Post by darkstar2 on Jul 28, 2008 20:26:35 GMT
Mar. 19, 2006
Las Vegas Review-Journal
NORM: Jim Morrison's Mug Catches Eyes
This mug shot of Jim Morrison, taken after the rock icon's January 1968 arrest at the Pussycat a' Go Go in Las Vegas, is at Hogs & Heifers Saloon along with his arrest report.
The owner of Hogs & Heifers Saloon is in hog heaven. Last summer, when Michelle Dell opened a Las Vegas offshoot of her notorious New York watering hole, she requested memorabilia at the decorating party.
The donations poured in. Gas tanks from old motorcycles. Vanity license plates. Velvet Elvis paintings. A photo of Steve Wynn from his preppy days. A customized aerial bomb tail. And bras from A to DD.
Buried among the kitschy gifts was an infamous arrest report that's become quite a tourist attraction.
Dated Jan. 28, 1968, the report chronicles the arrest of rock icon Jim Morrison at the Pussycat a' Go Go for public drunkenness.
"People come up and say, 'Where do I get one of those?' We get a lot of offers," said Jessica Hirshon, director of marketing and special events for the downtown hot spot at 201 N. Third St.
The discovery had a personal connection for Dell.
"When I showed it to her, she went, 'Oh, my mother used to date him,' " recalled Hirshon.
Longtime Las Vegan Sweet Louie of The Checkmates described the Pussycat a' Go Go as "the hot spot of the 1960s." Located at 3255 Las Vegas Blvd. South, which now is the southwest corner of the Wynn Las Vegas site, the nightclub attracted top rock acts and the beautiful people.
"All the Strip stars would stop in after their shows, and if you wanted to see a nice lady, that's where they came," said Sweet Louie.
Arrested near midnight, Morrison, The Doors' trouble-prone lead singer, was listed as 5-foot-11, 145 pounds, with brown hair, hazel eyes and "bad" complexion.
Dressed in a green coat, purple shirt, black hat and brown shoes, Morrison gave his address as Penthouse C, 8721 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles.
The arresting officer was Jerry Brown, and the witnesses were listed as Paul Swogger, Robert Hirsch and Dick Gardner.
Hirsch, an ex-policeman, was one of the owners of the club, according to Sweet Louie.
Morrison, considered one of the most charismatic frontmen in rock history, died July 3, 1971, at age 27.
Before flaming out, The Doors had No. 1 hits "Light My Fire" (1967) and "Hello, I Love You" (1968).
www.reviewjournal.com/lvrj_home/2006/Mar-19-Sun-2006/news/6448424.html
Jim Morrison Arrest In Clark County Nevada
January 28 1968
Frank Lisciandro's Recalls
Jim and Robert meet up with friends of Robert's and head to a show at the Pussycat A Go Go. Jim borrows a Pall Mall from Robert, and practices his acting technique by smoking it as if it were a joint. This is Robert Gover's account of what followed:
'What happened next I can only attribute to the fact that we were a racially mixed group with two "hippies" and it was this mix that drove a Pussycat security guard bonkers. Affable Mike was the first to encounter the pride and prejudice of the guard, who suddenly bashed him on the head with his billy club. From the parking lot I saw Mike go down and heard him yell something like "Hey, what the hell is this?"
Then the guard came at Jim, who leaned against a wall and continued to placidly act out his joint smoking. The guard smacked Jim's head again...and again...and again. Jim acted as if the guard wasn't there, even when blood began streaming down. Chaney rushed into the scene yelling "This is an outrage, call the police!" Why the guard never hit Chaney, who is black, I'll never know-unless it is because Chaney is an ex-football star, and looks it.
By this time the Pussycat entrance is in a huge uproar, with more security guards arriving, people screaming, Mike in an Irish fury and Jim placidly bleeding, ladies nearly hysterical, Chaney yelling "Call the Police" and me yelling "Let's get out of here!" The reason I was in favor of retreat was that I knew from experience that Jim attracted cops like honey attracts bears. His charisma was such that your ordinary upholder of the established order could be infuriated merely by the sight of Morrison strolling down the street-innocent to all outward appearances, but...well, there was that invisible something about him that silently suggested revolution, disorder, chaos.
