Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 9, 2005 23:49:59 GMT
You know that it would be untrue;
You know that I would be a liar;
If I was to say to you;
Girl, we couldn't get much higher;
Come on, baby, light my fire,
Come on, baby, light my fire,
Try to set the night on fire.
She looks as if she just stepped out of a devilish costume party. Mostly just standing there, in the corner of my hesitant eye; strange, bizarre, obscene and sexual.
It's either late spring or early summer, 1967, at the now-dead Hullabaloo on Sunset Blvd., in Hollywood.
Almost incredible. The place sweats from a sardined crowd that undoubtly excedes the legal limit. And, outside, two more full houses wait in a restless line. But there'll only be one more show. Yet, that might be too much to ask for. There may not be a first show.
The whole thing came about sort of on the last minute. Just before The Doors leave for New York. There was no time for advertisingor anything.We had found out almost by accident. This crowd is phenomenonal. Not even Doors organist Ray Manzarek knows about this final L.A. gig.
Where is Ray?
Everybody is nervous and tensed. The Doors can't play without him. Ray's gotta be located and here quick. Awful quick.
Behind the stage it's ulcers. Whispers. Demanding questions.
The audience, however, is still unaware. But, as the Sunshine Company does its thing, you can sense the growing impatience.
The Doors.
And Jim Morrison, lead vocalist, doesn't seem to give a damn. He's with that strange chick now. Together, they create a shadowy, electric atmosphere.
Where's Ray? Is he coming?
And Morrison and the girl quietly go further backstage and disappear up a stairway.
My eyes have seen you
Turn and stare
Fix your hair
Move upstairs.
Some time later you see Morrison and the girl slowly walking along together on the backstage groundfloor. He sees you watching and gives you a cold hard stare that disolves all the space between the two of you. Only his eyes are there. And they make you look away.
"Strange eyes fill strange rooms"
Ray finally breezes in the rear entrance with a slender, long-haired Oriental lady he has been entertaining.
"No one even told me about this," he explains in a disinterested manner, " . . .all of a sudden I get a call to hurry over here."
Soon The Doors are making music, Morrison slouches over the rigid microphone and the Hullabaloo's turntable stage slowly begins to spin them towards a widely screaming audience as the curtains pull back.
A wild strobe of Instamatic flash cubes silhouettes frantically waving hands in a lightning sky. Girls press forward against the stage.
Morrison grunts, begins squirming, singing. . .and there's another wild barrage of flash blubs and a harder press towards the stage.
A week or so earlier we sat in a Sunset Strip penthouse. I had asked about the group's wild on-stage theatrics.
"It all just happens," said Ray. "Nobody wants to see mannerism, they want to see just you. We can't help but get wrapped up in what we're doing."
What are the thoughts before a performace? Any nervousness?
"Naw,'' answered Robby Krieger, the guitarist, "...just getting the amps and sound right."
"We're performing about the same now as when we did at the London Fog for $5 a night," added Ray. He thought for a moment then continued; "I get a surge of excitement from the size of the audience. That's good. Exciting .
"You can feel when the audience is with you. Why do they come if they don't try to become part of the music. It should be like Holy Communion. Surrender yourself to the music so we can all be there together, focused on one center point, the music."
The music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end
The music weaves and screams into one climax after another. Morrison is literally raping the microphone between his quivering thighs, advancing towards the hungry girls pressing against the stage. And then he trips on the microphone and falls. It happens, along with a musical peak and the girls scream, thinking this is the way it should be.
The rotten smell of his own sweat no longer bothers John, a young Negro inductee. It's just these fucking bugs that keep eating him. Then suddenly there's a frightening cry and a young Viet Cong charges him with a long bayonet. Quickly he raises his Army rifle and smashes its butt into the enemy's face. A skull crushes and blood shoots out in violent reaction to the impact. And bullets are flying by all over the place. Two men fall dead near him, one's head half blown off. And he begins to run in terror. A blur falls out of the sky. A blinding explosion. A quick burst of eternal agony. And burning flesh is shotgunned into the jungle skies.
