Post by darkstar on Mar 29, 2005 21:34:03 GMT
Spin Magazine
August 1990
MORRISON
By: Tom Baker and Legs McNeil
Long, Long ago, in a place far, far away, when rock ‘n’ roll was dangerous….
“I’ve always been attracted to ideas that were about revolt against authority. I like ideas about breaking away of overthrowing of established order. I am interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos – especially activity which seems to have no meaning. It seems to me to be the road toward freedom – external revolt is a way to bring about internal freedom…….But the main thing is that we are the Doors……The world we suggest is of a new wild West. A sensuous evil world”<br>-Jim Morrison, from Elektra Records promo biography January 1967.
You want to know what I think? I think the problem with rock and roll today is someone let too much light in. With MTV, commercial advertising and corporate sponsors, somehow all the daylight has been destroyed the mesmerizing darkness. Somehow the shades got pulled and the shadows disappeared.
With the exception of the Velvet Underground, some early Stones, Alice Cooper and Iggy, no band ever celebrated the darkness as successfully as the Doors. Most great rock and roll bands touch on it during their lifetime, but no other band but the Doors spent their entire career lurking in the twilight, and so wonderfully articulated what they found there.
Because no other band had such a beautifully evil host to introduce you to the netherworld. Jim Morrison truly was one of the Fallen Angels. One who had forsaken Heaven in order to fulfill his curiously about what else was out there. Since Mick Jagger looked and acted the part, wiggling his ass, singing “Sympathy For The Devil.” But somehow you knew after the show Mick was headed straight for the party to hang out with movie stars, billionaires and other lords and ladies of the jet set court.
On the other hand, Jim Morrison was probably going to be arrested after his show. In 1981, Tom Baker, who was Jim Morrison’s best drinking buddy and is a prominent character in Oliver Stone’s new movie on the life of Morrison, published a memoir of his times and toilet hugging drunk with the ‘Lizard King’ in High Times magazine. The piece captured the spirit of rock and roll in the 60’s. Join us as we take another look back….
One cold, gray November day, I was on 57th Street near Carnegie Hall, walking with my head down and cursing the hypocrites who kept me from my deserved fame and fortune. I head someone call “Heyyyyyy, Tom,” and looked up to see Jim emerging from a movie house. He had just seen a movie version of James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake and he was feeling Irish and poetic. We went to the bar of his hotel, the old Great Northern, and ordered a beer and Irish whiskey.
Soon, we were toilet hugging drunk and remaining upright seemed to defy the law of gravity, when Ray Manzarek appeared along with one of their managers. They had come to collect Jim for a concert that evening. I was amazed he going to do a show. After all the booze, I didn’t see how he possibly could perform. He urged me to come along suggesting I introduce the group and recite some poems. My drunkenness clouded my better judgment and I piled into a long black limo with Jim and the band. After going a few blocks, Morrison had the driver pull over and he dashed into a novelty store, returning with six Brechtian masks, every one a different color. Back in the limo, he handed them out to each of us and we were off. I passed out before we were halfway through the Midtown Tunnel, only to awake an hour later with an excruciatingly painful need to urinate.
The show was to take place in a dull little town called Danbury, Connecticut and the driver was none too swift coming out of chute, and it took longer than necessary to find the place. But he finally figured it out, and I was able to relieve myself.
I looked around and quickly recognized we were a long was from 46th Street. It was a new and ugly building, prison-like in its coldness, and all purpose high school auditorium and gymnasium, very distinctly American heartland. Well, that’s good, I thought, let Jim carry his dark messages directly to the folks.
But the atmosphere made me apprehensive about the introduction. Jim seemed to sense this and chided me about losing nerve. I was wearing a deceptively expensive-looking black fur coat, and with the mask, felt very much out of place.