That night the Vegas cops arrived pronto. It didn't surprise me when they took one look at this noise, grabbed Morrison and bent him over the hood of their patrol car. It did, however, cause me considerable fright when they grabbed me as the other "criminal" involved, because I had a real joint in my pocket, and that could get you a long stay in a Nevada prison.
But our guardian angels were on the job. Chaney's loud indignation distracted the police long enough for me to slip away to the shadows, drop the joint and resume the position of the friskee a wink before the cops were ready to search me.
After the frisk, the cops cuffed our hands behind our backs, just Jim and me, and shoved us into the patrol car. I was shaken due to the close call, Jim was bleeding, but worse, his demons were bubbling up. Soon they were rushing out of his mouth like a pack of mad dogs attacking helpless strangers in the forest. "You chickenshit pigs, you redneck stupid bastards." etc and so forth. I made an effort to stem this tide of demons, and Jim did try, but it was hopeless, for the demons had him now and were coming through in a hurricane of invectives.
It wasn't just our momentary plight that had aroused these invisible avenging angel/demons-it was also the temper of the times, the war in Vietnam, the plight of millions all over the planet who are unjustly harmed by such uniformed nitwits as these. Morrison thought and felt in planetary terms, and his mind had an uncanny way of reaching way back in time as if he were the reincarnation of a pagan priest who had been burned at the stake during the inquisition and was here to avenge that wrong, among others. When manhandled by the emperor's troops, it seemed he would rather be killed than humbled. In the heart and soul of Jim Morrison there was an uncontrollable rage against injustice.
At the police station, we were roughly escorted to a large office space full of people at desks, tapping typewriters, reading reports, sipping coffee, and performing other such police duties. Our 'hippie length' hair was not yet the fashion in Vegas, and our arresting officers had had more than they could take of Jim's "disrespect for the law." So they made us strip naked in front of all those officers, men and women, with the clear intention of humiliating us. "Let's see if they're boys or girls, har har har."
But Jim at age 24 was Mr. Body Beautiful, and I'd been pumping iron and running, so neither of us felt much humiliation. Until, that is, they brought forth a spray gun and engulfed us in big clouds of roach powder, then made us turn around, bend over, spread our cheeks and gave us a final blast in the ass. That brought laughter from the assembled peace officers, but was by no means the medicine needed to quiet Jim's obsessing demons.
By the time we'd been booked, fingerprinted, photographed and thrown into the holding tank, James Douglas Morrison was no longer present. His eyes were out of focus and he was panting like a fire breathing dragon. That's when he climbed the bars of our extra high cell and drew my attention to the assembled minions of law and order by yelling "Hey, Bob, ain't they the ugliest motherfuckers you ever saw?" and other such endearments, delivered in that resonant voice and clear diction which was fast becoming his trademark as a singer.
There was no point trying to remind him that the police have the extra-legal power to kill you, or worse, to beat you into a brain damaged basketcase. Whatever force had gained control of him cared not one bit for the safety of his physical being or mine. Presently our arresting officers returned to tell us that they got off work at midnight and that we would then "have a date, somewhere real private." This only caused the ranting and raving coming out of Jim's mouth to become more eloquent and precisely phrased. Even from behind those bars he was determined to make a dream-haunting entrance into the consciousness of all within hearing.
I laid down on one of the steel bunks and concentrated on Bev and the others putting their wits together and getting us out of there before midnight. While Jim preached from his perch up the bars, I watched the secondhand sweep around the dial, the minutes go by and soon enough we had only five to go.
Yes, they got us out just in the nick of time over Jim's protests that he wanted to call his lawyer in L.A. and file charges for false arrest. We'd been charged with public drunkenness, but walked out of that jail as sober as when we went in.
