Post by darkstar on Jan 31, 2005 11:54:58 GMT
GRACE SLICK – SOMEBODY TO LOVE
CHAPTER 26 – STRAWBERRY FUCK
Page 161 – 168
During that tour (1968), in Europe where we were co-headlining with The Doors (one night they’d open the sets, the next night it was Airplane), my most vivid memories are of Paul but I also remember Jim Morrison.
In London, the Doors/Airplane concerts took place in an old structure called the Round House. Located at the end of a railway line, the interior of the house had a floor with radiating tracks, and there was huge turntable-type machine, originally used to turn the big locomotives around. It looked like some kind of gigantic record player made out of iron, and although the sound was cavernous, the atmosphere more than made up for it.
Images of The Doors performing there are still vivid in my mind. No colors, all black, except one spotlight on Jim’s face. Both of his hands holding the mike right up on his mouth, eyes closed and silent. You could see him just waiting for ignition to come flying up through his body. The long silence was full of music he could hear, but everyone else only felt. Then, in a sudden step backward arms lifting out to the sides, he yelled, “FIYAAHH!” The audience let out a collective scream, relieved by the explosion they’d been anticipating. Most of them had never seen him before, but he had the ability to draw people into his mood without opening his eyes or mouth.
I was always fascinated by the way he seemed to go from one side of his brain to the other, ignoring all the synapses in between. It was just like his lyric, “Break On Through to the other side.” And beautiful? He looked like a rabid Johnny Depp, perfectly formed and possessed by abstraction. I’d been backstage before and after all the shows, talking easily with members of both of the hands, but when I directed a remark to Jim, I usually got back a color non sequitur.
“Jim,” I’d say, “did you see that broken chair by the speaker system?”<br>
With a pleasant smile and pupils dilated to the very edges of the iris, he’d respond with something like, “Lady in smoke shop, nobody for broken, chair broken, chair broken.”<br>
He inhabited two places at once, and although I knew there was some pattern of events going on in his head that connected what I’d just said to what he was thinking, it never made sense. I’m sure that the people who knew him well must have heard normal dialogue out of him like, “What time does the plane arrive?” But I never heard anything intelligible I could respond to until I was able to see what he was like alone, away from the frantic energy of the music halls.
We co-headlined in Frankfurt, Copenhagen, London and Amsterdam, and I can’t remember which country we were in when it happened. But I do remember strangely isolated things like the color of the rug in the hotel hallway (rose pink and maroon) and the nervousness I felt standing in front of the door to Jim’s room.
It’s daytime, he’s probably asleep. If he’s asleep, then he won’t answer my knock, and I can go back to my room and stop shaking. What if it’s the wrong room? Oh, fuck it.
I did the “secret knock” which he wouldn’t have known anyway because it was Airplane’s private signal, the opening beat to one of our songs, to let each other know that it was one of us standing outside the door. I was surprised when Jim didn’t even ask, “Who is it?” Instead, he turned the handle and pulled the door all the way back so I could see him and the whole room. He smiled. “What’s up?”<br>
I wish I could remember my answer, but some specifics about the past are clear while others are vague. Since I had no idea that anyone would care about this thirty years later, I never kept a diary, In fact, if I’d known the enormous impact Morrison would have on future generations, I might have been tempted to wear a tape recorder. I also wish I could tell you that he came to my room to hustle me. But it didn’t happen that way. I was, once again, the perpetrator.
Either the hotel had sent them up as a complimentary food tray, or he’d ordered them from room service, but either way, there were strawberries sitting on a plate on top of the coffee table. I went over to look at them, just for something to do, while I tried to figure out what to say next. Jim flopped on the bed and watched me. I brought the strawberries over to the end of the bed, and then, for some stupid reason, I put my finger into the middle of them. There was an extraordinarily cold and hard center. Frozen strawberries. Thank you, Baby Jesus, for a topic to guide my conversation with Mr. Non Sequitur.
“Okay if I put this plate on the radiator?” I asked. This was Europe, 1968. No central heating. “Sure, but it’s not on,” he said, one of the most coherent remarks I ever heard from him. After I set the plate of strawberries on the cold radiator, he crawled over the top of the bed, reached down, picked one up, and squeezed it till it turned to juice in his hand. He laughed and did it again to another one and kept on laughing. Words are hard to respond to, but laughter makes its own sense. I can play this, I thought, and I relaxed.
