the doors: an indian summer

yes, but put away the chest rug, jim. please.

Emmett and I had a conversation of sorts (or did I dream it ?) some while back regarding how much of a shame it was that the Doors suffered from such glaring overexposure. Super-heated tungsten flash overexposure, at that. The fault lies with Oliver Stone, primarily, I feel.

I love* the Doors. Genuinely. Simple as that: easily as much as Iggy Stooge (did), if not Pop.

I know that Morrison has taken much flak – naval big gun salutes, in the main, of the kind like a drill sergeant\’s slap – on account of his being an admiral\’s son, but one can\’t seriously expect the child to shoulder the sins of the father, right ? Or are we all suddenly converts to the crushing inherited slavery of the Hindu caste system just to make amends for generations of racial and cultural intolerance ? Don\’t concern yourself over that eight year old child ferrying tin cans of raw sewage, boys; she comes from a long line of untouchables. Such is her lot. Bullshit.

No, the problem with Morrison stems squarely from his overbearing, habitually drunken and boorish demeanour and the varying degrees of enmity generated as a consequence. All self-inflicted, of course. That, and his lamentable penchant for too-tight leather trousers. And only in hindsight, of course. I can certainly buy that. Small wonder I\’m such a social pariah. But listen, I\’d like to believe he\’d have grown out of all that if only he hadn\’t taken that cold bath that night in Paris. The trousers too. He would still have had his poetry. Who knows how that might have developed with the passing of years into brittle middle-age and beyond ? Devoid of Ray Manzarek\’s admittedly pretty but wholly unwarranted noodlings ? The music, while good, was never intended.

Look. Lay off Jim, motherf@ckers. And Elvis, too, while we\’re at it.

All those carefully delivered jokes were quite amusing at first dropping out the side of Bill Hicks\’ face, but let\’s face it, Denis Leary has gotten way too much mileage out of adapting the same – very stale, now – routine to unceasing applause. And let\’s not forget Leary\’s own leather fetish. The words \’pot\’, \’kettle\’ and \’black\’ definitely spring to mind.

With that in mind, I sit here determined to provoke the backlash. I won\’t hold my breath. Paul A. Rothchild can eat my shorts. It would be a lot worse, I promise you, save for the crucial fact that his production was reasonably good. Just not as good as Bruce Botnik on \”LA Woman\”.

* it\’s a thin line between love and hate.

THE DOORS: INDIAN SUMMER from \”Morrison Hotel, Hard Rock Cafe\” LP (Elektra) 1970 (US)

JIM MORRISON: GHOST SONG from \”An American Prayer\” LP (Elektra) 1978 (US)

JIM MORRISON: LATINO CHROME from \”An American Prayer\” LP (Elektra) 1978 (US)



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Hello. I am still breathing, if you wondered at this latest absence. I needed to step back from the drop awhile, the empty space between the rails, to let the game play out. It has not been pretty for