Las Vegas Review-Journal
NORM: Jim Morrison's Mug Catches Eyes
This mug shot of Jim Morrison, taken after the rock icon's January 1968 arrest at the Pussycat a' Go Go in Las Vegas, is at Hogs & Heifers Saloon along with his arrest report.
The owner of Hogs & Heifers Saloon is in hog heaven. Last summer, when Michelle Dell opened a Las Vegas offshoot of her notorious New York watering hole, she requested memorabilia at the decorating party.
The donations poured in. Gas tanks from old motorcycles. Vanity license plates. Velvet Elvis paintings. A photo of Steve Wynn from his preppy days. A customized aerial bomb tail. And bras from A to DD.
Buried among the kitschy gifts was an infamous arrest report that's become quite a tourist attraction.
Dated Jan. 28, 1968, the report chronicles the arrest of rock icon Jim Morrison at the Pussycat a' Go Go for public drunkenness.
"People come up and say, 'Where do I get one of those?' We get a lot of offers," said Jessica Hirshon, director of marketing and special events for the downtown hot spot at 201 N. Third St.
The discovery had a personal connection for Dell.
"When I showed it to her, she went, 'Oh, my mother used to date him,' " recalled Hirshon.
Longtime Las Vegan Sweet Louie of The Checkmates described the Pussycat a' Go Go as "the hot spot of the 1960s." Located at 3255 Las Vegas Blvd. South, which now is the southwest corner of the Wynn Las Vegas site, the nightclub attracted top rock acts and the beautiful people.
"All the Strip stars would stop in after their shows, and if you wanted to see a nice lady, that's where they came," said Sweet Louie.
Arrested near midnight, Morrison, The Doors' trouble-prone lead singer, was listed as 5-foot-11, 145 pounds, with brown hair, hazel eyes and "bad" complexion.
Dressed in a green coat, purple shirt, black hat and brown shoes, Morrison gave his address as Penthouse C, 8721 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles.
The arresting officer was Jerry Brown, and the witnesses were listed as Paul Swogger, Robert Hirsch and Dick Gardner.
Hirsch, an ex-policeman, was one of the owners of the club, according to Sweet Louie.
Morrison, considered one of the most charismatic frontmen in rock history, died July 3, 1971, at age 27.
Before flaming out, The Doors had No. 1 hits "Light My Fire" (1967) and "Hello, I Love You" (1968).
www.reviewjournal.com/lvrj_home/2006/Mar-19-Sun-2006/news/6448424.html
Jim Morrison Arrest In Clark County Nevada
January 28 1968
Frank Lisciandro's Recalls
Jim and Robert meet up with friends of Robert's and head to a show at the Pussycat A Go Go. Jim borrows a Pall Mall from Robert, and practices his acting technique by smoking it as if it were a joint. This is Robert Gover's account of what followed:
'What happened next I can only attribute to the fact that we were a racially mixed group with two "hippies" and it was this mix that drove a Pussycat security guard bonkers. Affable Mike was the first to encounter the pride and prejudice of the guard, who suddenly bashed him on the head with his billy club. From the parking lot I saw Mike go down and heard him yell something like "Hey, what the hell is this?"
Then the guard came at Jim, who leaned against a wall and continued to placidly act out his joint smoking. The guard smacked Jim's head again...and again...and again. Jim acted as if the guard wasn't there, even when blood began streaming down. Chaney rushed into the scene yelling "This is an outrage, call the police!" Why the guard never hit Chaney, who is black, I'll never know-unless it is because Chaney is an ex-football star, and looks it.
By this time the Pussycat entrance is in a huge uproar, with more security guards arriving, people screaming, Mike in an Irish fury and Jim placidly bleeding, ladies nearly hysterical, Chaney yelling "Call the Police" and me yelling "Let's get out of here!" The reason I was in favor of retreat was that I knew from experience that Jim attracted cops like honey attracts bears. His charisma was such that your ordinary upholder of the established order could be infuriated merely by the sight of Morrison strolling down the street-innocent to all outward appearances, but...well, there was that invisible something about him that silently suggested revolution, disorder, chaos.