Morrison picks himself up off the floor. He shouts the lyrics. Picks up the microphone stand and throws it hard. The girls can't believe it. Few are frightened, most of them have eyes that mirror an erotic spell. And Morrison jumps hard upon the fallen stand. Picks it up again and throws it hard once more. Shouting the lyrics. Screaming. You look at the girls and you'd swear they're having orgasm. Morrison destroys the mike and its stand.
The young Sunset Strip theatre manager looked up from the preview edition of HAPPENING. "I know The Doors too," he said. "One time in the cinematography lab at UCLA Jim Morrison just went wild all of a sudden. Throwing cans of film and stuff all over the place. He really messed it up."
A young Beverly Hills publist put down his coffee and told the young writer sitting across from him about the time Morrison did some wrecking at Columbia Records, kicking in the studio door and things.
Over 3,000 persons were at the Cheetah in Venice when Jim Morrison fell a good 8 feet off the high stage during a wild rage.
A concert promoter laughed as he told the story of Morrison madly swinging the microphone at an audience at the Scene in New York. "Tiny Tim was scared stiff. Morrison just missed his head." Asher Dann, former Doors manager, tried to stop Morrison, resulting in a bloody fist fight on stage.
In New Haven, Connecticut, Morrison was arrested on stage after sharply describing during song how he had been Maced by an over-zealous policeman hired to protect The Doors. Scores of people, including Michael Zwerin, jazz critic for The Village Voice, Yvonne Chabrier, a Life reporter, and Tim Page, a photographer just back from Vietnam, were also arrested. They had "breached the peace."
That day in the penthouse, almost a year ago, Robby picked their first Cheetah appearance as their most exciting show. "We just got back from New York and everybody was waiting for us. `Break On Through' was out and people were turning on to the album. It was our first really large crowd. Over 2,000."
We could be so good together
Yeah, so good together
We could be so good together
Yeah we could, I know we could
Tell you lies
I'll tell you wicked lies
You know that I would be a liar;
If I was to say to you;
Girl, we couldn't get much higher;
Come on, baby, light my fire,
Come on, baby, light my fire,
Try to set the night on fire.
She looks as if she just stepped out of a devilish costume party. Mostly just standing there, in the corner of my hesitant eye; strange, bizarre, obscene and sexual.
It's either late spring or early summer, 1967, at the now-dead Hullabaloo on Sunset Blvd., in Hollywood.
Almost incredible. The place sweats from a sardined crowd that undoubtly excedes the legal limit. And, outside, two more full houses wait in a restless line. But there'll only be one more show. Yet, that might be too much to ask for. There may not be a first show.
The whole thing came about sort of on the last minute. Just before The Doors leave for New York. There was no time for advertisingor anything.We had found out almost by accident. This crowd is phenomenonal. Not even Doors organist Ray Manzarek knows about this final L.A. gig.
Where is Ray?
Everybody is nervous and tensed. The Doors can't play without him. Ray's gotta be located and here quick. Awful quick.
Behind the stage it's ulcers. Whispers. Demanding questions.
The audience, however, is still unaware. But, as the Sunshine Company does its thing, you can sense the growing impatience.
The Doors.
And Jim Morrison, lead vocalist, doesn't seem to give a damn. He's with that strange chick now. Together, they create a shadowy, electric atmosphere.
Where's Ray? Is he coming?
And Morrison and the girl quietly go further backstage and disappear up a stairway.
My eyes have seen you
Turn and stare
Fix your hair
Move upstairs.
Some time later you see Morrison and the girl slowly walking along together on the backstage groundfloor. He sees you watching and gives you a cold hard stare that disolves all the space between the two of you. Only his eyes are there. And they make you look away.
"Strange eyes fill strange rooms"
Ray finally breezes in the rear entrance with a slender, long-haired Oriental lady he has been entertaining.
"No one even told me about this," he explains in a disinterested manner, " . . .all of a sudden I get a call to hurry over here."
