Post by darkstar on Jan 27, 2005 13:38:22 GMT
TEENSET - The Magazine For Today's Music Scene
June 1968
AN AFTERNOON WITH JIM MORRISON by Judith Simms
Teenset June 1968
Jim Morrison's voice is soft and whispery on the
telephone, "Hey you wanna go to the beach? We're leaving soon, you'd better hurry." I hurried. It seemed like an odd place for an interview, but it was a hot day and the beach (and Jim Morrison) sounded awfully
good.
When I arrived at the Doors' office, John Densmore and
Doors' manager Bill Siddons were just leaving for the
beach. Jim climbed in my funny pink convertible and we
tootled off. Jim took off his shirt to soap up some more
sun, and then proceeded to leaf through a thick manila
folder that was full of poems he had written - all of
them the product of one night's creativity. After a
furious night's (or morning's) scribbling, Jim hands his
work to the secretary, who neatly types it up and puts
it in the folder. Jim always carries them with him
(along with a steno pad and small black journal); not
too long ago he lost his whole collection, so now he
takes no chances.<br>I drove while Jim read. He isn't
exactly loquacious. Our conversation went like
this:
"Do I turn on the Santa Monica freeway or stay on the
San Diego freeway?" I asked.
Jim nodded.
"Does that mean I stay on...."
Jim shook his head, never once looking up. I turned off.
We didn't suspect anything was wrong until we reached Santa Monica. As soon as we turned off the freeway, we were shrouded in thick, cold fog, like one big gray cotton swab. Everywhere.
"Damn!" said Jim. I said worse. A beach isn't much good
in the fog.
We drove around trying to find John and Bill, but there was no trace.
"Are you hungry?" asked Jim.
"I'm always hungry," I answered.
"Pull in over there..."
Over there was Olivia's Place, a rundown diner politely described as funky. The outside was old, faded pink, inside was old, faded green. There was a tapestry of JFK over the cash register, a faded landscape on the wall, a shiny jukebox. plastic booths, and a menu written in pencil.
Jim ordered liver and onions. I ordered coffee.
"I thought you were always hungry," he teased.
He went back to the folder, reading his poems and making changes here and there. He took out one sheet of paper and tore it into bits; he kept one fragment, inked out some letters, and handed it to me. It read:
Fall down
Strange Gods
Their shirts
cloth & hair
All along
Ornaments
Bluer than
Welcome.
Soft lizard
"Who was the poet who cut up his poems and scrambled up the pieces?" I asked. "Was it Rimbaud?"
"No...uh...you're thinking of William Burroughs.
"Oh, right."
His food arrived, which he carefully layered with
salt and pepper before tasting. He ate slowly, just as
he talked slowly and moved slowly. Occasionally he
would tilt his head to one side and smile, slowly, as
if he was secretly amused at something.
"What happened with the New Haven bust?" I
queried.
"Oh...everyone was...acquitted."
"Did you appear at the trial?"
"...no..."
What does that mean? I mean, how does that effect..."
"It means I can't ever go back to New Haven."
"Oh. Are you working on a new album?"
"Yes..."
"How many tracks are done?"
"Oh, about...half...about four I guess."
"Will there be any long tracks on this one?" I pursued.
"No."
While Jim continued to eat (slowly), he talked a bit about his poems, and how so many of them are the products of his dreams. "But I have to write them down right away or I forget them.
He finished eating and we headed for sunny Hollywood. Back on the warm freeway he put aside the poems and stretched, arching his back, closing his eyes and rolling his head, letting the wind take his hair, sometimes grabbing the top of the windshield and pulling himself up. It was distracting, yes.
It wasn't really much of an interview, and I certainly don't know much more about Jim than I did before.
He's one of the most naturally sexy people I ever met,
yet he often appears to be playing the role - a
calculated portrayal of a modern tormented sex symbol. The disconcerting thing is that I've caught glimpes of him when he isn't playing the role, and he's different then - relaxed, almost talkative - but this happens only when he's with friends, people he's known and can trust. But even his friends agree that he can be totally
unpredictable, withdrawn, and not a little weird.
