by Ray Manzarek
Jim and I secured the audition, and when the next blue-Monday night rolled around, we were ready. We had called all our friends from the UCLA Film Department and John and Robby had contacted the meditators. The club was packed with our ringers and we played our asses off. The owner—the absurdly and yet appropriately named Jesse James—was ecstatic. He had never seen so many bodies in his club, let alone on a Monday night. People were dancing, drinks were flowing, the music was rocking, and Jesse James was beaming. He made us play a second set. We knew we were hired. He never suspected a thing.
We started the next week, and as we arrived to set up our equipment, we saw it: a hand-painted banner above the club emblazoned with our name! It read The Doors—Band from Venice and below that, in small print, Rhonda Lane Go Go Dancer. I loved it for its absurdity. There was no other way to bill us except Band from Venice, and the tag of Rhonda Lane, well…hello to show-biz land. But, hell, there we were on the Sunset Strip and a cheesy, hand-painted sign said The Doors. The Doors on Sunset! Not a bad first step for this journey of a thousand miles.
The London Fog immediately went back to its usual clientele. A few businessmen, two sailors on shore leave in their angel whites, a couple of prostitutes, an occasional transvestite hustler, a small group of guys and girls from the Valley looking for Strip action—it sure wasn’t at the London Fog—and a random hippie or two. But never at the same time. Always scattered over the evening, so that at any given moment there were approximately ten people in the joint. The four Doors, Dorothy, the lovely Rhonda Lane in her go-go cage directly across from us, Jesse James on bartender, a revolving waitress, and two patrons. Jesse said to me after our first week, “I can’t figure out why there aren’t more people. We were packed the first night you guys played here.”
“They’ll come, Jesse,” I said. “It’s just kind of the luck of the draw. Sometimes you’re busy…sometimes you’re not.”
“You’re right, Ray. That’s how it is owning a club.”
“I know,” I lied. “It’s tough.” I coughed and cleared my throat. Now for the hard part. “Jesse…uh, could you pay us? It’s been a week, you know.”
“Has it? Well, sure, Ray. But I’m a little short this week. I can’t give you the full amount.”
The full amount?! Shit, with five dollars a night per man and ten dollars on the weekend, with one night off, the total was forty bucks per guy! Chump change. Slave wages. Peon fodder. Slim pickin’s. But what the hell, the Doors were on the Sunset Strip.
He gave me $130 that night and continued to stiff us $20 or $30 every week. He was a sweet guy, though. You couldn’t get too mad at him; there just weren’t any patrons.
So we practiced on the stage. We played our songs and stretched them out and improvised our two sets’ worth of material to fill up four sets. “The End” went from a simple two-and-a-half-minute love song to over eleven minutes of Indian raga jam. “Light My Fire” stretched itself to fifteen minutes—complete with poetry improvisations in the middle. “When the Music’s Over” came into existence, and that was good for another twelve minutes or more. We jammed on the blues and a few Stones’ songs and worked up an obscene version of Them’s “Gloria.” The long nights were well spent. We were getting good. No mistakes, no gaps in the sets, burning straight through our forty-five minutes onstage. We were high and we were cooking. We were gaining our confidence and Jim was gaining a voice. All that singing was exercising his throat muscles and they were getting strong and thick. His neck was starting to look like a Genet dream on an engorged cock. Heavy, swollen, and veined. His voice was losing that Chet Baker whisper and Morrison the screamer, the shouter, the crooner, the blues man, was beginning to emerge. He was sounding great. We were playing great. We were ready for anything.
And then she walked in the door. Pamela Courson. All freckle-faced and redheaded and creamy white skinned. Fresh out of Orange County. Fresh off the farm of the mind and with a fire in her eyes.
Her dark red hair,
The white soft skin,
Look! She’s coming in here.
I can’t live through each slow century
of her movement.
She was the dame of this film noir story. The gorgeous, tragic, little wisp of a girl who was destined to become Jim’s inamorata…and his doomed partner. Juliet had entered Romeo’s playground. And death smiled.
Pam was transfixed by the music. She was immediately drawn to it. And drawn to what she saw on the stage. And one guy on the stage was immediately drawn to her…John Densmore. He was the first one to spot her and the first one to be hooked by her cinnamon bait. Jim didn’t become aware of the predestination until later.