Soon The Doors are making music, Morrison slouches over the rigid microphone and the Hullabaloo's turntable stage slowly begins to spin them towards a widely screaming audience as the curtains pull back.
A wild strobe of Instamatic flash cubes silhouettes frantically waving hands in a lightning sky. Girls press forward against the stage.
Morrison grunts, begins squirming, singing. . .and there's another wild barrage of flash blubs and a harder press towards the stage.
A week or so earlier we sat in a Sunset Strip penthouse. I had asked about the group's wild on-stage theatrics.
"It all just happens," said Ray. "Nobody wants to see mannerism, they want to see just you. We can't help but get wrapped up in what we're doing."
What are the thoughts before a performace? Any nervousness?
"Naw,'' answered Robby Krieger, the guitarist, "...just getting the amps and sound right."
"We're performing about the same now as when we did at the London Fog for $5 a night," added Ray. He thought for a moment then continued; "I get a surge of excitement from the size of the audience. That's good. Exciting .
"You can feel when the audience is with you. Why do they come if they don't try to become part of the music. It should be like Holy Communion. Surrender yourself to the music so we can all be there together, focused on one center point, the music."
The music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end
The music weaves and screams into one climax after another. Morrison is literally raping the microphone between his quivering thighs, advancing towards the hungry girls pressing against the stage. And then he trips on the microphone and falls. It happens, along with a musical peak and the girls scream, thinking this is the way it should be.
The rotten smell of his own sweat no longer bothers John, a young Negro inductee. It's just these fucking bugs that keep eating him. Then suddenly there's a frightening cry and a young Viet Cong charges him with a long bayonet. Quickly he raises his Army rifle and smashes its butt into the enemy's face. A skull crushes and blood shoots out in violent reaction to the impact. And bullets are flying by all over the place. Two men fall dead near him, one's head half blown off. And he begins to run in terror. A blur falls out of the sky. A blinding explosion. A quick burst of eternal agony. And burning flesh is shotgunned into the jungle skies.
Morrison picks himself up off the floor. He shouts the lyrics. Picks up the microphone stand and throws it hard. The girls can't believe it. Few are frightened, most of them have eyes that mirror an erotic spell. And Morrison jumps hard upon the fallen stand. Picks it up again and throws it hard once more. Shouting the lyrics. Screaming. You look at the girls and you'd swear they're having orgasm. Morrison destroys the mike and its stand.
The young Sunset Strip theatre manager looked up from the preview edition of HAPPENING. "I know The Doors too," he said. "One time in the cinematography lab at UCLA Jim Morrison just went wild all of a sudden. Throwing cans of film and stuff all over the place. He really messed it up."
A young Beverly Hills publist put down his coffee and told the young writer sitting across from him about the time Morrison did some wrecking at Columbia Records, kicking in the studio door and things.
Over 3,000 persons were at the Cheetah in Venice when Jim Morrison fell a good 8 feet off the high stage during a wild rage.
A concert promoter laughed as he told the story of Morrison madly swinging the microphone at an audience at the Scene in New York. "Tiny Tim was scared stiff. Morrison just missed his head." Asher Dann, former Doors manager, tried to stop Morrison, resulting in a bloody fist fight on stage.
In New Haven, Connecticut, Morrison was arrested on stage after sharply describing during song how he had been Maced by an over-zealous policeman hired to protect The Doors. Scores of people, including Michael Zwerin, jazz critic for The Village Voice, Yvonne Chabrier, a Life reporter, and Tim Page, a photographer just back from Vietnam, were also arrested. They had "breached the peace."
That day in the penthouse, almost a year ago, Robby picked their first Cheetah appearance as their most exciting show. "We just got back from New York and everybody was waiting for us. `Break On Through' was out and people were turning on to the album. It was our first really large crowd. Over 2,000."
We could be so good together
Yeah, so good together
We could be so good together
Yeah we could, I know we could
Tell you lies
I'll tell you wicked lies