Anyway, if the article interests you, please let me know as soon as possible. I’m going to write it anyway, but it would help if I knew where to aim it. Also, please return the Chicago Tribune clipping.
Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO MIKE MURPHY:
When Thompson arrived in Louisville, a letter from Mike Murphy was waiting for him—demanding repayment of a debt. Thompson immediately paid up, and their friendship resumed in fine fashion.
December 8, 1961
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Dear Mike:
Maybe your humor is a bit too subtle for me, old man, because that second letter of yours struck me as an extremely hairy thing. Like finding a toad in the mailbox. Also a hell of a way to wake up; here, as out there, I wake up just in time to catch the noon mail. No fun at breakfast that day.
Anyway, it was damn good to get your third, and if I weren’t so damn sure I was right about that bill, I’d say something like, “Shucks, take a few records, Mike old boy.” As a matter of fact I finally had to threaten to do just that before Sandy would send me the 5 to send on to you. She ain’t much with the figures. But this clears my conscience, and—with your last letter, plus finally getting Ed [the mailman] paid off—I can think of Big Sur and smile for a change. I don’t mind being dunned by thieves and hustlers and horny-handed merchants, but it gives me the creeps when I start getting letters like that from friends. As you could probably see by my careful editing on the last letter, I pondered it long and hard. I couldn’t figure out what had got into you. But, obviously, I missed the humor.
Needless to say, I retract the snaps and the snarls and the few snide digs I recall slipping in here and there. It was downright christian of you to bounce back like you did and the first thing I’m going to do tomorrow morning is go downtown and tear up that notice I posted in the Queer Bar. If … ah … if anybody shows up wanting the free drinks and the courtesy escort service to the baths, tell ’em … ah … just say it was a joke. Heh. Yeah, that notice was put up by some paranoid writer, some nut.
As for other things, they’re all fine except the novel. It has to be totally revised and rewritten. I finished it last week and have spent this week just staring at it. On Monday I start over. It’s a good life if you don’t get the piles.
The beer is a big hit here and I am hard pressed to keep up with the demand. Doing a lot of shooting, mostly at rabbits, but the meat all comes from the grocery. Instead of that awful skinning after the hunt, I relax in front of a fire and drink whiskey and tell horrible lies about 600-lb. boars with 9-inch fangs, all of them charging and wounded and crazy for the kill, and me with only the big Magnum—which I carry around on my hip and even shoot the damn thing at rabbits. When I first appeared with it they just stared and said, “Gawd, Looka thet!” And every time I miss a rabbit I have to say very quickly: “God damn! Don’t you people have any boar around here?” And they just shake their heads—all except for the guy who hit the rabbit with a 12-gauge shotgun; he walks over and picks it up, wiping his mouth with his glove so it doesn’t look like he’s grinning. And then we go back and drink and talk about old times.
Driving down to Renfro Valley this weekend to do a short piece for the Chicago Tribune and maybe get some photos for a magazine article. You and Mrs. Webb would love it there—it’s the traditional Sat. night Kentucky barn dance down on the edge of the coal country where the life expectancy of any sheriff is about 2 weeks. I am taking a pistol along with the camera—armpit holster and all. Barring a disaster, it should be a good drunk with the hillbillies.
Until the next hunt—HST
TO NEWS EDITOR, LOUISVILLE TIMES:
A month earlier two rival factions claiming to be the legitimate government of the Congo had been united after more than a year of civil war. It would, however, be another year before Katanga province’s move toward secession was put down.
December 11, 1961
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville, Kentucky
News Editor (foreign)
Louisville Times
Dear Sir:
The column-one story on page 2 of today’s Times (final home [edition]) is enough to make a man wonder what the hell you people are thinking about down there. Above the story is a 3-col photo of “rebellious Katangans and white mercenaries (offering) groundfire as UN planes attack the Elizabethville post office.…”
Then in col 3 of the story (“Tshombe Charges …”) we see: “Newsmen denied that UN planes had attacked Elizabethville post office yesterday, as was reported by a telephone operator in the E-ville exchange. Evidently the operator had been warned a UN bomber was overhead and took this to mean the place was under attack.”
