In the second half of '76, there was a degree of excitement and
anticipation among those who had followed the Doctorial essays in
Rolling Stone and Playboy here in Australia. Thompson was coming to
Melbourne. We're a long way away, and a visit like this is an important
event.
Mixed reports appeared in the press depicting his Sydney "lectures" as a
chaotic, unpleasant farce, with audience walk-outs and a fair degree of
fear and loathing all round. Well and good, we muttered. If that's how
it'll be, then that's how it'll be. Que sera. This is, after all, his
Gonzo eminence. We bought our tickets.
He was due to appear on the Don Lane Show, Australia's equivalent of a
Johnny Carson Show at that time. Several of us gathered around a
communal TV set, and lit joints. Lane, an expatriate Afro-haired white
American who specialised in bad interviewing technique, singing hits
from "The Music Man" and gold chains over an open-necked shirt,
introduced the interview with a degree of trepidation. "The only man to
ride with the Hell's Angels and Richard Nixon", "Outlaw Journalist", the
usual stuff... but there was a note of sincerity in his "I honestly
don't know what will happen here tonight, folks..."
Perhaps coloring his unease were memories of the well-reported incident
a decade or so earlier when Lane himself got busted en route from, I
think, Hawaii. A quantity of marijuana was found in his luggage. It is
testimony to the guy's dogged professionalism that he managed to
overcome this stigma in a place as conservative as Australia, and rise
to have the number one national show, nightly, and... live.
He went on to explain that due to unforseen circumstances, the Doc would
be speaking via cable from Sydney, and not from the Melbourne studio as
planned. (No one could have foreseen Thompson's instant ennui with
Melbourne as it was on a sleepy Sunday afternoon in 1976, and his rapid
insistance on an immediate charter flight back to Sydney. But more of
that later.)
By now, we, the East St. Kilda chapter of the HST appreciation society
were pretty fairly ripped as Lane introduced our hero. Cut to Thompson,
seated, wearing aviator shades and a sport coat draped nonchalantly over
one shoulder.
The interview proceeded smoothly enough. I don't have a very clear
recollection of all that transpired, folks, to be honest, but I think it
was pretty much the expected mix of Campaign questions ('76 - Carter v
Ford), Richard Nixon, just a touch of "lifestyle" issues, and of course,
the Hell's Angels.
Hunter was in good form, but strangely distracted. He seemed to start
off in a particularly rocky fashion, apparently unaware that the
interview had started, asking something like "Are you talking to me?"
Still, he appeared to warm to the situation, drawing particularly
gratifying gasps from the studio audience with his description of an
avenging Hell's Angel popping a man's eyeball out with his bare thumbs.
Lane looked nervous but happy. This was as good as advertised - a
dangerous yet cooperative subject holding court on exciting topics, no
trouble so far. Lane was in control, at a distance of 600 miles.
And then it happened. Mid-sentence, Hunter breaks off and looks
off-camera. "What the *f--k* is this doing here?" he asks, flinging the
casually draped jacket off his shoulder to the floor.
Cut to Lane, slack-jawed, boggle-eyed to camera. It had happened... He
stammered "Ah, did the 7 second delay work there? It didn't?" It hadn't.
For some reason, the person with the digit poised over the 7 second
delay cut button had blinked, and "f--k" was broadcast live, nationally.
It made all the papers the next day, of course.
There was an interesting postscript for me. I was working in an
advertising agency as an art director, teamed with a writer who
moonlighted for one of the grubbier tabloids as their television critic
"Veritas", or "ferret-arse" as we called him. (I swear to God, this guy
wrote a 10 paragraph review of the premiere of a major new series
without having seen it). He was, after all, down at the pub. ("The
acting, while not startling, is competent. The direction, while avoiding
the traps of modish avant-gardism suffers from a plodding adequacy."
That sort of stuff - but with maybe shorter words.) Our customary couple
of beers after work the day after Hunter's appearance had dragged on to
several more, and it was after nine o'clock. About the time that
inspiration kicks in. My friend L. was inspired.
"Why don't we go see the Lane Show?" he says, "I reckon I could get us
past Security. I'm a Critic." I pretended to think for a while, and
perceiving no flaw in the plan, said "Why not?"
We caught a cab, and at the gates L. was majestic. "We're here to see
Peter Faiman, I'm Veritas from The Truth newspaper." It worked. Peter
Faiman was the show's director (and later went on to direct "Crocodile
Dundee").
We found ourselves inside the studios, through the side door we were
directed to. I recall us ambling past video-tape recording departments,
finding our way to an upper floor, and suddenly, there was the control
room. Someone outside went in to tell someone inside we were there, and,
perhaps with a sense of resignation, we were invited in. So we watched
that show in company with the director and control room people and
Lane's girlfriend of the time, and were invited back to the green room
for a drink afterwards. And it was there that I found myself standing
next to the Afro-haired Don Lane, chatting to him. (Yeah, I still can't
believe it either. But it happened. ) I brought up the previous night's
show, an act that only complete naivety and drunkenness could have
inspired. Lane kind of shook his Afro sadly and muttered "Yeah, I don't
know how that could've happened".