It wasn’t 9 ½ Weeks with Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke using food as erotic lubricant; it was more like kindergarten play – mud puddles and Silly Putty. Smash it, shove it around, not on each other, but we just individually tried to make a bigger mess than the other could. He outdid me by smearing the strawberries all over the cream-colored bedspread, but then suddenly, the private stories in his head made him stop and go over to the top dresser drawer. He opened and closed it without putting anything in or taking anything out, and he came back to where I was kneeling at the end of the bed, still playing in the fruit tray. I didn’t ask him what the dresser move was all about; I was afraid I’d be stepping on that Fantasia tape that seemed to be running in his cranium.
This was new. Like making love to a floating art form with eyes. I’d never had anyone “study” me like that. It wasn’t the standard evaluation of body parts. He seemed to appraising the distance between us if it was an invisible garment that needed to be continually breached with each motion.
With our hips joined together and his body moving up and down, if felt like he was taking a moment each time to circle the area between our bodies with his eyes and consider the space that separated us. He was a well built boy, his cock was slightly larger than average, and was young enough to maintain the engorged silent connection right through the residue of chemicals that can threaten erection.
At the same time, he was surprisingly gentle. Somehow, I’d expected a sort of frantic horizontal ritual. It’s interesting; the most maniacal guys on stage can be such sublime lovers. But everybody has to stop being a jerk sometimes. Jim mystified me with that otherworldly expression, and at the same time, his hips never lost the insistent rolling motion that was driving the dance.
When he did look directly in my face, he seemed to be constantly searching for the expression that might break the lock, as if I might be wearing a disguise. I’m not sire what I mean by that, but I can say that it was both intriguing and disconcerting, waiting for him to ask me if I was someone else – an impostor or a product of his imagination.
I have no idea how long I was there, but there was no lying around afterward having a cigarette, dreamily looking at each other. I knew I should leave before I got caught – we both had other relationships – and I felt like an intruder. I dressed as fast as I could, without looking like it was a race. Jim didn’t seem to notice; he appeared to be totally unconscious, just lying there motionless on the bed. But naked, with eyes closed and without moving a muscle from his completely immobile posture, he said, “<br>Why wouldn’t you come back?” Since I hadn’t said anything about coming or going, I didn’t know what he expected to hear, so I went into proper Finch College mode and said, “Only if I’m asked.” He smiled, but never asked.
CHAPTER 26 – STRAWBERRY FUCK
Page 161 – 168
During that tour (1968), in Europe where we were co-headlining with The Doors (one night they’d open the sets, the next night it was Airplane), my most vivid memories are of Paul but I also remember Jim Morrison.
In London, the Doors/Airplane concerts took place in an old structure called the Round House. Located at the end of a railway line, the interior of the house had a floor with radiating tracks, and there was huge turntable-type machine, originally used to turn the big locomotives around. It looked like some kind of gigantic record player made out of iron, and although the sound was cavernous, the atmosphere more than made up for it.
Images of The Doors performing there are still vivid in my mind. No colors, all black, except one spotlight on Jim’s face. Both of his hands holding the mike right up on his mouth, eyes closed and silent. You could see him just waiting for ignition to come flying up through his body. The long silence was full of music he could hear, but everyone else only felt. Then, in a sudden step backward arms lifting out to the sides, he yelled, “FIYAAHH!” The audience let out a collective scream, relieved by the explosion they’d been anticipating. Most of them had never seen him before, but he had the ability to draw people into his mood without opening his eyes or mouth.
I was always fascinated by the way he seemed to go from one side of his brain to the other, ignoring all the synapses in between. It was just like his lyric, “Break On Through to the other side.” And beautiful? He looked like a rabid Johnny Depp, perfectly formed and possessed by abstraction. I’d been backstage before and after all the shows, talking easily with members of both of the hands, but when I directed a remark to Jim, I usually got back a color non sequitur.
“Jim,” I’d say, “did you see that broken chair by the speaker system?”<br>
With a pleasant smile and pupils dilated to the very edges of the iris, he’d respond with something like, “Lady in smoke shop, nobody for broken, chair broken, chair broken.”<br>
He inhabited two places at once, and although I knew there was some pattern of events going on in his head that connected what I’d just said to what he was thinking, it never made sense. I’m sure that the people who knew him well must have heard normal dialogue out of him like, “What time does the plane arrive?” But I never heard anything intelligible I could respond to until I was able to see what he was like alone, away from the frantic energy of the music halls.