I have a feeling that maybe that operator wasn’t so stupid, after all. Who the hell are the abovementioned “newsmen” working for? This “end justifies the means” operation in the Katanga is tough enough to stomach as it is, without the added burden of muddled and half-blind press coverage.
Both items, story and photo, are from AP. Why don’t you try the Chicago Daily News? Maybe Hempstone29 can figure it out. AP is not worth a damn on anything real—rely on them for coverage of ceremonies and anecdotes and that sort of thing.
Another meaty item comes from “Names in the News,” pg. 16, same edition. Obviously, Moral Re-Armament is blessed with a hardnose press agent. Their conference in Brazil sounds better than the Ed Sullivan show. First we have Roy Rogers addressing the group—not including Moise Tshombe, who cancelled out—and then Nixon’s mother shows up, a “surprise” visitor. Yeah. Next we’ll get E. B. Williams, Joe Louis and Jimmy Hoffa in a no-holds-barred tag bout rounded out by Raul Castro. And to finish it off we have seven stooges apologizing to Mrs. Nixon for their part in the stoning of Blank Richard on his last guest shot in Peru.
I don’t see how you people can report this crap with a straight face. Is daily journalism that deadening? Or was it just a bad day? I’d like to know.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO MR. M. L. SHARPLEY:
Preparing to travel abroad, Thompson was eager to find a proper home for his Doberman pinscher, Agar. Over the years Thompson would own a number of show-bred Dobermans.
December 21, 1961
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Mr. M. L. Sharpley
News Department
Louisville Times
Dear Mr. Sharpley:
Re: our conversation Thursday evening, concerning one Agar V. Estobarr, black male Doberman, whelped July 2, 1960; sire—Barrier Dobe’s Estes; dam—Barrier Dobe’s Donsie.
I bought Agar on July 1, 1961, from Mr. & Mrs. Joseph Baumgartner of Mundelein, Ill., somewhere outside Chicago. I located the Baumgartners through a Mr. Frank Grover of Carmel Valley, California. The Baumgartners were visiting Mr. Grover at the time.
I was living in Big Sur at the time and intended Agar to be the first of several Dobermans I wanted to own. When I bought the dog I expected to be in Big Sur indefinitely. I am a writer and make my living as a journalist and photographer. On December 1 or so I was offered a job in London and, after lengthy consideration, decided to give it a try. This led, naturally, to the prospect of giving up the dog.
The reason I sounded so uncertain on the phone the other night is that I feel that I’m plotting to cast off a son and my mind balks at the necessity of doing it with a cool and reasonable head. I’ve become very attached to Agar and I hate the idea of giving him up. I can’t take him to Europe, however, so I will have to do something with him by January 1, when I plan to leave for New York.
I wrote Mr. Baumgartner, asking for suggestions, and he gave me your name, saying you’d be happy “to see” Agar because he was out of your line. […] In a nutshell, I suppose I should sell Agar. I’ve considered boarding him, lending him, leaving him with my family, but all these would work to Agar’s disadvantage. So, rather than
try to hang onto him in some uncertain way, I think I should sell him into a home where I’m sure he’d be happy. Since he’s used to being treated more like a human than a dog, this would rule out most of the people who would answer an ad if I placed one in the paper. Most people seem to think all Dobermans are crazy mean and should be kept chained and muzzled. Agar is not that way and I wouldn’t sell him to anyone who might treat him like a vicious criminal.
So, if you know of anyone who would like to buy Agar, I’d appreciate hearing from you. I think anyone I’d locate through you would be all right. As a last resort, I will either take or send him back to the Baumgartners. Since I took him out of a good home, I feel an obligation to see that he gets another one when I have to give him up.
Other salient items: I bought him for $100.00; since I know nothing about the Doberman market, I hesitate to put a definite price on him right now.
