Post by stuart on Feb 13, 2005 11:02:53 GMT
No end to the end…<br>Jim Morrison remembered in Paris
Paris is a haunted place. In the Café de Flore, it’s Jean-Paul Sartre, groping myopically past the tables. At the Ritz Hotel, it’s Scott and Zelda, tripping on the entrance stairs. And that bang you hear at the Closerie des Lilas is Hemingway forgetting to duck again. But the strangest ghost of all is Jim Morrison.
Poet, poser, protagonist for the Sixties Generation — remember them? — Jim Morrison died in Paris 30 years ago on July 3, at 17 rue Beautreillis near Bastille (note to residents of the building: perhaps you should consider taking your holidays at the beginning of July this year). Gone but definitely not forgotten. Ten years ago, on the 20th anniversary of his death, riots broke out in front of the Père Lachaise cemetery, when police turned thousands of fans/mourners/groupies away. In the ensuing mêlée, the cemetery’s main gates were set on fire by the fans in a vein attempt to gain entry. This time round, anxious city authorities are expecting hoards of devotees at the Père Lachaise (note to readers: avoid interment early July if possible).
While there are still many who believe Morrison’s cult status has more to do with living fast, dying young and just managing to leave a good-looking if slightly bloated corpse, the nay-sayers are definitely in the minority. In the film, “Almost Famous,” rock critic Lester Bangs (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) loudly derides Morrison as a drunk and phony. In reality Bangs praised him in his unreadable book, “Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung,” for displaying a hip, knowing irony. That irony was a factor in Francis Coppola’s choice of Morrison’s wired epic, “The End,” to both open and close his own wired epic, “Apocalypse Now.” It’s somehow fitting that the new, extended version of the film goes into general release on the cusp of Morrison’s anniversary.
Naturally, record companies have gotten into the act, with Warner Music France releasing a compilation of his 37 greatest hits, “The Best Of The Doors,” featuring several previously unreleased numbers. This will be followed on June 25 by a very rare live album with unreleased material called “Live In America” which will launch a new Doors label: Bright Midnight Records (Rhino/Warner). There will be a concert July 3, “A Feast Of Friends: A Tribute to Jim Morrison and The Doors,” at the Elysée-Montmartre (72 bd Rochechouart, 18e, M° Anvers, tel: 01 56 07 06 00). And anyone interested in involved testimony should consult Gilles Yepremian at www.angelfire.com/de/doors4ly/index.html.
To get into the season of mourning and remembrance myself, I decided to revisit Jim’s grave before the barricades go up. The first time I made the pilgrimage, 20 years ago, you didn’t need a map. Painted arrows and graffiti led straight to a shell-shocked zone within the cemetery. Mourners would sit around Jim’s tomb gazing at his bust which was missing a nose, just like a real statue of a Greek god. They would sip alcohol, smoking illegal substances and smash up a neighboring tomb.
When I dropped by 10 years ago, just after the riot, I found an entirely different ambience, with access to Jim and his neighbors roped off and two nervous guards standing by to enforce the no fly zone.
On this occasion I forgot where Jim was, and had to resort to following a couple of hippies. It turned out they were lost too. (I should have known. The last time I followed a couple of hippies, about two decades ago, we all got busted). With the aid of a map from a kiosk (10F the hippies didn’t put in) we finally found him. The rope was gone, the tomb could again be approached, but there was still a guard. On Jim’s grave were the following unburnt offerings: one unsmoked Chesterfield cigarette. One unsmoked Camel Light. One unsmoked non-filter Pall Mall (obviously from a hard-core fan). A dozen yellow roses (dead). One stone (Jim was into the kabala). One pot of purple geraniums (wimpy French traditionalist). I leant over and brushed his tombstone with my hands. It was bone dry. Not a single tear.
by Wallace Merrit
Paris Voice 2001
parisvoice.com/01/june/html/feature.cfm
Paris is a haunted place. In the Café de Flore, it’s Jean-Paul Sartre, groping myopically past the tables. At the Ritz Hotel, it’s Scott and Zelda, tripping on the entrance stairs. And that bang you hear at the Closerie des Lilas is Hemingway forgetting to duck again. But the strangest ghost of all is Jim Morrison.
Poet, poser, protagonist for the Sixties Generation — remember them? — Jim Morrison died in Paris 30 years ago on July 3, at 17 rue Beautreillis near Bastille (note to residents of the building: perhaps you should consider taking your holidays at the beginning of July this year). Gone but definitely not forgotten. Ten years ago, on the 20th anniversary of his death, riots broke out in front of the Père Lachaise cemetery, when police turned thousands of fans/mourners/groupies away. In the ensuing mêlée, the cemetery’s main gates were set on fire by the fans in a vein attempt to gain entry. This time round, anxious city authorities are expecting hoards of devotees at the Père Lachaise (note to readers: avoid interment early July if possible).
While there are still many who believe Morrison’s cult status has more to do with living fast, dying young and just managing to leave a good-looking if slightly bloated corpse, the nay-sayers are definitely in the minority. In the film, “Almost Famous,” rock critic Lester Bangs (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) loudly derides Morrison as a drunk and phony. In reality Bangs praised him in his unreadable book, “Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung,” for displaying a hip, knowing irony. That irony was a factor in Francis Coppola’s choice of Morrison’s wired epic, “The End,” to both open and close his own wired epic, “Apocalypse Now.” It’s somehow fitting that the new, extended version of the film goes into general release on the cusp of Morrison’s anniversary.
Naturally, record companies have gotten into the act, with Warner Music France releasing a compilation of his 37 greatest hits, “The Best Of The Doors,” featuring several previously unreleased numbers. This will be followed on June 25 by a very rare live album with unreleased material called “Live In America” which will launch a new Doors label: Bright Midnight Records (Rhino/Warner). There will be a concert July 3, “A Feast Of Friends: A Tribute to Jim Morrison and The Doors,” at the Elysée-Montmartre (72 bd Rochechouart, 18e, M° Anvers, tel: 01 56 07 06 00). And anyone interested in involved testimony should consult Gilles Yepremian at www.angelfire.com/de/doors4ly/index.html.
To get into the season of mourning and remembrance myself, I decided to revisit Jim’s grave before the barricades go up. The first time I made the pilgrimage, 20 years ago, you didn’t need a map. Painted arrows and graffiti led straight to a shell-shocked zone within the cemetery. Mourners would sit around Jim’s tomb gazing at his bust which was missing a nose, just like a real statue of a Greek god. They would sip alcohol, smoking illegal substances and smash up a neighboring tomb.
When I dropped by 10 years ago, just after the riot, I found an entirely different ambience, with access to Jim and his neighbors roped off and two nervous guards standing by to enforce the no fly zone.
On this occasion I forgot where Jim was, and had to resort to following a couple of hippies. It turned out they were lost too. (I should have known. The last time I followed a couple of hippies, about two decades ago, we all got busted). With the aid of a map from a kiosk (10F the hippies didn’t put in) we finally found him. The rope was gone, the tomb could again be approached, but there was still a guard. On Jim’s grave were the following unburnt offerings: one unsmoked Chesterfield cigarette. One unsmoked Camel Light. One unsmoked non-filter Pall Mall (obviously from a hard-core fan). A dozen yellow roses (dead). One stone (Jim was into the kabala). One pot of purple geraniums (wimpy French traditionalist). I leant over and brushed his tombstone with my hands. It was bone dry. Not a single tear.
by Wallace Merrit
Paris Voice 2001
parisvoice.com/01/june/html/feature.cfm