
(Photo Patterson-Gimlin)
With the increasing ubiquity of streaming media and those platforms’ strategies for cross-promotion, it becomes easier and easier to make new discoveries of old films and shows. That is how I recently discovered Sasquatch, a documentary series released on Hulu in 2021. Sasquatch follows a journalist as he follows the trail of an old, scarcely believable memory and tries to substantiate it. His memory concerns the murder of three immigrant workers on a marijuana farm in Mendocino County, which was first reported to him as the handiwork of the series’ namesake monster, otherwise known as Big Foot. The journalist who was told this tall tale in the early 1990s and tried to investigate it twenty-five years later is named David Holthouse.
That name nearly tipped me off my couch. Strangely, given Holthouse’s quest in the series, he himself is the subject of one of my old, scarcely believable memories. This memory is not potent enough to send me on an investigation worthy of a documentary series, but the coincidence spurs me at least to commit it to writing. At least one figure in this story is no longer alive to defend himself or offer corrections to my admittedly fallible memory, so I will withhold some names.
The Ray Hartmann-era Riverfront Times was the first newspaper that paid me to write, and it remained my primary publishing venue until it was sold to a chain of alternative newsweeklies based in Phoenix in 1998. I was a freelance writer and traveling musician dividing time between St. Louis and the road, so when I heard discouraging things about the new boss, the new publisher of the RFT, I started to spend less time in St. Louis and more time on the road. Eventually, I settled in New York.
In the twilight days of the Hartmann-era RFT, Thomas Crone became the paper’s music editor. For the blink of an eye in the mid-to-late 1990s, world music began to appear mainstream in the Midwest. Downtown Kirkwood briefly had a record store —this seems difficult to believe now—specializing in world music. Ever the trend-spotter, Crone assigned me to write a world music column for the RFT. His choice of critic was inspired, not by my expertise, but by my chutzpah—then and now (when I am a classical music critic without expertise), I was known for my nerve and willingness to make a fool out of myself for the opportunity to get published and earn a few shekels.
Imagine my surprise, then, after I had essentially fled the newspaper’s new publisher, when I heard from their national music editor. He said that, upon reviewing the RFT’s music journalism, he had identified my world music column as something he wanted in their national editorial mix. Their alternative newsweekly chain had affiliates all over the country, and world music was
looking like a thing in this country. He thought many of their member newspapers would run a world music column, if he offered them one, and he enjoyed the unpretentious way I wrote about this music that was often difficult to understand. Would I want to keep writing my world music column—for more money, if more papers picked up the column, as he expected they would? More money, for the same amount of work, if you can call writing about music work? Why, sure!
That national music editor’s name was David Holthouse.
Like Thomas Crone, who was and is my friend, Holthouse was very supportive of my writing and effortless to work with. He mailed me free CDs of world music and helped me to finagle complimentary tickets to world music concerts. Given that I now spent more time in New York than in St. Louis, I was exposed to even more world music and in a much better position to pass as the expert I was not. I even picked up a new international publishing venue in Rhythm magazine. When the MusicHound publisher of guide books brought out its 1,000-page-plus guide to world music in 2000, I was all over it. Things were looking pretty good for me as a world music critic.
Then, suddenly, my primary editor, David Holthouse, fell silent. I began to notice the absence of his loquacious and supportive e-mail messages. I appeared to fall off the free world music gravy train. Most important, the freelance checks stopped arriving by mail. My questions of concern to Holthouse were not returned. My editor had vanished.
After a month or so, his silence was broken when Holthouse wrote to me with a story that was difficult to believe.
He said the hip-hop scene in the newspaper chain’s home city of Phoenix always had been one of his beats where he had deep sources and broke news. He said the publisher—the same man whose notorious unpleasantness had helped separate me from St. Louis when Hartmann sold him the RFT—would always ride him about his coverage of local hip-hop. The publisher would say things like we all know where these guys make their money and it is not from their music; they are selling drugs and sex. So, where is the real story about the Phoenix hip-hop scene?
At this point, Holthouse would inform his publisher that if he were to report on his sources’ criminal activities it would endanger his life. The publisher would smirk and say something dismissive. This conversation was repeated many times until, finally, an unpleasant man in an unusually foul mood, the publisher told Holthouse that he would report the real story about hip-hop in Phoenix—or the publisher would fire him and replace him with a music editor “with balls” who would report the story.
In frustration and despair, Holthouse began to report the real story about hip-hop in Phoenix. Immediately, his street-savvy sources figured out what he was up to. As predicted, that put his life in danger. Holthouse had to flee Phoenix for his life. He now was writing to me from Los Angeles, where the newspaper chain had given him some work to do, but he essentially was in hiding and in exile from his home. He was not sure what he was going to do next, but he knew he would not be working any longer for a publisher who nearly had gotten him killed. He further suggested that any journalists who had been writing for him look for other opportunities. These are bad people, he said—they almost got me killed. I took his word and lost my last journalism connection to St. Louis at that time.
To this day, I have never met David Holthouse. Watching him maneuver dangerous situations in Sasquatch—in this case, at least, of his own device—was the first time I even saw what he looked like. (Not a bad-looking guy—quirky but compelling; intense.) Mulling over the timeline, Holthouse heard the Sasquatch murder story some years before he had to go into hiding over his reporting on hip-hop and crime in Phoenix, but he started his investigation into that story—in California—some years after his flight to Los Angeles. I suspect that this suspenseful and nearly fatal interlude in his life that impacted me had played some role in his journey from music editor in Phoenix to journalist investigating violent crime in California.
Now that I have found him again, I will continue to follow his journey. I sincerely hope it keeps not getting him killed.