That night the Vegas cops arrived pronto. It didn't surprise me when they took one look at this noise, grabbed Morrison and bent him over the hood of their patrol car. It did, however, cause me considerable fright when they grabbed me as the other "criminal" involved, because I had a real joint in my pocket, and that could get you a long stay in a Nevada prison.
But our guardian angels were on the job. Chaney's loud indignation distracted the police long enough for me to slip away to the shadows, drop the joint and resume the position of the friskee a wink before the cops were ready to search me.
After the frisk, the cops cuffed our hands behind our backs, just Jim and me, and shoved us into the patrol car. I was shaken due to the close call, Jim was bleeding, but worse, his demons were bubbling up. Soon they were rushing out of his mouth like a pack of mad dogs attacking helpless strangers in the forest. "You chickenshit pigs, you redneck stupid bastards." etc and so forth. I made an effort to stem this tide of demons, and Jim did try, but it was hopeless, for the demons had him now and were coming through in a hurricane of invectives.
It wasn't just our momentary plight that had aroused these invisible avenging angel/demons-it was also the temper of the times, the war in Vietnam, the plight of millions all over the planet who are unjustly harmed by such uniformed nitwits as these. Morrison thought and felt in planetary terms, and his mind had an uncanny way of reaching way back in time as if he were the reincarnation of a pagan priest who had been burned at the stake during the inquisition and was here to avenge that wrong, among others. When manhandled by the emperor's troops, it seemed he would rather be killed than humbled. In the heart and soul of Jim Morrison there was an uncontrollable rage against injustice.
At the police station, we were roughly escorted to a large office space full of people at desks, tapping typewriters, reading reports, sipping coffee, and performing other such police duties. Our 'hippie length' hair was not yet the fashion in Vegas, and our arresting officers had had more than they could take of Jim's "disrespect for the law." So they made us strip naked in front of all those officers, men and women, with the clear intention of humiliating us. "Let's see if they're boys or girls, har har har."
But Jim at age 24 was Mr. Body Beautiful, and I'd been pumping iron and running, so neither of us felt much humiliation. Until, that is, they brought forth a spray gun and engulfed us in big clouds of roach powder, then made us turn around, bend over, spread our cheeks and gave us a final blast in the ass. That brought laughter from the assembled peace officers, but was by no means the medicine needed to quiet Jim's obsessing demons.
By the time we'd been booked, fingerprinted, photographed and thrown into the holding tank, James Douglas Morrison was no longer present. His eyes were out of focus and he was panting like a fire breathing dragon. That's when he climbed the bars of our extra high cell and drew my attention to the assembled minions of law and order by yelling "Hey, Bob, ain't they the ugliest motherfuckers you ever saw?" and other such endearments, delivered in that resonant voice and clear diction which was fast becoming his trademark as a singer.
There was no point trying to remind him that the police have the extra-legal power to kill you, or worse, to beat you into a brain damaged basketcase. Whatever force had gained control of him cared not one bit for the safety of his physical being or mine. Presently our arresting officers returned to tell us that they got off work at midnight and that we would then "have a date, somewhere real private." This only caused the ranting and raving coming out of Jim's mouth to become more eloquent and precisely phrased. Even from behind those bars he was determined to make a dream-haunting entrance into the consciousness of all within hearing.
I laid down on one of the steel bunks and concentrated on Bev and the others putting their wits together and getting us out of there before midnight. While Jim preached from his perch up the bars, I watched the secondhand sweep around the dial, the minutes go by and soon enough we had only five to go.
Yes, they got us out just in the nick of time over Jim's protests that he wanted to call his lawyer in L.A. and file charges for false arrest. We'd been charged with public drunkenness, but walked out of that jail as sober as when we went in.