He has never been bred.
I have reason to suspect that he has a tapeworm. I have contacted a vet, who says an enema will cure it. Before getting this done, I wanted to talk to someone who knew Dobermans. Had you not been so rushed the other night, I’d have asked you about it. Agar shows no ill effects, but the day before I called you, what appeared to be a segment of a worm crawled out of him and gave me quite a shock. I had thought only puppies got worms. At any rate, I intend to take him to the vet in the next few days. If this is not the right thing to do, I’d very much like to hear from you and find out exactly what should be done.
He is very gentle and very restless. I run him about two miles a day behind the car to keep him in shape.
He is very intelligent and so obedient that I never cease to be amazed.
That’s about it. You can reach me by phone at GL-1-xxxx, any time after noon. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO FRANK ROBINSON, ROGUE:
Thompson pitched both a short story and an article on bluegrass music to Rogue, which turned down both. At the time Thompson was plotting to move in early spring to either London or Rio de Janeiro.
December 22, 1961
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Dear Mr. Robinson:
Here’s another story you might like. I do. It’s a much better (technically) story than the one you bought, different tone, not quite as dramatic—and a lot shorter.
Length seems to be a pretty salient point in this league. You people did a pretty fair job on that “Burial at Sea” business, but I can’t quite figure your idea in ignoring all my letters. Doesn’t make much difference, actually, but henceforth I’ll be careful to send you my shorter stuff so I won’t have to worry about having them trimmed down.
This one, I think, is pretty trim as it stands. Anyway, here it is.
One more thing—I’m doing a feature for the New York Herald Trib on a place called Renfro Valley, a sort of unpublicized Grand Ole Opry down in eastern Kentucky. I went down there to see what they thought about the current boom in Folk and Bluegrass music and got the word that I’d have a fight on my hands if I kept on using the term Bluegrass Music. Renfro Valley is very much in the Bluegrass region.
Seems it might be an interesting article—music in the Bluegrass, as opposed to Bluegrass Music, Manhattan-style. The only real link seemed to be Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs, who once worked at Renfro, along with some people called the Coon Creek Sisters, from Pinch ’Em Tight Holler. Lot of interesting photos to be had down there, a good many novel ideas, decent home whiskey, and probably a worthy short article, mostly photos. Let me know what you think about it. I plan to bug off for New York in about ten days, so if you want something in that line, send a quick word.
That’s about it for now.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
“NEW YORK BLUEGRASS”
NEW YORK CITY—The scene is Greenwich Village, a long dimly lit bar called Folk City, just east of Washington Square Park. The customers are the usual mixture: students in sneakers and button-down shirts, over-dressed tourists in for the weekend, “nine-to-five types” with dark suits and chic dates, and a scattering of sullen looking “beatniks.”
A normal Saturday night in The Village: two parts boredom, one part local color, and one part anticipation.
This is the way it was at ten-thirty. The only noise was the hum of conversation and the sporadic clang of the cash register.
Most people approach The Village with the feeling that “things are happening here.” If you hit a dead spot, you move on as quickly as you can. Because things are happening—somewhere. Maybe just around the corner.
I’ve been here often enough to know better, but Folk City was so dead that even a change of scenery would have been exciting. So I was just about ready to move on when things began happening. What appeared on the tiny bandstand at that moment was one of the strangest sights I’ve ever witnessed in The Village.
Three men in farmer’s garb, grinning, tuning their instruments, while a suave MC introduced them as “the Greenbriar Boys, straight from the Grand Ole Opry.”
Gad, I thought. What a hideous joke!
It was strange then, but moments later it was downright eerie. These three grinning men, this weird, country-looking trio, stood square in the heartland of the “avant garde” and burst into a nasal, twanging rendition of, “We need a whole lot more of Jesus, and a lot less rock-n-roll.”
