Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 16, 2011 10:03:17 GMT
Michael McClure
Recalls an Old Friend.
Rolling Stone, August 1971.
Jim Morrison always wanted to be taken seriously as a literary artist. But despite the vision and intelligence behind the lines in 'The Lords and the New Creatures,' published by Simon and Schuster, and in 'An American Prayer', published in a limited edition for friends, it seemed that only fricnds took him seriously.
Michael McClure, the poet, novelist and playwright ('The Beard'), became interested first in Morrison as a thinker, philosopher and poet. Later, his daughter would help him become a Doors fan as well. Last year, McClure and Morrison began work on a screenplay adaptation of McClure's novel 'The Adept,' and they spent many days and nights together, working and drinking. In the parlor of his comfortable home on one of the upper veins of the Haight Ashbury, Michael McClure leafed through Jim Morrison's words and paid tribute, one poet to another.
"Modern circles of hell: Oswald (?) kills the President.
"Oswald enters taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house.
"Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills officer Tippitt.
"Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured.
"He escaped into a movie house."
My concern is that Jim isn't forced into a movie house here at the end. Pam was Jim's editor. I saw the book in manuscript. There were a few poems eliminated before publication. I think most of the poems in Creatures are of equal weight. Some I like very much, particularly the ones that are pure image.
I haven't replayed the songs and listened to the lyrics. Jim was always making up songs in the studio, you know. They should have kept the tape machine running all the time. The musicians would be taking a break, and Jim would grab the mike and sing spontaneously, making up the words as he went along. And the tape machines would be off, and I'd think goddammit, what a waste. Oh, sure, they were serious songs.
See, I've known a lot of people in rock, and of them all, Jim was the only person I knew who would sit at the table with you, eating and drinking, and break out into a song, like may be a Frank Sinatra tune or an Elvis song, maybe something of his own. Or maybe he'd walk into a bar and sing.
He was really a singer, Jim - he loved to sing. At concerts, he'd sing for four hours if they'd let him have the stage that long. The same way at your house or at a bar - he'd sing to entertain you or himself. In terms of singing, the man was like more of a singer than anybody else I've ever known. I mean, somebody who sings for his friends has really got it, there's no doubt about it.
The way I got to know Jim was this. I had read a magazine piece about him that interested me. He was discussing the concept of evil in a way that made me feel we shared some insights. So Mitchell Hamilburg, the literary agent, got us together while my play The Beard was playing in New York. Jim was, of course, interested in the theater, and Mitchell knew Jim because he knew Pam, so he introduced us at some bar in the Village and we started talking. Jim was kind of in an angry mood that night about I don't know what - angry, withdrawn - but I liked him right off and sat down and just started rapping with him and did most of the talking myself and felt whatever he was mad about at that moment wasn't any of my karma. It ended up with both of us talking together pretty freely.
Later, we met in L.A. pretty often to talk and drink together. Talking about poetry and drinking were our main connections. I've given up drinking recently. One of the things I felt responsible for was to tell Jim my position on that, so just before he died I'd written him a letter telling him that I'd quit. I think he would have quit, too, in time.
I heard some rumors that he'd quit completely several times, others that he was swinging back and forth, but I think he was going to quit, no doubt about it. I think the kind of alcoholism that Jim had was physical, and the way you get rid of it is, you stop. Jim was an intelligent, a brilliant man, and he was obviously not going to go that physiologically addicted route. You see what happens with the American Indian - like, about 95 percent of them lack an enzyme in their liver that makes them physically addictive to alcohol. And there's a typical pattern of drinking that goes with that, and once you realize you're not hung up with some psychological problem, that you've got a physical debility, then you've got to quit. And Jim would've quit, if he hadn't already.
The pressures that caused him to drink? My God, I couldn't tell you about that, could I? I mean, you must've seen a lot of rock stars. As to whether Jim was aware of the seriousness of his addiction - I don't think he'd had time to think about it yet. I think it would call for precisely the kind of thing he did - taking off some time, going to Paris, taking a look at the situation.