The band took up their places behind the curtain and I peeked out from the wings, trying to get a fix on the audience. I nearly choked when I saw these prepubescent runts with their Ma’s and Pa’s, clutching Doors albums to their heavily beating breasts.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the spotlight. The image of row after row of beaming, clean-cut faces clashed in my head with the more familiar and expected sights of dark, murky, dope-in-the-air, sex drenched clubs, and I couldn’t help think we had made a wrong exit on the turnpike.
I rushed through the shortest poem I knew, muttered something about having known the boys from the Los Angeles days, then made a quick check behind the curtain and got the hell out of there. I watched from the wings, flanked by local honchos and some of their lovely daughters, who must have pulled their parents by the short hairs to gain access. Jim threw himself into his performance, and the kids loved him. They were on their feet throughout, yelling, “Jimmy, Jimmy,” and begging him to sing “Light My Fire” until he obliged. He was still brilliant and exciting, but for me, much of his magic and dangerous spontaneity were swallowed by the huge hall.
The ride back was exhausting, my head was pounding and I hadn’t eaten all day. It was well after one AM when I was deposited on the corner of 57th Street and Seventh Avenue. Jim and I had not spoken throughout the trip and now he lifted slowly, and nodded at me, saying, “See ya next time.” My hangover increased my paranoia and I worried that he was disappointed by my uninspired beginning.
The limo disappeared into the flow of traffic, and I headed down the subway stairs. He was going on to piles of money and great adulation. I was faced with door pounding and job searching. I pondered the ironic reversal of our fates in the past year as I rode down to Greenwich Village on the BMT. As I approached my apartment, I remembered my girlfriend had been waiting for me since early in the day. “Christ,” I thought. “What am I going to tell her? She’ll never believe I’ve been doing what I’ve been doing. Shit! Another problem. Fuck Pam! Fuck Jim the Doors!
Whenever we went to the rock clubs such as The Whisky or The Experience, Jim would cause a stir as we walked in and the kids gathered around him. Morrison was usually in a semiconscious stupor and seemed oblivious to the fans. As soon as we sat down, the resident groupie would pounce on him. Sometimes, I would share in the spoils, other times I would be ignored as though I were invisible, and still other times Jim would be so comatose, I would get them all to myself.
August 1990
MORRISON
By: Tom Baker and Legs McNeil
Long, Long ago, in a place far, far away, when rock ‘n’ roll was dangerous….
“I’ve always been attracted to ideas that were about revolt against authority. I like ideas about breaking away of overthrowing of established order. I am interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos – especially activity which seems to have no meaning. It seems to me to be the road toward freedom – external revolt is a way to bring about internal freedom…….But the main thing is that we are the Doors……The world we suggest is of a new wild West. A sensuous evil world”<br>-Jim Morrison, from Elektra Records promo biography January 1967.
You want to know what I think? I think the problem with rock and roll today is someone let too much light in. With MTV, commercial advertising and corporate sponsors, somehow all the daylight has been destroyed the mesmerizing darkness. Somehow the shades got pulled and the shadows disappeared.
With the exception of the Velvet Underground, some early Stones, Alice Cooper and Iggy, no band ever celebrated the darkness as successfully as the Doors. Most great rock and roll bands touch on it during their lifetime, but no other band but the Doors spent their entire career lurking in the twilight, and so wonderfully articulated what they found there.
Because no other band had such a beautifully evil host to introduce you to the netherworld. Jim Morrison truly was one of the Fallen Angels. One who had forsaken Heaven in order to fulfill his curiously about what else was out there. Since Mick Jagger looked and acted the part, wiggling his ass, singing “Sympathy For The Devil.” But somehow you knew after the show Mick was headed straight for the party to hang out with movie stars, billionaires and other lords and ladies of the jet set court.
On the other hand, Jim Morrison was probably going to be arrested after his show. In 1981, Tom Baker, who was Jim Morrison’s best drinking buddy and is a prominent character in Oliver Stone’s new movie on the life of Morrison, published a memoir of his times and toilet hugging drunk with the ‘Lizard King’ in High Times magazine. The piece captured the spirit of rock and roll in the 60’s. Join us as we take another look back….