Pam and her girlfriend—a good girl never prowls the Sunset Strip alone—took a table next to Dorothy. Company in the empty tomb. They ordered a couple of drinks and Pam just stared at the stage, transported. I glanced over briefly pleased to see three actual girls in Jesse’s joint. Jim had his back to the club, as usual. He faced us. We worked in a circle. We all looked at each other, just like at the beach house. And, besides, there wasn’t anyone in the club to perform for. So he missed her entrance. But John didn’t. As soon as the set ended he was on her like ham on rye.
He sat down at her table, ordered a chocolate milkshake–like brandy Alexander—his favorite drink—and proceeded to put the make on Pam. I was at the next table with my inamorata, and we watched the attempted seduction with rapt attention hidden behind casual small talk and drink sippings. We were all eyes and ears behind a very cool and completely disinterested facade. We wanted to see John at work, John on the hunt all sniffing and scratching after the unobtainable. And he was good. He fed Pam a most pleasant line and was slowly reeling her in. She was being appropriately coy and they were smiling and chuckling with each other. I thought, This could work out, John may have finally found a girlfriend here.
Jim was at the bar, oblivious to the whole thing, talking to Jesse and the revolving waitress of the week. Dorothy and I soon lost interest in John and Pam’s small talk and diverted our attention back to ourselves, where it’s been ever since. I don’t remember where Robby was.
And then Jesse said, “All right, you guys. Time to make some music. Break’s over!”
Jim said, “Come on, Jesse. There’s nobody here. We’ll play when somebody comes in.”
“Nobody’s gonna come in unless they hear music playing first. That’s why I pay you…to play music to bring in the customers. Capisce?”
“Yeah, yeah. I understand, paesano.”
And Jim headed for the stage. I saw him, kissed Dorothy, went up, and mounted my organ. Robby drifted up, strapped on his Gibson, and squealed his amp.
“Too fucking loud, man,” I said.
Guitar players are always doing shit with feedback. They love it, everyone else hates it. I hit a couple of high notes on the Vox in retaliation. Made it shriek. A nasty banshee shriek. Robby was oblivious, didn’t give a rat’s ass how loud I played. Didn’t bother him one whit. Actually, nothing seemed to bother Robby very much. He certainly could maintain an even strain. John and Jim were the volatility brigade. And Jim shouted into the mic, into the darkness: “John, where the fuck are you? Get your ass onstage, boy.” Complete with southern drawl. Probably mocking Jesse’s slight country twang. “We got’s to make music!”
Dorothy said he reluctantly rose, smiled at Pam, and then bounded across the small dance floor and up onto the oddly placed, too-high stage, which had us off in a corner and almost touching the ceiling of the London Fog. It felt as if we were at the fair in the German Expressionist film The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. And of course we were the sideshow, complete with cooch-dancer Rhonda in her cage and Jim as Caesar released from his somnambulistic state to become the slayer of young girls’ hearts. The whole damned scene at the London Fog was an Expressionist film except for our song improvisations…and Pam.
John was on fire that set. He must have been playing for her, or inspired by her. The set was hot and we we
re working the magic…for an empty club. It was the last set of the evening and who knows what possibilities awaited John after two A.M., closing time in Los Angeles.
We finished the set of fire and John rappelled off the stage, went to Pam’s table…and she was gone! Oh, disappointment. Oh, rejection. She had taken her soft, cinnamon skin and her lustrous red hair back to Orange County; perhaps never to be seen again. A passing moment, a spark ignited and then all too quickly quenched. Ahh, life…how cruel love can be.
But guess what, two days later she was back. Unfortunately, with girlfriend. John didn’t care. He resumed his posturing and really chatted her up. Pam stayed the entire evening and was gone again before the last set was over.
Now it was the weekend and she came on both nights…alone. We thought for sure John had made a conquest. Dorothy and I were happy for him. He needed someone, and this someone was cute. But on the first night of this fateful early April weekend of 1966, Jim Morrison noticed Pamela Courson. And on the second night he made his move. And she was his. Forever.