That's when I ventured my theory, folks.
"I don't think Thompson had a monitor."
Lane looks to the several assembled round him.
"He didn't have a monitor??"
Nervous shuffling, coughing at glasses of wine.
"He didn't have a monitor??"
"Aah, well, no, Don... there was a problem..."
That's when I realised I may have stirred something up.
"He didn't have a monitor??"
Lane left looking resolved. God knows what happened to whatever poor
f--k the finger ended up pointing at.
This is one instance where Hunter Thompson could fairly and honestly be
accused of being "off the air", because as far as he knew, he was. It
later transpired that the feed to his monitor in Sydney, 600 miles away,
was showing dog-food commercials as the disembodied voice of Don Lane
was asking him questions. Understandably enough, he figured it might
have been part of a warm up with the host, before actual on-air
transmission. Suddenly, his monitor kicks in showing himself and the
jacket the make-up lady had draped over his shoulder. Hunter Thompson as
Jean-Paul Belmondo? No way. "What the f--k is this doing here?" Out it
goes.
Came the night of the lecture itself. I went with my friend Hack. The
Melbourne Town Hall is an imposing Victorian structure. In 1964, the
Beatles waved to an enormous crowd of massed humanity from its balcony.
Inside, it is reasonably cavernous. Into this splendid Victorian cavern
went Hack, I and my brand-new Olympus OM-1 35mm camera, and my new Aiwa
ghetto-blaster (before they were called that). I was gonna *cover the
story*. Yeah.
Well, the audio tape resulted in an intermittent low-pitched rumble:
Thompson's voice, recorded booming and echoing and mixing with all
reflections off every surface of the building. That's when I learnt
about the limitations of built-in omni-directional microphones and
automatic level adjustments that cassette-radios have. At some stage, I
must have ditched the tape. Today, I wish I hadn't've. It might have
given me some further clues as to what he actually said that night. The
pictures, with my newly-acquired telephoto lens on my newly-acquired
camera are, well, fuzzy yet atmospheric, I like to think.
Obviously the rules about bringing equipment into venues were yet to be
fixed to today's draconian strictures.
Anyway, the night went something like this. The hall was about half to
three-quarters full, I think. We chose seats about 2/3 back on the
right, prompted by nervousness on my part about being seen taking
pictures, I suppose.
This was the second Melbourne show. We had heard reports that the Angels
had attended the previous night's concert, and that there were gun-shots
in the toilets. We gave it no mind. We were on the case. But it did add
a certain *frisson*, as it were, to the atmosphere of the night.
So, let the show commence. We sit back, and out comes a little
long-haired hippie with a guitar. Visibly timid, he apologises for being
here, explaining that ("to all you politicos out there...") he has to
perform as part of the Australian Actors' Equity (Union) ruling that for
every imported act, a local act has to be employed. No wonder he was
scared. So, he sang his folk songs unmolested, and got off unscathed,
and it was intermission.
So we resume our seats. And the house lights dim. And the hall becomes
black, totally black. And without any explanation, a loud sound is
heard. A constant, roaring sound which continues steadily for some time,
very loud. And then The Fear gripped me, because I realised that what I
was hearing was nothing but the silence of tape hiss, amplified beyond
reason. We were yet to hear a sound! And I tell you, it was loud. And
then it started...
A jabbering, and a wailing and sobbing and a screaming and a rising in
pitch and intensity and a shrieking and a shrilling that would rise and
swirl and intensify and go on and on and on... it was the sound of
mortal human having his soul ripped from his rib cage. It hurt the ears
and it went on and on and on... it got louder and worse... it was the
cry of the banshee... it was souls in purgatory... it was painfully
loud. Jabbering, then screaming and wailing, then suddenly reverting to
human voice and reason and starting to talk before breaking back into
ear-piercing sobs... The sound was a physical presence that gripped and
pummelled the body and it would not stop. It went on for several hours
or several seconds, in pitch darkness...
And then the stage lights came up and the sound stopped. And there was a
trestle table covered in cloth, behind which were two chairs, and on the
table were an ashtray and an ice-bucket containing a bottle of Wild
Turkey. And there was the organizer, Peter Olszewski, and there was the
good Dr. Thompson, both seated.
And Thompson, cigarette-holder in mouth says: "Any questions?"
And then he said something like "I have nothing to say, really. However,
if you have any questions, in the aisles you will find six audience
mikes. If you could form queues at the mikes I'll try to answer your
questions as best I can." And then he explained the tape we'd just been
subjected to.
"A few years ago I was interviewing this patient in a mental hospital.
