In the spring of 1970, artist Ralph Steadman went to America in search of work and found more than he bargained for. At the Kentucky Derby he met a former
associate of the Hell’s Angels, one Hunter S. Thompson. Their working relationship resulted in the now-legendary Gonzo Journalism. The Joke’s Over tells of a remarkable collaboration that documented the turbulent years of the civil rights movement, the Nixon years, Watergate, and the many bizarre and great events that shaped the second half of the twentieth century. When Thompson committed suicide in 2005, it was the end of a unique friendship filled with both betrayal and under­standing.

A rollicking, no-holds-barred memoir, The Joke’s Over is the definitive inside story of the Gonzo years. ( )

In the world of fiction there exists a plethora of dynamic duos — Batman and Robin, Sherlock Holmes and Watson, Timmy and Lassie, but in the more narrowly focused world of quasi-real fact-bending narrative, there stands one couple towering over the masses, Hunter S. Thompson and Ralph Steadman. Originally just a marketing moment for one artist to help illustrate an article for a crazed, rebellious writer on the upswing, what sprung from the meeting of these two wild minds left an impression on the American literary landscape for generations to come. Millions have already turned the legendary pages of Mr. Thompson, while others have memorized the famous drug-catalog listing monologue from the opening of the film, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, based on Thompson’s most famous book of the same name. Yet, as with many famous duos, we are all used to hearing from the front man -Batman, Holmes, Timmy (Lassie was really never the big conversationalist), but now we get to see of those integral sidekicks step out into his own right and tell the world how things looked from his perspective, standing off to the right and half in the shadow of a highly intelligent, self-medicated madman.

The Joke’s Over is a vicious eulogy to a carnivorous collaboration of passion, friendship and art. Dangerous at best, suicidal at worst. Getting connected with Thompson, Steadman found himself plugged into a self-propelled generator of creative energy, one that would steamroll over most other people, but he held on, gnashed his teeth in and went for the ride. The partnership shuttled back and forth between being a connected pair of best friends attempting to take over the world to a pair of artistic geniuses desperately trying not to tear each other’s throats out. The ride through their friendship is terrifying, but the results they found are awe-inspiring.

When I first picked up the book I thought I was only in for more stories about Thompson’s eccentricities and crazy drug binges, albeit from a closer perspective, but what I got was only partially that. The unexpected side of the story is hearing about Thompson’s rage, paranoia and continued ability to try and destroy all the close relationships in his life. Being best friends with him is detailed out like a full-time job that only provides partial benefits, but when that one week of paid-vacation comes each year, it feels that much better due to the work you put in to get it. Steadman lists out numerous occasions when Thompson screamed at him, in person or via phone, fax and smoke signals, decrying proof he recently discovered showing that Steadman was only riding his coattails and subconsciously attempting to destroy the power of his literary ambrosia. But before you can feel our rage rising, decrying the treatment of someone who seems to be a soft-spoken, great friend, Steadman would share other messages, like olive branches across the deep, blue ocean that separated them:

[from Thompson to Steadman]

“…Keep in mind that I am always both ahead and behind you in the same moment (an eerie Truth that we both understood in our blood and which you have, in fact, explained more than once, in print…)”

As much as Steadman battled to understand and accept the tumultuous waves of their friendship, it seemed that Thompson himself struggled constantly not to burn the bridge that kept him connected to the real world and real people.

To be fair, even with the letters and reprinted faxes from Thompson, this is all from Steadman’s perspective and it is his autobiography about those infamous years. At times he paints himself the humble hero, while others creates a much sadder picture of an artist beat down and abused by his muse. Far from the wordsmith that Thompson was, a fact Thompson constantly reminded him of, the book is enjoyable, but suffers from subconscious reminders of a more powerful writer. For true worshippers of Steadman’s artwork, the book does raise its own value by detailing numerous other places beyond Thompson’s books where you can find his maddening and wild imagery (personally, I am looking into buying Steadman’s version of Alice in Wonderland. Now that should be a real trip down the rabbit hole.)