Recalls an Old Friend.
Rolling Stone, August 1971.
Jim Morrison always wanted to be taken seriously as a literary artist. But despite the vision and intelligence behind the lines in 'The Lords and the New Creatures,' published by Simon and Schuster, and in 'An American Prayer', published in a limited edition for friends, it seemed that only fricnds took him seriously.
Michael McClure, the poet, novelist and playwright ('The Beard'), became interested first in Morrison as a thinker, philosopher and poet. Later, his daughter would help him become a Doors fan as well. Last year, McClure and Morrison began work on a screenplay adaptation of McClure's novel 'The Adept,' and they spent many days and nights together, working and drinking. In the parlor of his comfortable home on one of the upper veins of the Haight Ashbury, Michael McClure leafed through Jim Morrison's words and paid tribute, one poet to another.
"Modern circles of hell: Oswald (?) kills the President.
"Oswald enters taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house.
"Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills officer Tippitt.
"Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured.
"He escaped into a movie house."
My concern is that Jim isn't forced into a movie house here at the end. Pam was Jim's editor. I saw the book in manuscript. There were a few poems eliminated before publication. I think most of the poems in Creatures are of equal weight. Some I like very much, particularly the ones that are pure image.
I haven't replayed the songs and listened to the lyrics. Jim was always making up songs in the studio, you know. They should have kept the tape machine running all the time. The musicians would be taking a break, and Jim would grab the mike and sing spontaneously, making up the words as he went along. And the tape machines would be off, and I'd think goddammit, what a waste. Oh, sure, they were serious songs.
See, I've known a lot of people in rock, and of them all, Jim was the only person I knew who would sit at the table with you, eating and drinking, and break out into a song, like may be a Frank Sinatra tune or an Elvis song, maybe something of his own. Or maybe he'd walk into a bar and sing.
He was really a singer, Jim - he loved to sing. At concerts, he'd sing for four hours if they'd let him have the stage that long. The same way at your house or at a bar - he'd sing to entertain you or himself. In terms of singing, the man was like more of a singer than anybody else I've ever known. I mean, somebody who sings for his friends has really got it, there's no doubt about it.
The way I got to know Jim was this. I had read a magazine piece about him that interested me. He was discussing the concept of evil in a way that made me feel we shared some insights. So Mitchell Hamilburg, the literary agent, got us together while my play The Beard was playing in New York. Jim was, of course, interested in the theater, and Mitchell knew Jim because he knew Pam, so he introduced us at some bar in the Village and we started talking. Jim was kind of in an angry mood that night about I don't know what - angry, withdrawn - but I liked him right off and sat down and just started rapping with him and did most of the talking myself and felt whatever he was mad about at that moment wasn't any of my karma. It ended up with both of us talking together pretty freely.
Later, we met in L.A. pretty often to talk and drink together. Talking about poetry and drinking were our main connections. I've given up drinking recently. One of the things I felt responsible for was to tell Jim my position on that, so just before he died I'd written him a letter telling him that I'd quit. I think he would have quit, too, in time.
I heard some rumors that he'd quit completely several times, others that he was swinging back and forth, but I think he was going to quit, no doubt about it. I think the kind of alcoholism that Jim had was physical, and the way you get rid of it is, you stop. Jim was an intelligent, a brilliant man, and he was obviously not going to go that physiologically addicted route. You see what happens with the American Indian - like, about 95 percent of them lack an enzyme in their liver that makes them physically addictive to alcohol. And there's a typical pattern of drinking that goes with that, and once you realize you're not hung up with some psychological problem, that you've got a physical debility, then you've got to quit. And Jim would've quit, if he hadn't already.
The pressures that caused him to drink? My God, I couldn't tell you about that, could I? I mean, you must've seen a lot of rock stars. As to whether Jim was aware of the seriousness of his addiction - I don't think he'd had time to think about it yet. I think it would call for precisely the kind of thing he did - taking off some time, going to Paris, taking a look at the situation.