We were somewhere around Hotel Vegas on the edge of East Sixth Street when the feedback began to take hold. How in the holy goddamned fuck do you pay musical tribute to Hunter S. Thompson, fearless chronicler of America's beautiful decay and scourge of Dick Nixon and Jann Wenner alike? It's not like Kentucky's greatest son was known for his ripping lead guitar. Then again, maybe that's the wrong question. Come celebrate Dr. Gonzo’s 89th birthday with glorious sensory overload, psychedelic guitars, tropical cocktails, and enough beautiful weirdness to blur the line between concert and hallucination. Maybe the old ghost will emcee this year? – Tim Stegall