We co-headlined in Frankfurt, Copenhagen, London and Amsterdam, and I can’t remember which country we were in when it happened. But I do remember strangely isolated things like the color of the rug in the hotel hallway (rose pink and maroon) and the nervousness I felt standing in front of the door to Jim’s room.
It’s daytime, he’s probably asleep. If he’s asleep, then he won’t answer my knock, and I can go back to my room and stop shaking. What if it’s the wrong room? Oh, fuck it.
I did the “secret knock” which he wouldn’t have known anyway because it was Airplane’s private signal, the opening beat to one of our songs, to let each other know that it was one of us standing outside the door. I was surprised when Jim didn’t even ask, “Who is it?” Instead, he turned the handle and pulled the door all the way back so I could see him and the whole room. He smiled. “What’s up?”<br>
I wish I could remember my answer, but some specifics about the past are clear while others are vague. Since I had no idea that anyone would care about this thirty years later, I never kept a diary, In fact, if I’d known the enormous impact Morrison would have on future generations, I might have been tempted to wear a tape recorder. I also wish I could tell you that he came to my room to hustle me. But it didn’t happen that way. I was, once again, the perpetrator.
Either the hotel had sent them up as a complimentary food tray, or he’d ordered them from room service, but either way, there were strawberries sitting on a plate on top of the coffee table. I went over to look at them, just for something to do, while I tried to figure out what to say next. Jim flopped on the bed and watched me. I brought the strawberries over to the end of the bed, and then, for some stupid reason, I put my finger into the middle of them. There was an extraordinarily cold and hard center. Frozen strawberries. Thank you, Baby Jesus, for a topic to guide my conversation with Mr. Non Sequitur.
“Okay if I put this plate on the radiator?” I asked. This was Europe, 1968. No central heating. “Sure, but it’s not on,” he said, one of the most coherent remarks I ever heard from him. After I set the plate of strawberries on the cold radiator, he crawled over the top of the bed, reached down, picked one up, and squeezed it till it turned to juice in his hand. He laughed and did it again to another one and kept on laughing. Words are hard to respond to, but laughter makes its own sense. I can play this, I thought, and I relaxed.
It wasn’t 9 ½ Weeks with Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke using food as erotic lubricant; it was more like kindergarten play – mud puddles and Silly Putty. Smash it, shove it around, not on each other, but we just individually tried to make a bigger mess than the other could. He outdid me by smearing the strawberries all over the cream-colored bedspread, but then suddenly, the private stories in his head made him stop and go over to the top dresser drawer. He opened and closed it without putting anything in or taking anything out, and he came back to where I was kneeling at the end of the bed, still playing in the fruit tray. I didn’t ask him what the dresser move was all about; I was afraid I’d be stepping on that Fantasia tape that seemed to be running in his cranium.
This was new. Like making love to a floating art form with eyes. I’d never had anyone “study” me like that. It wasn’t the standard evaluation of body parts. He seemed to appraising the distance between us if it was an invisible garment that needed to be continually breached with each motion.
With our hips joined together and his body moving up and down, if felt like he was taking a moment each time to circle the area between our bodies with his eyes and consider the space that separated us. He was a well built boy, his cock was slightly larger than average, and was young enough to maintain the engorged silent connection right through the residue of chemicals that can threaten erection.
At the same time, he was surprisingly gentle. Somehow, I’d expected a sort of frantic horizontal ritual. It’s interesting; the most maniacal guys on stage can be such sublime lovers. But everybody has to stop being a jerk sometimes. Jim mystified me with that otherworldly expression, and at the same time, his hips never lost the insistent rolling motion that was driving the dance.
When he did look directly in my face, he seemed to be constantly searching for the expression that might break the lock, as if I might be wearing a disguise. I’m not sire what I mean by that, but I can say that it was both intriguing and disconcerting, waiting for him to ask me if I was someone else – an impostor or a product of his imagination.
I have no idea how long I was there, but there was no lying around afterward having a cigarette, dreamily looking at each other. I knew I should leave before I got caught – we both had other relationships – and I felt like an intruder. I dressed as fast as I could, without looking like it was a race. Jim didn’t seem to notice; he appeared to be totally unconscious, just lying there motionless on the bed. But naked, with eyes closed and without moving a muscle from his completely immobile posture, he said, “<br>Why wouldn’t you come back?” Since I hadn’t said anything about coming or going, I didn’t know what he expected to hear, so I went into proper Finch College mode and said, “Only if I’m asked.” He smiled, but never asked.