One cold, gray November day, I was on 57th Street near Carnegie Hall, walking with my head down and cursing the hypocrites who kept me from my deserved fame and fortune. I head someone call “Heyyyyyy, Tom,” and looked up to see Jim emerging from a movie house. He had just seen a movie version of James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake and he was feeling Irish and poetic. We went to the bar of his hotel, the old Great Northern, and ordered a beer and Irish whiskey.
Soon, we were toilet hugging drunk and remaining upright seemed to defy the law of gravity, when Ray Manzarek appeared along with one of their managers. They had come to collect Jim for a concert that evening. I was amazed he going to do a show. After all the booze, I didn’t see how he possibly could perform. He urged me to come along suggesting I introduce the group and recite some poems. My drunkenness clouded my better judgment and I piled into a long black limo with Jim and the band. After going a few blocks, Morrison had the driver pull over and he dashed into a novelty store, returning with six Brechtian masks, every one a different color. Back in the limo, he handed them out to each of us and we were off. I passed out before we were halfway through the Midtown Tunnel, only to awake an hour later with an excruciatingly painful need to urinate.
The show was to take place in a dull little town called Danbury, Connecticut and the driver was none too swift coming out of chute, and it took longer than necessary to find the place. But he finally figured it out, and I was able to relieve myself.
I looked around and quickly recognized we were a long was from 46th Street. It was a new and ugly building, prison-like in its coldness, and all purpose high school auditorium and gymnasium, very distinctly American heartland. Well, that’s good, I thought, let Jim carry his dark messages directly to the folks.
But the atmosphere made me apprehensive about the introduction. Jim seemed to sense this and chided me about losing nerve. I was wearing a deceptively expensive-looking black fur coat, and with the mask, felt very much out of place.
The band took up their places behind the curtain and I peeked out from the wings, trying to get a fix on the audience. I nearly choked when I saw these prepubescent runts with their Ma’s and Pa’s, clutching Doors albums to their heavily beating breasts.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the spotlight. The image of row after row of beaming, clean-cut faces clashed in my head with the more familiar and expected sights of dark, murky, dope-in-the-air, sex drenched clubs, and I couldn’t help think we had made a wrong exit on the turnpike.
I rushed through the shortest poem I knew, muttered something about having known the boys from the Los Angeles days, then made a quick check behind the curtain and got the hell out of there. I watched from the wings, flanked by local honchos and some of their lovely daughters, who must have pulled their parents by the short hairs to gain access. Jim threw himself into his performance, and the kids loved him. They were on their feet throughout, yelling, “Jimmy, Jimmy,” and begging him to sing “Light My Fire” until he obliged. He was still brilliant and exciting, but for me, much of his magic and dangerous spontaneity were swallowed by the huge hall.
The ride back was exhausting, my head was pounding and I hadn’t eaten all day. It was well after one AM when I was deposited on the corner of 57th Street and Seventh Avenue. Jim and I had not spoken throughout the trip and now he lifted slowly, and nodded at me, saying, “See ya next time.” My hangover increased my paranoia and I worried that he was disappointed by my uninspired beginning.
The limo disappeared into the flow of traffic, and I headed down the subway stairs. He was going on to piles of money and great adulation. I was faced with door pounding and job searching. I pondered the ironic reversal of our fates in the past year as I rode down to Greenwich Village on the BMT. As I approached my apartment, I remembered my girlfriend had been waiting for me since early in the day. “Christ,” I thought. “What am I going to tell her? She’ll never believe I’ve been doing what I’ve been doing. Shit! Another problem. Fuck Pam! Fuck Jim the Doors!
Whenever we went to the rock clubs such as The Whisky or The Experience, Jim would cause a stir as we walked in and the kids gathered around him. Morrison was usually in a semiconscious stupor and seemed oblivious to the fans. As soon as we sat down, the resident groupie would pounce on him. Sometimes, I would share in the spoils, other times I would be ignored as though I were invisible, and still other times Jim would be so comatose, I would get them all to myself.