"Why don't you make up some really gossipy, wild things about him," said one girl. "They'll probably all be true!" she laughed.
June 1968
AN AFTERNOON WITH JIM MORRISON by Judith Simms
Teenset June 1968
Jim Morrison's voice is soft and whispery on the
telephone, "Hey you wanna go to the beach? We're leaving soon, you'd better hurry." I hurried. It seemed like an odd place for an interview, but it was a hot day and the beach (and Jim Morrison) sounded awfully
good.
When I arrived at the Doors' office, John Densmore and
Doors' manager Bill Siddons were just leaving for the
beach. Jim climbed in my funny pink convertible and we
tootled off. Jim took off his shirt to soap up some more
sun, and then proceeded to leaf through a thick manila
folder that was full of poems he had written - all of
them the product of one night's creativity. After a
furious night's (or morning's) scribbling, Jim hands his
work to the secretary, who neatly types it up and puts
it in the folder. Jim always carries them with him
(along with a steno pad and small black journal); not
too long ago he lost his whole collection, so now he
takes no chances.<br>I drove while Jim read. He isn't
exactly loquacious. Our conversation went like
this:
"Do I turn on the Santa Monica freeway or stay on the
San Diego freeway?" I asked.
Jim nodded.
"Does that mean I stay on...."
Jim shook his head, never once looking up. I turned off.
We didn't suspect anything was wrong until we reached Santa Monica. As soon as we turned off the freeway, we were shrouded in thick, cold fog, like one big gray cotton swab. Everywhere.
"Damn!" said Jim. I said worse. A beach isn't much good
in the fog.
We drove around trying to find John and Bill, but there was no trace.
"Are you hungry?" asked Jim.
"I'm always hungry," I answered.
"Pull in over there..."
Over there was Olivia's Place, a rundown diner politely described as funky. The outside was old, faded pink, inside was old, faded green. There was a tapestry of JFK over the cash register, a faded landscape on the wall, a shiny jukebox. plastic booths, and a menu written in pencil.
Jim ordered liver and onions. I ordered coffee.
"I thought you were always hungry," he teased.
He went back to the folder, reading his poems and making changes here and there. He took out one sheet of paper and tore it into bits; he kept one fragment, inked out some letters, and handed it to me. It read:
Fall down
Strange Gods
Their shirts
cloth & hair
All along
Ornaments
Bluer than
Welcome.
Soft lizard
"Who was the poet who cut up his poems and scrambled up the pieces?" I asked. "Was it Rimbaud?"
"No...uh...you're thinking of William Burroughs.
"Oh, right."
His food arrived, which he carefully layered with
salt and pepper before tasting. He ate slowly, just as
he talked slowly and moved slowly. Occasionally he
would tilt his head to one side and smile, slowly, as
if he was secretly amused at something.
"What happened with the New Haven bust?" I
queried.
"Oh...everyone was...acquitted."
"Did you appear at the trial?"
"...no..."
What does that mean? I mean, how does that effect..."
"It means I can't ever go back to New Haven."
"Oh. Are you working on a new album?"
"Yes..."
"How many tracks are done?"
"Oh, about...half...about four I guess."
"Will there be any long tracks on this one?" I pursued.
"No."
While Jim continued to eat (slowly), he talked a bit about his poems, and how so many of them are the products of his dreams. "But I have to write them down right away or I forget them.
He finished eating and we headed for sunny Hollywood. Back on the warm freeway he put aside the poems and stretched, arching his back, closing his eyes and rolling his head, letting the wind take his hair, sometimes grabbing the top of the windshield and pulling himself up. It was distracting, yes.
It wasn't really much of an interview, and I certainly don't know much more about Jim than I did before.
He's one of the most naturally sexy people I ever met,
yet he often appears to be playing the role - a
calculated portrayal of a modern tormented sex symbol. The disconcerting thing is that I've caught glimpes of him when he isn't playing the role, and he's different then - relaxed, almost talkative - but this happens only when he's with friends, people he's known and can trust. But even his friends agree that he can be totally
unpredictable, withdrawn, and not a little weird.
"Why don't you make up some really gossipy, wild things about him," said one girl. "They'll probably all be true!" she laughed.