by Ray Manzarek
After rehearsal, we walked over to the Santa Monica Pier to taste the swarming life atop those pylons, and feel the sunset. We walked out to the end of that old wooden pier and stood against the railing, watching the lowering sun turn the water an azure blue. The air was soft and warm. Life was all around us. We felt secure in one another’s company. It felt good to be together. It felt right. There wasn’t even a need to speak. We just let the breeze off the Pacific wash over us. We were being baptized in the air. The new, cleansing sacrament of the Aquarian Age. Washed in the energy of the air. Purified.
Finally, Jim spoke. “This is the end of the whole thing. Right here.”
Robby looked shocked. “What are you talking about, Jim? We’re just getting started. Everything sounded great.”
Jim smiled at him. “I don’t mean us…I mean Western civilization. This is as far as it goes.”
Densmore jumped in. “God, I thought you meant the band. I thought I was fired before I even joined up!”
We all laughed. John the cut-up.
“No, I mean Western man,” Jim said. “He can’t go any further. This is it. We’re at the end point.”
We all looked out at the ocean. The angel from Jules and Jim passed over us again. Then Robby slyly spoke.
“You know what’s out there?” he said as he pointed at the meeting line between the water and the air, the earth and the sky, the temporal and the universal…the horizon. “You know what’s out there, beyond that line?”
A beat, and then John spoke out: “Asia!” he said. “That’s what’s out there, man. Asia…”
Jim’s very words, echoed by John, proposed by Robby. I could only smile to myself. The boy from Chicago had made it all the way across the continent and he now stood at the end point of Western civilization with this new group of seekers. The Doors. The four of us, together, on the quest for the grail. I knew it was going to happen for us. It was inevitable.
As we walked back along the pier, we passed, among others, a fortune-teller’s shop. A certain Madame Rozinka who “sees all, tells all.”
Jim said, “Let’s go in! Have our fortunes told. What do ya say?”
“No, man,” I said. “I already know what the future has in store for us.”
Robby looked at me. “What?”
I could only smile at my three magicians….“It’s golden!”
Now began a lengthy round of rehearsals and composition. The blade was forged but it needed a long period of tempering. We had to plunge it into many baths of blood and sweat and the waters of the unconscious. We had to harden the vision into reality. That afternoon of magic and epiphany at Hank’s house had to be duplicated on a continuing basis, on call and on demand. In other words, we had to be able to do it! Anytime, anywhere.
We started a regimen of rehearsals of three times a week, every week. We worked at Hank’s house until the neighbors complained to the police of that dreaded nuisance: “Live music!” People hate to hear a rock band rehearsing. The old farts always blow the whistle and call the cops. It’s the drums. The “savage tom-tom beat” of the drums unnerves them. Africa begins to loom and threaten the European ear. Hell, it begins to open the ear to Dionysus—it’s been said that Dionysus enters through the ears—and that opens the door to paganism, and paganism opens the door to…well…pantheistic religion of God-knows-what abominations. Probably…sex! And love! And marijuana! Those kids had to be stopped. Those drums had to be stopped. Like a B movie of white men in Africa: “Those drums! Why won’t they stop?” Some dame or lily-livered guy was always losing it and cracking up because of the native tom-toms. Well, same-o, same-o in Santa Monica. “Those drums!” And the cops arrived, polite, if you can believe that, and shut us down. “No live music, boys. You’ll have to do it somewhere else.”
Felix was there that afternoon. He came with Jim. I never could figure out why. But as long as he was going to be around, I told him to shoot photos of us. Make himself useful. Document our beginnings. I told him, “This is going to be big, man. Bring your camera and get this on film. The creation of the Doors.” He could care less. He listened to the music and didn’t get it.
“I don’t know, Ray. What’s the big deal?” he said after we took a break. “Maybe you ought to stay in film.”
“Felix, we’ve got it. We’re going all the way. You could have photos of all of this. Get your camera.” I hesitated from adding the word “fool.” But he never did. He just wanted to drink and play mind games.
“Hey, Jim,” he said, turning away from me. “Let’s go get something to drink. I’m thirsty, man.”
Thank God Jim said, “Later, man, after we finish rehearsal.”
“You’ve rehearsed enough,” the incubus said. “Don’t you want a cold beer? Maan [that whine again], it’s too hot for this. Come on, let’s go.”
“Felix, I said after we finish.”
And Felix backed down, but you could see Jim was tempted. The temptation to chuck it all and live the life of a reprobate was the negative side of the Dionysian frenzy. And the frenzy came with a price. Fame and its overindulgences would eventually result in dissipation. A lack of restraint would eventually result in drunkenness. A lack of balance—and God knows Jim had a great sense of physical balance, his psychic balance was his realm of fragility—would lead to…madness. If Morrison was going to dance the shaman’s dance, he would have to do battle with—and conquer—the demons of indulgence. And Felix was only the first.
And the asshole didn’t even like the music. Neither did my good friend Frank Lisciandro, another film school buddy. He didn’t think Morrison had it. “What are you doing hanging around with Morrison, Ray?” he asked me. “He’s nothing but a punk! You’re wasting your time with him.” He was incredulous and seemed almost angry. He didn’t get it, either. It was beyond him.
