Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas

At first glance, the identification of the American Dream with the “Old Psychiatrist’s Club” appears to be based on just a misunderstanding. It is entirely plausible that a club in Las Vegas might have once been referred to as “The American Dream.” Equally, if someone in a diner said they were looking for the latter, it would be natural to assume that they were referring to a place and not an abstract ideal. As such, Raoul and Gonzo being directed to the Old Psychiatrist’s club seems unremarkable. However, there are several indications that more is going on here. For one thing, Raoul and Gonzo are told that the club “burned down about three years ago” (168). Since the novel is set in 1971 this means that the club was destroyed at the end of the 1960s. Then there is the present description of it as somewhere “where all the dope peddlers and all the pushers… hang out… where all the kids are potted” (166). In other words, it is a hub for drug taking and dealing. Given Raoul’s later thoughts on how drug culture changed by the 70s, the burnt-out club then serves as a metaphor for the collapse of a 60s version of the American Dream. It is as a symbol for the end of that idealism and the faith, linked to psychedelics, in “Consciousness Expansion” (202). It is a symbol for both the death of 60s counterculture and the notion that drugs can in any way be integral to that.

In terms of what replaced it, Raoul says, “downers came in with Nixon” (202). By 1968, when Nixon was elected and the Old Psychiatrists Club burned down, psychedelics like LSD had declined hugely in popularity. These drugs, including mescaline, caused an increased sensitivity to one’s consciousness and surroundings. Put more exactly, they lead to an intensification and opening of experience. In contrast, “downers” like heroin and Seconal close off and obliterate awareness. As Raoul explains, “what sells today is whatever Fucks You Up- whatever short-circuits your brain and grounds it out for the longest possible time” (202). At the same time, this was a symptom of a broader cultural shift. As Raoul argues, “we are wired into a survival trip now” (178). The sense of possibility that characterised the 60s has been replaced by cynicism and self-interest. Most no longer believe in exploring new frontiers or believed that life and society can fundamentally be changed. In the context of Nixon’s presidency, when everyone is looking for themselves, “surviving” seems the only remaining option, even if doing so requires downers to deaden one’s awareness.

The novel tries to answer why this happened. On a socio-political level, the promise of the 60s failed, argues Raoul, because of a split in the anti-establishment forces of youth culture. Ultimately, no one was able to “reconcile the interests of the lower/working class biker/ dropout types and the upper/middle, Berkeley/student activists” (179). On a deeper level, the failure of the 60s, and specifically that of drug culture, was rooted in its own illusions. As promoted by Tim Leary, the sacked Harvard psychologist turned drugs guru, and the figure to whom “the Old Psychiatrist’s Club” refers, the idea was that a substance could bring enlightenment. It was the notion, after the discovery and popularization of LSD, that you could “buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit” (178).

Such an idea was, of course, seductive. It offered a cheap and seemingly easy way to achieve individual and social transformation. This was one without the thought, struggle, and sacrifice previously required for these things. It was the age-old illusion of all drugs but applied to consciousness—namely, that one could find the quick fix and the short-cut. In the end, as with any such illusion, this was bound to come crashing down. And the “grim meat-hook realities” (178) were going to reassert themselves. Raoul and Gonzo both discover and exemplify this truth themselves. Their search for the American dream through drugs lands them at the same “huge slab of cracked, scorched concrete in a vacant lot” (168) as Leary. And the state of their hotel room symbolizes what is left behind: a suite “rotten…incredibly foul” (187) with “the bathroom floor six inches deep with soap bars, vomit and grapefruit rinds, mixed with broken glass” (187). They relived, in one week, the promise and failure of the 1960s. It is not clear that they have escaped from its consequences. Raoul’s taking of amyl, a depressant, at the novel’s end suggests that he is abandoning his wild, quixotic quest and himself succumbing too to the cynicism of the 1970s.

Finally, these chapters include arguably the most famous passage in the book. In what came to be known as “the wave speech,” Raoul describes the high-water mark of the counterculture movement in the mid-60s in San Francisco. Raoul says, “There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda… You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning…” (67). Yet, as much of the second half of the book makes clear, the wave has passed. Critics have likened this speech to the final pages of The Great Gatsby, in terms of its rhythms and its message concerning the impossibility of recapturing past glory.