Anyone recognize the loudspeaker behind Hunter S. Thompson?

Speakers? What speakers? You can't see the bats? They're everywhere!

 

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert.......

 

I don't recognize the speaker (just the writer), but here's a favorite Hunter S. Thompson quote:

“Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.”

 

Hunter S Thompson on hifi
'One of the bass speaker boxes is starting to emit smoke ... or maybe that acrid-smelling blue haze is coming from one of the Universal 3-Way Dividing Network boxes.

But to hell with the smoke; the first time this happened, I panicked and took down the whole system - but when I took the back off the speaker box I realised it was only the insulation burning, which is not a serious matter when you have 80 speakers in one room. According to the human cinder who built this system then left town without leaving a schematic to show me how to put it back together in case a drug addict fell into the wiring, I can afford to sacrifice at least ten speakers to fire and smoke without any serious fall-off in sound quality. The break-point, he says,would be somewhere between 15-20. At that point - with 15 or 20 speakers burned into cinders disappearing one after another in balls of blue smoke - I would start getting some fuzz on the low end, and also a loss in clarity.'

Memo from the Sports Desk, August 1976

 

Hunter S. Thompson > Quotes > Quotable Quote

“The music business is a cruel and shallow money
trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and
pimps run free, and good men die like dogs.
There's also a negative side.”

 

Looks like maybe it was hand-made by a Dead soundman?

 

I'll take a stab in the dark and say McIntosh.

 

I didn't know Hunter S. Thompson went around with a loudspeaker behind him.

 

Drinking Singapore sling with mescaline on the side.

 

Hunter S. Thompson, having just installed a super-high-powered satellite TV receiver, describing some of the more ****ed up and cool **** he can now pick up:

Last night I pulled in a hazy black and white signal that was not even listed. It was an old Jim Morrison concert, or maybe a pirated video. These things are never made clear.

The Bird scans 22 satellites from West to East, six or eight seconds apart—maybe 200 channels full of old movies and Jesus freaks and raw network news feeds from places like WXYZ in Detroit, along with NASA transmissions from Houston and 40-year-old stag films out of Mexico City.

There is too much lame garbage—far more than a sane man can stand. With the right kind of equipment—or even the wrong kind, and a fine hand on the knobs—you can pick up the collected speeches of Henry Kissinger, a censored version of “Deep Throat”, and 101 Famous Games of the Harlem Globetrotters. There is no end to it: all day and all night, in some kind of relentless auto-reverse that never sleeps.

But you don’t get a lot of Jim Morrison. That is what we call a Special—straight black- and-white footage of Crazy Jim on stage in the old days, with a voice like Fred Neal’s and eyes smarter than James Dean’s and a band that could walk with the King, or anybody else. There were some nights when the Doors were the best band in the world.

Morrison understood this, and it haunted him all his life. On some nights he was noisy and lewd, and on others he just practiced—but every once in a while he would get it into his head to go out and dance with the big boys, and on a night like that he was more than special. Jim Morrison could play music with anybody.

One of these days we will get around to naming names for the real rock’n’roll Hall of Fame—in that nervous right now realm beyond Elvis and Chuck Berry and Little Richard—and the talk will turn to names like Bob and Mick, and to tunes like Morrison Hotel.

Play it sometime. Crank it all the way up on one of those huge obsolete wire-burning MacIntosh amps and 80 custom-built speakers. Then stand back somewhere on the mainbeams of a big log house and feel the music come up through your femurs...ho, ho. . . and after that you can always say, for sure, that you once knew what it was like to hear men play rock’n’roll music.

 

So I was right?

 

"I can't stand that fantastic note. When the rabbit bites his own head off, I want you to throw that fu#king radio into the tub with me!!!"

 

In His own words.

 

Thanks!