John and Pam were in one of the booths, talking, smiling, John having his brandy Alexander, Pam sipping a beer…and Prince Charming just slipped into that booth as smooth as a water moccasin slides into a bayou. He bit her on the neck and Trilby was forever enslaved to Svengali. He sat next to her, gave her his best Steve McQueen, and she was his. I don’t think she even glanced over at John again. Her eyes were locked on Jim’s…and she was in love. She probably fell in love with him that first night, standing in the doorway before she even crossed the threshold to her destiny. I have no doubt it was instantaneous on her part and close to warp factor 9 on his. Once their eyes combined, their psyches did a caduceus up the staff of Mercury and their souls sprouted wings. They were mated. Olympian. Cosmic.
John felt Pam’s attention disappear, divined the situation, moved out of the booth, and let Pam slip out of his mind. It was hopeless. She was Jim’s. Had been from the start. John forgot about Pamela Courson. As far as he was concerned, it never happened. He simply continued to be the best drummer I’ve ever played with! What a monster on the tight little “mod-orange” drum set of his. That’s why he was in the Doors. Because he was a great drummer, a jazzer, and, back then, a spiritual seeker.
We played the London Fog for two more weeks, Pam came off and on, she sat with Jim, transfixed…and then Jesse James lowered the boom on us.
“Guys, this is gonna be your last week,” he said. “I’ve got to get a new band in here. You’re not drawing flies.”
Fate rolls the dice again. Hey…you lose. The great, sweeping, all-engulfing depression descended on my head and slipped down into my intestines, happy to be again causing its disemboweling anguish.
Sure, I can talk a good show. But I’ll be damned if the fear didn’t grab my gut as soon as an opportunity presented itself. Last week! Christ, now what?! my brain screamed.
I looked at Jim. He could only shrug his shoulders. John and Robby took on the mien of whipped dawgs. We were fucked. I sat down with Dorothy and spilled the bad news, and she put her hand on my forearm, lightly, comfortingly, in that way she has of touching me that says I love you, trust you, I’m here for you.
“Don’t worry, Ray,” she said. “Something will happen. I know it. You guys are too good for it not to happen.”
She smiled at me and her warmth wrapped me in an aura of light. God, I love that woman.
And sure enough…two days later…in walked the booker for the Whiskey-a-Go-Go! Ronnie Harran. A very cute and very hip chick. The club was crowded—wouldn’t you know it, Jesse fires us and business picks up—people were dancing! She heard the band, saw the bodies, took one look at the Venice Dionysus and fell in love. Ronnie had good taste…and her taste ran to Jim Morrison.
After the set she came up to us, looked at Jim the whole time, and said…
“How would you guys like to be the house band at the Whiskey? You’d open for the headliners, two sets a night.”
The Doors’ collective mind went into mass overdrive. “The Whiskey?! Mecca! House band?! The motherfucking Whiskey?! Wow!” Our brains were ecstatic. Our mouths, however, were dumbstruck. Nobody said a word but the eyes went saucer.
“Well?” said Ronnie.
“Well, what?” said Cool Hand Luke Morrison.
“Can you start next Tuesday?” She smiled at Jim.
“You know what…give us some time to think about it,” Jim casually replied. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”
“I will,” Ronnie said. “I’ve got to get back to work now.” She smiled at all of us this time and was out the door.
We all proceeded to pummel Morrison’s deltoids!
“You asshole,” Robby said. “Why didn’t you take the gig?”
“What do you mean, we have to think about it?” John said. “We don’t have to think about anything, we don’t have anything.”
“This is the best offer we’ve ever had,” I chipped in. “Why didn’t you just say yes? We’re finished here on Sunday, we can start at St. Peter’s on Tuesday.”
Robby jumped back in, “You shoulda said yes! You saw the way she looked at you, she’s crazy about you.”
Jim shuffled a bit, moved his center of balance to his other hip, and said in his best Paul Cool Newman, “Hey, you don’t want to appear overanxious now, do you?” He grinned. “Of course we’ll take the gig…tomorrow.”
We pummeled him again.
“Morrison, you asshole! Jive-ass! Jim, goddamn it,” we shouted as we rained mock blows on his arms and back. He laughed. We all laughed. The fates had rolled the dice.