Well, the men don’t know
but the little girls understand
—Willie Dixon
Later, Frank would become one of Jim’s biggest sycophants. He would flatter him and suck up to him and laugh too loudly at Jim’s jokes. It was more weakening, enervating indulgence. It was disgusting, but it was the price of fame. When the Doors made it to the top of the charts, Frank finally liked the music. And when Jim put on his leathers…well…Frank finally got it! But then Jim occasioned that response in many men. And some of them hated him for it. They hated the forbidden feelings that Jim’s androgyny would stir up in them. They didn’t know whether to beat the shit out of him or grab his tight little buns.
When the cops broke up our practice at Hank’s, Felix took the opportunity to put on a display of faux machismo.
“My friend is working on his music here!” he said to the blue men.
“He’ll have to stop,” came the blue reply.
“He’s an artist and he has the right to rehearse.”
I thought, Great. Now the dickhead is going to defend the music.
“Not here, not now!” The cop was getting angry.
Felix looked him square in the eye. “What’s your badge number? I’m putting you on report.”
The cop’s hand began to reach for his nightstick.
I thought, Oh shit, he’s gonna pull that baton and beat Felix’s brains into a pudding whip.
I stepped between them. “We’ll stop now, Officer,” I said to the reddening blue man.
He looked hard at Felix and turned away. “You’d better,” he said. “If I come here again, you’ll be cited,” he tossed back at us as he and his partner left Hank’s place. Fuming.
The black-and-white pulled out; Felix turned to Jim and said, “Did you see the way I made him turn away?” Jim nodded. Felix cackled, “He had to back down, didn’t he!”
After that, we rehearsed at Robby’s house.
Stu and Marilyn Krieger were gracious enough to open their house in the Palisades to Robby’s new long-haired artiste-pothead-beatnik-existentialist friends. Mr. and Mrs. Krieger had a piano in a recreation room, and that’s where we set up s
hop. Lots of practice and lots of new songs came pouring out. And guess who was also a composer? Robby Krieger! Not only was he the snake man on bottleneck guitar but he was also a tunesmith with a touch of the poet himself. He casually walked in one day after Jim had told everyone to go home and try writing a new song, and said…
“I wrote one, came out pretty good, too.”
“Way to go, man,” Jim said as he punched Robby on the arm, the way guys do as a congratulatory gesture.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
Now get ready for this. Here’s the fates at work. Here’s good karma. Here’s the blessing by that angel that passed over our heads. Here’s more than we ever deserved and more than I ever envisioned.
“Light My Fire!”
That’s all Robby said. Cool as a cucumber. Laid back and California casual…“Light My Fire.” All Robby had done was write the tune that would become the number-one song in America during the fabled Summer of Love. He had composed the song that would become the Doors’ signature piece. An international monster that would be recorded in more than thirty countries. The song that would knock the Beatles off the top of the charts. Hey, we’re cool. No big thing.
“I call it ‘Light My Fire,’” he casually said.
Jim immediately loved the title. I wanted to know the chord changes and John said, “What’s the beat?”
So Robby played it. Sang it in his Dylanesque voice, then said, “I only have a first verse, I need a second one, too.”
“You need a lot more than that!” said Densmore the comedian. “It sounds like a Sonny and Cher song. We’re not a folk-rock band, Robby,” John teased.
Robby got defensive. “It’s not folk-rock,” he said. He seemed hurt by John’s failed attempt at humor.
“Why don’t you sell it to the Mamas and the Papas,” John continued joking. Going, really, too far.
Jim jumped in. “I like it, man. It’s good work,” he said to Robby. Robby smiled and John stopped his silliness. He would always back down whenever Jim spoke up. Jim had his number and John was no match for him on the psychic plane. I think John always resented him for that. Even to this very day.
“A minor to F sharp minor is a very cool progression,” I said to Robby after he showed me the changes. “I never heard those chords put together in that way before.” Robby grinned again. He was proud of his little baby. “But it needs some work,” I added.
“Well, I know that,” Robby said. He was a reasonable man. “What do you think we should do with it, Ray? How can we make it better?”
And we put it into the Doors’ collective mind. We all went to work on it. We hammered it on our forge and everyone had a good idea. Jim came up with lyrics for the second verse.
The time to hesitate is through,
No time to wallow in the mire,
Try now we can only lose,
And our love becomes a funeral pyre.
Words of the burning man, in love, ready to leap into action, into a new life even at the risk of death. You must try at all cost. No fear. The worst that can happen is death; our inevitable end, anyway. The best that can happen, however, is freedom!
John, back to being his cool drummer self, came up with the very cool Latino beat for the verse and then the four-on-the-floor, hard-rock beat for the chorus. Worked like a mother. The contrast between Latin and rock was inspired. He was a great drummer. Always very inventive.
I matched his Latin beat in the verses with a left hand Bolerolike figure and some right-hand Chicano comping à la “El Watusi.” We did verse/chorus, verse/chorus, and then it was solo time. And that’s where Ole Coltrane came in. It was perfect: A minor to B minor. You could float a solo over that montuna for hours on end. And sometimes, in person, it seemed like we did.
