This book is not to be confused for Hunter Thompson's 1966 treatise, "Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga." Thompson's book title is plural -- the story, history and notoriety of the club, the introduction of the members of the motorcycle gang, and the "club" culture. He spent nearly two years immersing himself in that culture, doing ride-alongs to their "picnics," drinking excessively and doing psychedelic and mind-altering drugs, all to "get his story." Ralph "Sonny" Barger, the founder and life-long President of the Hell's Angels confesses in his own book that he did not like Thompson, nor did he endorse Thompson's book as the true story of the Hell' Angels. He used Thompson for his celebrity status and for the publicity he could get Barger and the club, and the contacts that would soften their image and notoriety, make them more legit.
Barger's book was written 14 years later, in 2000, and the title is singular: "Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell's Angels Motorcycle Club." It's more about Sonny, very autobiographical, factual but lacking the artistry and finesse of Thompson's writing ability. It reads like a non-writer putting down the facts of his life, but for entertainment and knowledge, it works.
I found Barger's book on a shelf in the Goodwill thrift store, glanced at it and put it back on the shelf. A few shelves away, I found Thompson's book. I have some history with the Hell's Angels, albeit very cursory (more on that later) and, in looking at the two books, I thought, together, they might make an interesting read. In after thought, I was right!
With the advent of Thompson's magazine and newspaper articles, as well as his pronounced book, the Hell's Angels, with Sonny Barger as their president and spokesman, were getting a lot of publicity, both good and bad. Reporters were clambering at every arrest and trial, hoping for the "next big story," and the Angels didn't disappoint. Reported gang fights, beat-downs, a proliferation of drug charges (both selling and using), weapons violations, suspicions of murder and -- huge headlines -- assaults and gang rape. Sonny fought hard to overturn any charges (some of his own doing), so he was always seeking favorable publicity.p to counter the efforts of law enforcement and naysayers. In some cases, he was successful, but he, as well as many of his compatriots spent many years in jail.
In 1953, actor Marlon Brando made the movie, "The Wild One," a story about two rival motorcycle gangs converging on a small mid-west town. The townspeople and their sheriff were ill-capable of dealing with this reign of terror. As a youth, I was fascinated with their motorcycles and their riding stunts. I couldn't wait to ride so, when I was 16, I bought myself a 250cc, single cylinder British-made BSA and joined a "gang" of other local youth riders. Richard, Dale, Don, Paul, Danny and I, and others, frequently rode together and made weekend trips around to other towns and cities in Northern California. It was a terrific experience and a terrific time to grow up, the mid-1960s.
A few days before July 4th, 1965, my Dad, Captain of the Fort Bragg Police Department, told us around the dinner table, that the Hell's Angels were planning their annual "picnic" to Willits, just 30 miles over the hill from my home town. The FBPD would be on-call to help Willits, along with the Mendocino County Sheriff and the CA Highway Patrol. Their history of fighting authority and vandalizing private property had everyone on edge. The Willits PD, kicked them out of town and averted any problems. The Angels diverted on Highway 20, headed to Fort Bragg. My Dad enlisted an armed posse of townsmen and positioned them at the junction of Hwy 1 and the Willits Road. I was one of those armed citizens, scared shitless but skilled with my hunting rifle. When they arrived, the Angels were blocked off and could not get into town. They were turned away and headed south, down the coast on Hwy 1.
Many years later, in the mid-1970s, I was the night closing Head Clerk in Terra Linda (Marin County) for a grocery chain. Three of my frequent evening customers were three Hell's Angels living somewhere nearby on an old horse ranch. They would roar in on their flashy chromed, stripped-down Harleys and traipse into the store in their dirty denim and colors, their denim jackets sans sleeves, their club allegiance blazened on the back, lots of insignia and patches attesting to their prowess and accomplishments. I introduced myself, told them nobody would bother them and that I expected no trouble. I was no bad dude, but I was fresh back from Vietnam and they supported us soldiers. We got along and, at each visit, they would regale me with stories of their patches, most forms of initiation, some quite gross and foul. You can Google to learn more about their myriad of patches. They were always looking for a rise from me, laughing at my blush or embarrassment. They were friendly and respectful, but I understood the situation could always change for the worst.