this innovation isn't merely manifest today in the pretensions of silly indie rock reviewers. In a news world overrun by pundits drunk on their sense of infallibility, the needle of Gonzo journalism is all the more necessary, which is probably why "The Daily Show" out-reports the 24-hour infotainment factories with a scarily high frequency. Literature meanwhile continues to go through cycles of fourth-wall demolition, most recently with the rise and fall of hyper-reflective memoirs, while documentary films start to free themselves from the restrictions of cold, emotionless observation and embrace subjectivity with the same rush HST delivered 30 years ago. While Thompson's self-inflicted death immediately felt more horrible than a natural-cause variety exit, the waiting period of a slow deadline has brought his choice into sharper focus, almost seeming like a logical final act to his career. Anyone who has seen recent footage of the man knows his health was grim at best, and it's only fitting that Thompson would chose to flex his subjectivity one last time regarding the timing and nature of his own demise. So let's not dwell on the ugly details of his death, nor the cultural distortion of his personality into a grinning Johnny Depp gripping a cigarette holder between his teeth and popping mescaline. Instead, let's dwell on the Jill Krementz's photo on the cover of his second letters collection: sitting in a car, wearing an ugly shirt, thinning hair, and a contemplative expression while, in his mind, he redrafts the rules of journalism.

he didnt write many record reviews per say, but he was a big big fan of music (he dedicated either Hells Angels or Fear and Loathing, cant remember which, to Dylan for Mr Tambourine Man, anyways, heres the tail end of a piece he wrote in his column for the San Francisco Examiner in the late 80s, its only the tail end of the piece, but im not typing it all, and most of it isnt about music, basically he got a new fancy satellite thing and in the middle of the night picked up a grainy black and white image of the doors in concert.... "But you don't get alot of Jim Morrison. That is what we call a Special - straight black and white footage of Crazy Jim on stage in the old days, with a voice like Fred Neal's and eyes smarter than James Dean's and a band that could walk with the King, or anybody else. There were some nights when The Doors were the best band in the world. Morrison understood this, and it haunted him all his life. On some nights he was noisy and lewd, and on others he just practiced - but every once in a while he would get it into his head to go out and dance with the big boys, and on a night like that he was more than special. Jim Morrison could play music with anybody. One of these days we will get around to naming names for the real rock n roll Hall of Fame - in that nervous right now realm beyond Elvis and Chuck Berry and Little Richard - and the talk will turn to names like Bob and Mick, and to tunes like Morrison Hotel. Play it sometime. Crank it all the way up on one of those huge obsolete wire-burning MacIntosh amps and 80 custom-built speakers. Then stand back somewhere on the mainbeams of a big log house and feel the music come up through your femurs ... ho, ho ... and after that you can always say, for sure, that you once knew what it was like to hear men play rock 'n' roll music."