We were alone in a room, and for about ten minutes he was perfectly
lucid. Then something snapped, and he went crazy. When I went home and
played the tape, I thought -- how the f--k do I translate *this* into
the printed word? It was impossible. So I brought that tape along to
demonstrate the limitations of print journalism."
By this time, lines of people had formed at each of the aisle
microphones, and the Q&A began. Despite his explanation, he had to
patiently deal with three or four dildoes asking "Was that you on the
tape?" "No, as I said, it was a patient in a..." "Hunter, is that you on
the tape?" "No, I'll explain again..."
There were the students, the druggies, the politicos... not many bikers,
they'd had their show the previous night.
A student type got up and asked about the best kind of ether for
recreational use. He called him "Hunter S.", which sounded like
"hunteress". Thompson replied "I like the industrial stuff, rather than
hospital ether. The raw, industrial ether works best for me."
Some jerk asked "Given your intake of chemicals, were able to reach
climax the last time you had sex?" Without missing a beat, he snapped
back "Multiple orgasms."
Someone asked about truth versus fiction in a book like Las Vegas.
Thompson scratched his head, poured another tumbler of Wild Turkey and
explained. "The book is essentially true. Everything in it actually
happened. It's just that it all didn't necessarily happen on the one
weekend. It's an amalgam of things that may have happened over a period
of time, but they all did happen. With, ah, one exception... the
hitch-hiker. I made him up."
Australia had some pretty fierce drug laws back in the 70s, and visitors
like Joe Cocker had been kicked out for possession of substances. When
asked about what he might be carrying in his medicine bag, he grinned
and said "I *can* go cold turkey, you know... for, ah, three or four
days..."
An article that appeared later, written by Olszewski, revealed that the
Doc's pharmaceutical supplier was on tour with him, but travelling on
different planes under an assumed name.
One of the most high profile Australians was and still is Barry Jones, a
bearded former school-teacher who found fame in the early 60s on a TV
quiz show called "Pick a Box". He was absolutely unbeatable. (At key
points in the show, the champion would have to decide between an offered
sum of money, or picking a box with a mystery prize. Invariably, the
audience would scream "Pick a Box!") Subsequently, he entered federal
Parliament and became Minister for various high brain-activity
departments like Science and Technolgy, and, indeed, Department for The
Future.
And there he was, taking his turn at the audience mike. "Doctor
Thompson, in your opinion, why isn't Teddy Kennedy, -- a natural choice
for candidate -- running in the 76 campaign?" Thompson took a drag on
his cigarette holder, pondered, and said "Well, several reasons.
Firstly, he's doing a perfectly competent job as an effective Senator.
Secondly, he's had his share of personal family tragedy in the past
year. And thirdly, how old is he now..." Jones grasped his forehead,
frowned, and said "Wait... wait... forty-two. No, forty-three!" To which
the audience roared "PICK A BOX!!"
Hunter Thompson's favorite band in 1976? "The Amazing Rhythm Aces."
That's about all I can dredge up out of the old Unreliable Databank.
There was about two hours' worth, and it was a pretty damn solid
performance. It reminded me of Groucho doing "You Bet Your Life" (yeah,
I'm that old). He was having a good time and so were the punters. It
surprised me to read about other nights in other places that reportedly
disintegrated into shambles. Melbourne was lucky, I guess.
Towards the end, he became embroiled in a harangue with a feminist, over
why he didn't include women prominently in his stories. This was the
only time his temperature seemed to rise, and he paced back and forth and
up to the footlights, jabbing his finger in the air. The details escape
me, but his answer seemed to be based approximately on the premise:
"well why the bloody hell should I?" Both parties seemed to enjoy this
sparring match, and at the end the woman muttered something in disgust
and wrote him off as a dead loss. They retreated to their corners.
We went home happy.
An interesting postscript appeared a few months later in one of the
alternative mags written by Peter Olszewski, the tour organizer. (Mr
Olszewski is an interesting personage in his own right -- journalist,
editor, organizer and long-running candidate for the Australian
Marijuana Party, a task he performed using the handle "J.J.MacRoach". I
think he wore a mask and hat for public appearances, but I may be
confusing him with the Hamburglar (TM).) I've lost my copy of this
story, which is a pity because it was a behind the scenes report of the
Thompson tour. It detailed the Doc's arrival in Melbourne (which, in
1959, while filming "On The Beach," Ava Gardner considered "the ideal
place to film the end of the world"). Melbourne today is a quite
different city to what it was twenty years ago.
On a Sunday afternoon
you could fire a cannon down the main street and not hit anybody. All it
lacked were the tumbleweeds. Apparently, it took but minutes for
Thompson to assess the situation: "I'm going back to Sydney". There was
an airline strike, I think, and the only way back was by chartered light
plane. Olszewski's story relates the ensuing misadventures and
near-death experiences, involving light aircraft, murderous electrical
storms and plastic bagfulls of urine -- I won't attempt to steal from
memory. It was a good piece.