Everything was there. The song was great. The parts were now great. The groove was in the pocket. The vibe was inspiring. The tempo was like fucking. The words were elemental. The chord changes were unique. Everything was there, except…
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do we start this thing? We can’t just jump in on the A minor to F sharp minor. We need an introduction.”
“Got any ideas, Ray?” Jim asked.
I paused. “Quite frankly…no.” I paused again, synapses firing, smoke coming out of my ears, gears grinding. “Why don’t you guys go outside for a while. Let me see what I can come up with,” I mumbled.
They did…and I did. I came up with it. All my piano lessons paid off. All my classical studies came to fruition. All that time chained to the country German Golem in the basement was now put to use. A simple circle of fifths was the answer. The chords were G to D, F to B, E, to A (two beats on each chord) and then an A for two measures. Run some Bach filigrees over the top in a kind of turning-in-on-itself Fibonacci spiral—like a nautilus shell—and you’ve got it. “Eureka!” An illuminati moment. They come out of nowhere and you have to be ready for them. You have to believe in them. And you have to act on them. It may seem impulsive but they are probably clues and missives from the better angels of ourselves. Where they come from nobody knows; but I do know what leads up to them…“practice, practice, practice.”
I called the guys back. “I got it,” I said. “Check this out. I’ll count it off. John, give me a snare shot on four. Robby, just listen and come in on the A minor. Jim, sing where you’re supposed to. Where the first verse starts. Ready?” I was speeding. I was gone. Sweet creativity, what a transcendent state.
1…2…1-2-3, CRACK! John shot me with his snare and we were off. Cartwheeling into “Light My Fire.” Leaping into history. The song for the Summer of Love. We had it and it was good and it was hot!
on the pavement
with our demo
In between rehearsals we walked the streets with our demo, going from record company to record company. We hit everyone in town—all the labels were in L.A.—and got rejected by everyone. Capitol, RCA, Liberty, Dunhill, Decca, Reprise. They all said no. I was shocked! It was a damn good demo, definitely different. A bit raw and undeveloped…but good. Good enough for anyone with half an ear to hear the potential in the music. Or so I thought.
But, no. The four of us went everywhere…and were rejected. Sometimes Jim and Dorothy and I went alone. The three of us tried Dunhill Records. Lou Adler was the head man. He was shrewd and he was hip. He had the Mamas and the Papas and a big single with Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction.” He was flush.
We were ushered into his office. He looked cool. He was California casually disheveled and had the look of a stoner, but his eyes were as cold as a shark’s. He took the twelve-inch acetate demo from me and we all sat down. He put the disc on his turntable and played each cut…for ten seconds. Ten seconds! You can’t tell jack shit from ten seconds. At least listen to one of the songs all the way through. I wanted to rage at him. “How dare you! We’re the Doors! This is fucking Jim Morrison! He’s going to be a fucking star! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how fucking handsome he is? Can’t you hear how groovy the music is? Don’t you fucking get it? Listen to the words, man!” My brain was a boiling, lava-filled Jell-O mold of rage. I wanted to eviscerate that shark.
The songs he so casually dismissed were “Moonlight Drive,” “Hello, I Love You,” “Summer’s Almost Gone,” “End of the Night,” “I Looked at You,” “Go Insane.”
He rejected the whole demo. Ten seconds on each song—maybe twenty seconds on “Hello, I Love You” (I took that as an omen of potential airplay)—and we were dismissed out of hand. Just like that. He took the demo off the turntable and handed it back to me with an obsequious smile and said, “Nothing here I can use.”
We were shocked. We stood up, the three of us, and Jim, with a wry and knowing smile on his lips, cuttingly and coolly shot back at him, “That’s okay, man. We don’t want to be used, anyway.”
And we were gone. Out the door. I wanted to hug Morrison. What a great comeback line.
Lou Adler got back at us, however. He was one of the pr
omoters of the legendary Monterey Pop Festival and the Doors were never invited to play Monterey. Damn!
We tried Capitol Records. The big tubular tower on Vine Street that has become a symbol of Hollywood and the rock and roll music business. The Beatles were on Capitol! It was the big time. The four of us notched up our courage and entered the circle of glass, demo in hand. The lobby was a two-story affair, vaguely Bauhaus in its austerity and positively Croesus-like in its display of gold records. They covered every inch of wall space. There were hundreds of them. Gold everywhere. A true temple of Mammon. A palace of the temporal world. More gold records than I’d ever seen. More gold records than anyone has ever seen. We wanted in!
A lone receptionist at a desk. Being the oldest, it was my obligation to make the opening gambit.
“Hi, we’re a rock band called the Doors,” I said with a smile to the foxy little gatekeeper.
“The what?” came her reply.
“The Doors,” I repeated.
She looked puzzled. “How do you spell that?”
“D-O-O-R-S.”
“You mean like a door?”
“Yes, like opening a door.” My smile was fading.
John jumped in. “A door in your mind,” he said as he flashed her his best Steve McQueen.
She looked at him, even more puzzled. “I don’t get it. What door?”