I was dumbfounded, and could hardly believe my ears when the crowd cheered mightily, and the Green-briar Boys responded with an Earl Scruggs arrangement of “Home Sweet Home.” The tourists smiled happily, the “bohemian” element—uniformly decked out in sunglasses, long striped shirts and Levi’s—kept time by thumping on the tables, and a man next to me grabbed my arm and shouted: “What the hell’s going on here? I thought this was an Irish bar!”
I muttered a confused reply, but my voice was lost in the uproar of the next song—a howling version of “Good Ole Mountain Dew” that brought a thunderous ovation.
Here in New York they call it “Bluegrass Music,” but the link—if any—to the Bluegrass region of Kentucky is vague indeed. Anybody from the South will recognize the same old hoot-n-holler, country jamboree product that put Roy Acuff in the 90-percent bracket. A little slicker, perhaps; a more sophisticated choice of songs; but in essence, nothing more or less than “good old-fashioned” hillbilly music.
The performance was neither a joke nor a spoof. Not a conscious one, anyway—although there may be some irony in the fact that a large segment of the Greenwich Village population is made up of people who have “liberated themselves” from rural towns in the South and Midwest, where hillbilly music is as common as meat and potatoes.
As it turned out, the Greenbriar Boys hadn’t exactly come “straight from the Grand Ole Opry.” As a matter of fact, they came straight from Queens and New Jersey, where small bands of country music connoisseurs have apparently been thriving for years. Although there have been several country music concerts in New York, this is the first time a group of hillbilly singers have been booked into a recognized night club.
Later in the evening, the Greenbriar Boys were joined by a fiddler named Irv Weissberg. The addition of a fiddle gave the music a sound that was almost authentic, and it would have taken a real aficionado to turn up his nose and speak nostalgically of Hank Williams. With the fiddle taking the lead, the fraudulent farmers set off on “Orange Blossom Special,” then changed the pace with “Sweet Cocaine”—dedicated, said one, “to any junkies in the audience.”
It was this sort of thing—hip talk with a molasses accent—that gave the Greenbriar Boys a distinctly un-hillbilly flavor. And when they did a sick little ditty called, “Happy Landings, Amelia Earhart,” there was a distinct odor of Lenny Bruce in the room.
In light of the current renaissance in Folk Music, the appearance of the Greenbriar Boys in Greenwich Village is not really a surprise. The “avant garde” is hard-pressed t
hese days to keep ahead of the popular taste. They had Brubeck and Kenton a long time ago, but dropped that when the campus crowd took it up. The squares adopted Flamenco in a hurry, and Folk Music went the same way. Now, apparently out of desperation, the avant garde is digging hillbilly.
The Village is dedicated to “new sounds,” and today’s experiment is very often tomorrow’s big name. One of the best examples is Harry Belafonte, who sold hamburgers in a little place near Sheridan Square until he got a chance to sing at the Village Vanguard.
Belafonte, however, was a genuine “new sound.” If you wanted to hear him, there was only one place to go. And if you weren’t there, you simply missed the boat.
With the Greenbriar Boys, it’s not exactly the same. I thought about this as I watched them. Here I was, at a “night spot” in one of the world’s most cultured cities, paying close to a dollar for each beer, surrounded by apparently intelligent people who seemed enthralled by each thump and twang of the banjo string—and we were all watching a performance that I could almost certainly see in any roadhouse in rural Kentucky on any given Saturday night.
As Pogo once said—back in the days when mossback editors were dropping Walt Kelly like a hot, pink potato—“it gives a man paws.”
Thompson in his study. (PHOTO BY HUNTER S. THOMPSON; COURTESY OF HST COLLECTION)
Hunter with Dana Kennedy in San Juan. (PHOTO BY WILLIAM J. KENNEDY; COURTESY OF HST COLLECTION)
Thompson at work in Rio. (COURTESY OF HST COLLECTION)
1. A photographer who lived close to the Murphy house, who became a longtime friend and ally of Thompson’s.
2. Donald Maynard was a Big Sur/Monterey carpenter, handyman, and deliveryman.