My writing journey began in January 2014. That’s when I purchased a blank notebook, a package of gel pens, and I signed up for emailed daily writing prompts.
That’s the answer I give every time I’m asked the question. However, truth be told, it began nine years prior, on February 20, 2005, the day that Hunter S. Thompson ended his life.
I was familiar with Thompson’s work from afar, but when the counterculture icon died, I took notice. I immediately purchased two of his books: Hell’s Angels, which placed him on the literary journalistic map, and his most significant and memorable work, which is the top reference in every biography, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
Two very different books by one very special man with a very special perspective. While I found Hell’s Angels to be a slow read, with fascinating historical background on the development of biker gangs stemming from the end of World War II, and eventually the stories of debauchery and motorized mayhem across California, it was the opening line to Fear and Loathing that, without a doubt, inspired the beginning of my writing journey.
Reading the above paragraph blew my mind away. This was the first moment in my adult life I had the impactful thought, the most tremendous heavy metal moment that I seek in all of art, the one phrase that lets anyone within earshot or occupying space in my lizard brain gets to hear:
“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU COULD DO THAT!”
From that moment on, Hunter S. Thompson occupied a special place in my brain, my heart, my soul. I won’t say he is singular in influence, but the crazed man brought me here, and I’m grateful for it.
Hero status as a person? Not at all. I don’t shoot guns, I don’t take narcotics of any measurement, and my singularly consumed beer every three months doesn’t measure up in the least to the famed substance consuming author.
Hero as a fearless writer: you bet your ass.
I admire his dedication to the craft by copying great works by hand to learn all he can about the writing process. I admire his acumen to describe a scene in vividly colorful, yet distorted ways. I admire his vision of hurling the journalist into the center of the story as the main character, like a sacrificial lamb, while still conveying every brutal detail the reader wants to know (i.e., gonzo journalism).
He was a rebel, rambunctious, ribald, and batshit crazy enough to try anything, yet generous enough to write it down and share it with the world.
To paraphrase one of his memorable quotes, I bought the ticket and took the ride, and I’ve been enjoying it ever since.
That being said, the obvious follow-up question must be, “What would Thompson say about his life being portrayed in a Broadway-style musical?”
Enter “The Untitled Unauthorized Hunter S. Thompson Musical.”
When my wife suggested we see the above-mentioned play I had never heard of, my first thought was, “Hunter wouldn’t want this.” I was ready to reject the idea in a wave of defiance and incredulous fury. How on earth could you take the Nixon-hating, drug-consuming, reality-bending perspective of a deranged lunatic journalist who scoffed at most institutions, cultural and otherwise, and glam it up on stage with songs, dancing, and puppets?
Yes, I said, “puppets.”
No way. Uh unh. This has “disaster” written all over it.
Being an open-minded husband, however, I opted to see what the people thought about the theatrical presentation before writing it off as some Disneyfied kickline fiasco. Looking for validation of my fandom, I went to the Googlenet and got my answer straight from the source.
This past April, Hunter’s widow, Anita Thompson, welcomed the cast of the show to Owl Farm, Hunter’s home in Woody Creek, CO. Not only did she praise the warmth of the visit (ahead of seeing the show), but the comments from all of Hunter’s fans were entirely positive about the idea and the possibility of seeing the show.
I claim to be a Hunter S. Thompson fan, but not an expert. For a man who was so opinionated about many a thing, there is no quote in existence of him praising or panning musical theater. Who knows if he rolled a tear for the tragic end of West Side Story, or not. If the majority of my fellow fans say “I wanna go!” then go, we shall, and this past weekend, go, we did.
First of all, the stage, as you can see in the photo, is as manic as his brain. Among the worn-out furniture and the carefully placed booze bottles of various shades and mixes, there are many firearms, hats, iconic pictures, five mounted deer heads, and a curator’s collection of Ralph Steadman artwork, honoring and featuring Hunter’s longtime visual collaborator.
The music was written by Joe Iconis (Tony-nominated for Be More Chill), and it struck the challenging chord (Ho ho!) of catchy Broadway hooks sung by an immensely talented cast. It was upbeat and festive, rhythmically peppy, and nothing like I’d ever imagined. This is a play about the guy who got pummeled within inches of his life by the Hells Angels and lived to tell the tale? Why is he singing and dancing?
I went in with a predetermined expectation: the sardonic curmudgeon would grump around the stage while his allies and adversaries (Steadman, Oscar Acosta, Jann Wenner, Richard Nixon) would break into Sondheim-like wordplay, singing the best hooky melodies. I was somewhat right. Thompson took the stage with as dark an outlook as anyone, but his manic energy sustained the two and-a-half-hour show. Thankfully, the creative team behind the scenes made it both twisted and enjoyable at the same time. To my surprise, I was blown away by so much more.
While I didn’t learn anything new about Thompson, the dramatized demons he faced were similar to those in the Broadway musical about Alexander Hamilton, and his plaguing question, “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” The repeated motif of “tick tick tick” haunts Thompson throughout the play. He discusses his love of The Great Gatsby and focuses extensively on how he copied it word for word (sound familiar?) and despite being fired by almost every employer he ever had, was driven by the power of his own written word and his need-to-be-heard voice. There is no spoiler to this story. We know how it tragically ends, and yet tears welled up in the corners of my eyes as I related to the protagonist.
(Note: the only thing I share with Thompson is a desire to write, and not a love of drugs, booze, guns, or a desire to end my life. Thought you should know.)
I loved the show. As strange as it was to hear the main character speak with an expressive, well-trained theater voice instead of Thompson’s low-volume, reserved monotone, it was as fever-dreamed bizarre as any of Steadman’s grotesque and distorted images, and that is Thompson’s writing to me.
Is it wrong to interpret your beloved thing in a way that differs from how it lives in your head and heart? That’s between you and you. How many different tempi has your favorite tone poem been conducted? How many different people have played Batman and played it well? How about interpreting the famed Hamlet soliloquy?
It’s not about whether you should or shouldn’t interpret familiar material as your own. (To interpret, or not interpret. That is the question.) Most of what we’re doing creatively is theme and variations anyway. Someone already did it, and we’re doing our version of it. Joe Iconis began the journey of writing the musical in 2009, and it took him till 2023 before it premiered. He was moved and sought a new way to honor and present our beloved writer in the way he did best.
The Untitled Unauthorized Hunter S. Thompson Musical was strange, it was bizarre, it was weird, and like Thompson said in Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn professional.”
Is this an endorsement of the forbidden musical? Bet your butt it is. Fan or not, go see it if you get the chance. Is this an endorsement of making any subject matter into a musical? Who cares. Art will keep arting, and if you or anyone is so inspired, go do that thing. I mean, that’s what drove us to our respective creative endeavor, right?
After the lights came on, and we sauntered out of the theater, Hunter S. Thompson remains in my eyes to be the grumpy firebrand, inebriated gonzo journalist who did anything to get the story. He’s the guy who wrote about the Kentucky Derby by not watching the Kentucky Derby. He’s the guy that referred to enough drugs in his Las Vegas tome to earn the reader a pharmaceutical license. And, he’s the guy who blew my mind avoiding bats in the skies one hundred fifty miles outside Las Vegas and lived to tell us about it.
What better way to sum it up than a quote from Thompson.
“So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?”
I’m still going to play it safe on the shore, but if someone wants to brave the storm and write the experience down, I’ll read it, and then I’ll keep fucking writing.
Write on!
Loved this! Great post! Woke me up this morning!