| The
Doors are somewhat of an anomaly in the rock pantheon. They weren't part
of the peace and love Airplane-Dead-Quicksilver acid-rock movement of San
Francisco. They had nothing to do with the English invasion, or even conventional
pop music for that matter. Even in their home town of Los Angeles they
were considered a world apart from the predominantly folk-rock peerage
of The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield and The Mamas and The Papas.
The
Doors were never part of any movement. Indeed, during an era of very high
fliers, their visionary trajectory sought an orbit positioned well outside
of the rock norm. Their journey was driven by a unique group vision and
a determination to push the envelope of poetry, spirituality, intellect
and psycho-sexual exploration in popular music as far as possible.
From
their beginnings during the summer of 1965 at Venice Beach, California,
The Doors were truly a band--a remarkable fusion of creative energies,
a lot of attention has been focused on Jim Morrison which his looks and
talents clearly justify. However, Jim was well aware that the magic of
The Doors could never have happened without the fortunate forging of John
Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek and Jim Morrison into a single creative
whole. It is no mystery why Jim Morrison never went solo; so sympathetic
were the three other musicians to Jim's mission that such a consideration
was out of the question. Robby Krieger, for example, was able to write
lyrics and music that sounded more like Morrison than Morrison himself--
among them "Light My Fire," "Love Me Two Times," and "Love Her Madly."
Without
Krieger, Manzarek and Densmore there is a strong chance that Jim's songs
would never have made it off the page, into rehearsal, onto the stage,
into the recording studio and, in defiance of all odds, to successive generations
who have since discovered The Doors as a "new" group.
Ray
Manzarek, a classically trained pianist, raised in Chicago with a deep
love for the blues, wrote the themes for many of the songs and played not
only the keyboard parts but simultaneously (with his left hand) propelled
the band with melodic driving bass lines. John Densmore, a jazz drummer
with an unbeatable knack for shamanic rhythm and theatrical timing... the
band's tireless engine. Robby Krieger, a songwriting secret weapon who
could play any guitar, from classic flamenco to bottle-neck blues, to creating
styles and sounds previously unheard on this planet. And Jim Morrison,
the baritone, eclectic/electric poet with an innate compositional gift
and the soul of a mystic. Together
these
men brought The Doors' songs to life-- they were equal points of a musical
diamond.
The
band took its name from the poet-visionary-artist William Blake, who had
written, "When the doors of perception are cleansed, things will appear
to man as they truly are...infinite." English author Aldous Huxley was
sufficiently inspired by Blake's quote to title his book on mescaline experiences
The Doors of Perception. Morrison was so connected to both works that he
proposed, The Doors, to his bandmates. Everyone agreed that the name, as
well as the inspiration from which it sprang, was perfect to convey who
they were and clearly representive for what they stood for.
The
group was signed to Elektra Records, then a small folk-music record company,
in July of 1966 by Jac Holzman, Elektra's founder. By April 1971, The Doors
had recorded six landmark studio LP's and a two-record set of live performances,
the first seven discs with producer Paul A. Rothchild and the last one
co-produced by The Doors and their career-long engineer Bruce Botnick...
both The Doors and Elektra had grown into world famed institutions.
The
band's unstated goal was to accomplish musical alchemy-- to fuse rock music
with both existential poetry and improvisational theater. Jim was greatly
influenced by the nineteenth century poet Arthur Rimbaud and he dutifully
imparted Rimbaud's philosophy to the group. Rimbaud advocated a systematic
"rational derangement of all the senses in order to achieve the unknown."
Jim's
fascination with the unknown is well documented. He was fond of William
Blake and liked to quote him, "The road of excess leads to the palace of
wisdom," a bit of advice he took all too tragically to heart.
Morrison
was a man who would not, could not, and did not know how to compromise
himself or his art. He was driven to go all the way or die trying, the
ultimate ecstatic risk taker. Manzarek, Krieger and Densmore's contribution
to this state of creative ecstasy cannot be underestimated. In order for
the musical spell to be successfully cast they gave willingly and generously--
the power of improvisation that drove Morrison onstage required the other
three Doors to not merely play arrangements but to follow Jim's unplanned
creative arc perfectly in one of the music's classic and most difficult
feats-- the art of intuitive accompaniment.
Jim
once explained, "A Doors concert is a public meeting called by us for a
special dramatic discussion. When we perform, we're participating in the
creation of a world and we celebrate that with the crowd." He would scream,
"Wake Up!" 1000 times on 1000 nights in an effort to shake the audience
out of its self-imposed lethargy and TV- bred unconsciousness. A few days
before he flew to Paris, to his death, Jim gave his last
statement
to the press, "For me, it was never really an act, those so-called performances.
It was a life-and-death thing, an attempt to communicate, to involve many
people in a private world of thought."
During
the late 1960's bands sang of love and peace while acid was passed out.
But for The Doors it was different. The nights belonged to Pan and Dionysus,
the gods of revelry and rebirth, and the songs invoked their potent passions--
the Oedipal nightmare of "The End," the breathless gallop of "Not to Touch
the Earth," the doom of "Hyacinth House," the ecstasy of "Light My Fire,"
the dark uneasy undertones of "Can't See Your Face in My Mind," and the
alluring loss of consciousness in "Crystal Ship." And as with Dionysus,
The Doors willingly offered themselves as a sacrifice to be torn apart,
to bleed, to die, to be reborn for yet another night in another town.
To
be a poet meant more to Morrison than writing poems. It meant embracing
the tragedy fate has chosen for you and fulfilling that destiny with gusto
and nobility.
In
the end, after conquering America, after being shackled by the courts and
laws of the land that he loved, he escaped to Paris, traditional home of
so many expatriate artists, to pursue his life as a poet. But his body
was too worn down, his heart too weak; he had already seen and done and
drunk too much. He had lived life on his own terms, had reaped the rewards,
and now the bill was due. His spirit was tired. Death was simply closer
and easier than returning to America, to the endless succession of stages
it demanded. Jim Morrison passed away in Paris on July 3, 1971. His dying
wish was to be remembered as a poet.
Pamela
Morrison used to tell a story from the very earliest day of The Doors.
They were playing their first club, The London Fog. It was their last set
of the night and there were only three people in the club, two drunks and
Pamela. The band was incandescent. Jim raged and exploded with super-human
passion-- a transcendent performance. Pam was stunned. In the car she could
say nothing...long after arriving home she was still speechless. Jim asked,
"What's wrong baby?" Pam said, "There were three people in the club during
the last set. But you burned like you were performing for thousands of
people. Why did you go so far, risk so much for a tiny audience that was
barely aware of your presence?" Jim looked at her and said slowly, "You
never know when you're doing your last set."
Considering
the force of energy generated by The Doors over 25 years ago, that "last
set" could well be several generations away. |