My recommendation, it's an interesting look behind the scenes for the devoted followers of intangible excellence that sprang from Thompson and Steadman. ( )

There are a few interesting anecdotes here involving the two friends, but not a whole lot more insight into Thompson's inner life. It does reinforce my belief that the whole Gonzo schtick had run its course by 1980 or so; from then on, it was pretty much about self-parody and political ranting for Hunter.

On a personal note, I saw Thompson in action one night at UCSB in 1976 during one of his "college lectures". I don't remember a whole lot about that evening (I happened to have found some brown windowpane acid in my wallet and mistakenly told my friends that it was probably not very strong anymore and distributed it to our group. Bad craziness.) I do remember a bunch of burnt out hippie types cajoling the good Doctor with demands and entreaties ("You gotta be an inspiration for us!") and HST deliberately putting on a hostile demeanor. Most of the kids ended up getting pissed off and leaving, throwing obscenities at HST, which he met with a dismissive wave (he concentrated on his ice bucket containing a bottle of Wild Turkey). Eventually, there were just a few dozen of us gathered around and we had a convivial chat (or as close as it got with him) about the upcoming Presidential election. Then it was back to Isla Vista to analyze the evening (and the universe) over beer, pot, and the Flying Burritos on the stereo. Well, we were young, weren't we? ( )

Thoroughly confused by "Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson", I turned to Ralph Steadman's account of his long and eventful friendship and collaboration with Thompson. I found a book that's part love letter, part listing of grievances with the dead. Steadman, like many, became fond of Thompson and found him to be part boon companion, part monster.

Steadman has forgotten nothing: pictures stolen, professional jealousy, help unappreciated, and a torrent of verbal abuse. Steadman doesn't come out looking entirely innocent - he is (justly) embittered at times, and can be unreasonable. I think this was the underlying tension; did Thompson really value Steadman as a friend, or was he only an audience to Hunter's antics and a collaborator who was grudgingly accepted for the quality of his work.

Thompson let no-one in to his mind or heart entirely, so the answer isn't easy to discern. It was the man's nature that his friendship had to be accompanied with impositions of the most bizarre and annoying kind, as if every day was another test of whether you'd put up with him. Thompson was also capable of altruism, kindness, and brilliantly talented writing, and Steadman tries to do justice to both sides of his friend.

"The Joke's Over" needed more vigorous editing; I found myself skipping over some of the longer, more unnecessary, letters. Steadman's writing is fine, but could have been tightened up.

An entirely different book could be written about Thompson by the women in his life, but this is valuable reading for anyone trying to understand the man. ( )

I've long been fascinated by Hunter S. Thompson, but Ralph Steadman's drawings have never held me in similar thrall, although one cannot deny their originality nor the artistry. The same cannot be said for Thompson himself, who was obviously inspired and captivated by his collaborator's grotesque illustrations. Steadman's writing is not up to the same standard, and HST (partly from a strongly developed sense of territoriality, partly as vicious criticism) never lost the opportunity to tell him so.

This memoir does, however, shed light on a period in history that seems almost fantastic now, even after one has discounted the distortions of substances and nostalgia. Drinking and smoking everywhere, slipping over borders and past security, securing vast sums for extremely dubious assignments...

I would rather read one of HST's books, but have a drink with Steadman, no question. I wouldn't mind being in the same room with Thompson when things got weird (at a safe distance), but from the way he treats Steadman (allegedly one of his dearest friends) and others around him, it's hard to entertain any warmer feeling than respect for him. There was brilliance and hilarity there, but venality, cruelty and solipsism were always in the wings by the sounds of it. That's the business of the eternal soul of HST, Steadman and those who knew them to worry about - better for us to enjoy the marvellous and terrible bouts of debauchery, and reflect on the phenomenon that is Gonzo, what it did and the much more it could have done. ( )