Our deal with Columbia was going nowhere. We hadn’t heard from them in weeks. We called to set up an appointment with Billy James on Monday to tell him about the Whiskey and our good fortune and to find out when we could begin to record. Well, on Monday, Billy was happy for us but had no date for recording. Something didn’t feel right. He had to leave the room for a bit and we sat around, grumbling.
“I don’t like the feel of this,” Jim said.
“Me neither,” said Robby.
“You think something’s up?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Jim answered. “Maybe so.”
John was nosily rummaging about on Billy’s desk.
“Hey, look at this!” he shouted. “A fucking pickup and drop list.”
“What does it say?” Jim asked.
John read it: “It says we’re dropped. They’re picking up five bands, I never heard of any of ’em, and they’re dropping, let’s see, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven. We’re number five! Shit!”
Jim jumped up.
“Let me see that drop list.”
John handed him the sheet. Jim read it.
“Sure enough,” he said. “We’re number five.”
Billy walked in, saw the jig was up, and said, “I went to bat for you guys. I think you’re great, but this is a corporation…what can I say?” he shrugged his shoulders, palms up in a Hebraic supplicant manner.
“That’s okay, Billy,” Jim said.
“We don’t blame you, man,” I said. “We know it’s not your fault.”
“I did everything I could,” Billy said.
“Hell, you got us all that Vox equipment,” Robby said.
“I’ll keep trying to get them to record you guys,” Billy said, brightening. “You’ve still got three months on your contract.” It was for six months. “If nothing happens by then, they have to pay you a thousand dollars as a buyout.”
John whistled. “A thousand dollars?!”
“Just give us a notice of termination now, Billy,” Jim said.
“But if we wait three months, we’ll get a thousand dollars,” John whined. “Maybe they’ll even record us yet.”
Jim just shook his head. “Wake up, John. They’re not going to record us. We’re on the drop list. It’s a corporate decision.” He turned to Billy. “We want our freedom, now!”
Billy nodded, sadly. “Okay, you guy
s. I’ll have paper by the end of the week. But I think you’re making a mistake. Take the money.”
“Sorry, man,” Jim said. “We’ll take freedom.”
And we were out the door. Columbia artists no more.
Smash cut to the Whiskey-a-Go-Go. The headlines of our initial engagement week? THEM! Yes, my friends, Van Morrison and Them! Our favorite singer and perhaps our favorite band. “Gloria” and “Mystic Eyes” and John Lee Hooker’s “Boom Boom.” What great songs. What a great band. And what a wild-man lead singer. Van was a possessed Celt. He was all over the stage. Manic. Arms continually raised in a hallelujah salute to the energy. A ball of black Irish plasma reconstituted as the lead singer of a wandering band of minstrels that had set down beside us on the Sunset Strip of Los Angeles, California. Jim was transfixed by Van. He studied his every move. He put the eye on him and he absorbed. Van Morrison was—and is—the best of the white blues men. No one has that soul, that torment, that anguish. And he displayed it all at the Whiskey…and we watched, mesmerized. All of us. I especially loved the way Van would grab the mic stand, thrust it into the air, turn it on its head with the base pointing up to heaven, and continue wailing into the Shure 47. “She got one, two, brown eyes…Hypnotize!” Goddamn he was good.
And could he drink. I wish Jim hadn’t seen that part of it. What with Felix imparting the drunken secrets of the race and Van the Celtic Christian blues man idol of Jim’s downing copious drafts…well, Jim didn’t stand a chance. He became enamored of alcohol.
But we all became friends, and the last night of our too-brief week’s engagement with the Irish crazies saw us all in a monster jam session. The doors and Them onstage together. Jim Morrison and Van Morrison onstage at the same time! And singing “Gloria”! What a fucking night. The Morrisons were amazing. There was more power coming off that stage than had ever been generated at the corner of Sunset and San Vincente. We were rocking and I was at stage left, at the Vox. I’ll never forget the picture I saw, to my right, of Van at the mic and Jim with a hand-held mic sitting atop a large amplifier, his head above and slightly behind Van’s, both of them bathed in a golden light. And they were gone! They were in another time and another place. They were in the music and they were wailing. We were all wailing! It was 1966 and we were young and alive and rocking. The future was ours.