Bad journalism can be boring, only living to serve one purpose. Good journalism hooks and engages you. Gonzo journalism… well, gonzo journalism is something else.
It all began with biker gang the Hells Angels’ rampage across America in the early 60s. These monsters on motorcycles inspired both fear and admiration in equal measure across the states, but their lives outside of the exaggerated public image plastered in the press were unknown. Surely these lunatics spawned from some oozing black swamp in the depths of hell. These foul beasts were undoubtedly raised by an infernal taskmaster, grooming them for a life of terror and mayhem once they were unshackled from the bowls of the earth. Or, maybe, just maybe, the Hells Angels were…men. Brando in The Wild One was a man, so why couldn’t the Angels be of this earth too? This was the likely question asked by an equally mad weapon: a young, budding journo called Hunter Thompson.
Thompson’s Hells Angels followed the rag-tag group of miscreants, delving into both their public persona as America’s new villain as well as the individual members’ personal lives. More importantly, it was funny. It was funny and it read like you were in the back seat, strapped in with those mad fuckers for the wildest ride of your life. Those nearly-300 pages zip past you like innocent bystanders blurring out of vision on the 100-mph ride down an endless highway of insanity. The Angels may have been the perfect catalyst to jumpstart Thompson’s writing, itself stinking of beer, bennies, and bike grease almost as much as the gang themselves. Sprinkled into the, for the most part, straight journalism is a spark of something else, something indefinable at the time. Sections read like how a friend’s enrapturing story sounds when you’re seven drinks deep: edge of your seat crazy. Out of Hells Angels, gonzo was born.
Gonzo can be described as a heavy cocktail of one part truth, two parts fiction, and as many parts as you can stomach substance abuse. Overall, it makes for a punchy read. Thompson’s next work is practically defined by gonzo, putting it on the map for good. It is also what, I imagine, comes to mind when you think of the name Hunter S. Thompson. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas locks anyone who dears approach it into a drug, drink, and everything in between induced coma which you are not likely to come out of any time soon. And its not just from the heady story being told. You are in the ring with the writing style; each word is a well-timed jab to the gut; the chapters, a finishing blow: an uppercut straight to the jaw. No single entity has inspired how I think about the versatility of the English language more than Thompson’s work on Fear and Loathing. With risk of sounding wet and corny, the book changed my perspective completely.
Unfortunately, where the book triumphs in off the wall yet coherently structured storytelling, the inevitable film adaptation can only be said to meekly imitate. Where the book offers engaging irreverence in spades, Gilliam’s turn on the material serves uninspired ‘woah dude’ trippy visuals as a poor replacement. Don’t get me wrong, I do not dislike the film entirely. Hell, it was my first introduction to Thompson’s persona and body of work. But, compared to the exercise in knockout gonzo journalism that is the book, it is nothing more than an amateurish rip-off. However, Depp does play a convincingly inebriated Thompson, likely due to his close relationship with the writer.
From his portrayal on the silver screen and publications in the Rolling Stone, Thompson had become indistinguishable from the madness found running rampant in his works. He was a walking talking talisman of everything gonzo: a crazed gun nut living in a farm house he referred to as the “fortified compound”; swapping water for rum with a cocaine chaser; really wearing those daft, or maybe irreverently stylish, aloha shirts; campaigning (unsuccessfully) to be the sheriff of Aspen, Colorado and shaving his head just so he could call his straight-laced, short-trimmed opponent “long haired”. I wonder if our world today could spit out a man like Thompson again and, better yet, for him to be as widely revered and publicised. Probably not.
Unlike Thompson himself, gonzo as an artistic tradition isn’t exactly dead and buried. Ralph Steadman, illustrator, and frequent collaborator with Thompson, still produces gonzo-inspired design, satirically portraying modern icons of pop culture with a grimly black humour. Moreover, countless writers, including myself, have undoubtedly been inspired to write up their own gonzo-fuelled memoirs. The world right now, with all its liars and backstabbers and money-grubbing bastards, feels like it could definitely benefit from a pure, unfiltered gonzo prescription.
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