Rant, Rave, and Run Into the Ground – Shout Factory Releases Five-Disc Collection of Unearthed Hunter S. Thompson Recordings

During his lifetime, Hunter S. Thompson had a whole lotta things to say and a whole lotta drugs to take. He bequeathed to the world a solid stack of vital life lessons, such as how to binge like a pro, on the best manner in which to get one’s ass kicked by bikers, and on the importance of hiring top-notch legal representation that can outdo you (most) every step of the way. His 2005 suicide was nothing short of tragic, but the man’s absurd, well-documented life and published work speaks well enough on its own, far better than any deifying Rolling Stone obituary or John Cusack gushfest could ever hope to. Hunter Thompson has had his say and said it well, and now it is time to lay him to rest.

But what the fuck do I know! This is America! We just don’t let shit die around here, commie! Nope, we package and then repackage the motherfuck out of it until what was once a fond memory becomes a pestilence, a butterfly metamorphosed into a mutant bayou ’skeeter. The latest culprit in this HST shit-cyclone is Shout! Factory’s The Gonzo Tapes, a 5CD collection of Thompson’s personal recordings made between 1965 and 1975. Set for release October 28, the previously unreleased tapes include Thompson’s observations and recollections from his most famous work, such as his tenure with the Hell’s Angels and his fateful trips to Vegas and Saigon.

Observations and recollections, you say? Wow, I’ve never heard those before. Well, except for the times I read his fucking books, watched his fucking documentary, or just opened a goddamn Rolling Stone in the last 35 years. Nope, apparently I ain’t heard nothing yet until I listen to over five hours of a stoned Hunter Thompson laying out half-baked ideas that would eventually germinate into something artistically viable that I already know and enjoy. But whatever, this thing will certainly earn some green. I know exactly the type of journalism school gonzo-wannabes that’ll stash this on their iPod and queue it up every time they write a first-person account of one crackerjack city council meeting.

Kill your idols. Peace.

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