by Ray Manzarek
They have a sound check in the afternoon and it takes forever. They noodle, they fool around, they play out of tune, they try to tune up…but fail…and finally play a song. Vocals are out of harmony, guitars are tuned to some arcane, eccentric mode that each musician has kept as his own private secret, not telling the fellow next to him what the mode is, and the rhythm section is at cross purposes with each other, laying down what seems to be two separate and distinct rock beats that have no relation to each other. In other words, it’s a typical Grateful Dead song/jam. They finish and, to them, everything seems fine. The musicians begin to leave the stage and the roadies lovingly gather up all the guitars. Everything else has to stay exactly where it is. The drums are not allowed to be moved. Pig Pen’s organ must not be moved. Fritz Lang’s wall of Destiny is impossible to move.
For our sound check—and performance—John’s drums will have to be set up on the floor, in front of the existing pair of drum risers. No riser for John. The Dead have taken both of them. John’s pissed, as well he should be. I take the opportunity to run up to Pig Pen. I don’t know whether to call him “Pig” or “Mr. Pen.” Mister sounds a bit formal between long-hairs and “Pig” sounds like an insult. I opted for the all-purpose, ubiquitous “man.”
“Hey, man,” I say, bounding onto the stage before he retreats into the womblike miasma of Dead sycophants. “I’m the keyboard player with the Doors.”
“So?…” He’s slow and unenthusiastic.
I extend my hand but he doesn’t take it. Actually, he doesn’t even really see it. His pace is slow.
I try to be jolly. “I play a Vox Continental just like yours.”
“It can’t be moved,” he says.
“I know that.” I smile, hoping to somehow communicate with this fellow musician. “What I want to ask is…instead of bringing my organ onstage and placing it in front of yours…I simply use yours.”
“You wanna what?” He is slow.
“I want to use your Vox. I play the exact same thing. I’ll just set my piano bass on top of your organ and it’ll all be simple and easy. Nothing has to be moved.”
His head starts to shake back and forth. He isn’t liking the idea. But he is understanding the idea. I’m thankful for that. I press on.
“If I have to bring my organ up, I’ll have to set it up right in front of yours. I play on the same side of the stage, just like you.”
“So…?”
“Then there’ll be two Vox organs on stage. One in front of the other. It’ll look ridiculous. People will think, ‘Why are there two identical organs onstage? Why doesn’t the guy from the Doors play the one that’s already there? Why did he have to bring up a duplicate organ?’ You see, man, it’s absurd.”
Wrong word. Pig Pen didn’t like that word. His face scrunched up. Absurd was not a word that was used in the Grateful Dead camp. Too revealing. Too pointed. Even too inner-directed. The Doors, at least Jim and Ray, used the word freely. After all, isn’t the post–World War II second half of the twentieth century totally absurd? Do we have to add to the absurdity? Isn’t the whole point of psychedelics to break down the walls of absurdity and reestablish a divine intuition amongst the human species on this good earth? Well, of course it is. And the Grateful Dead is supposed to be psychedelic, but here I am having an absurd conversation with a person called Pig Pen. Man!
“Nobody uses the Grateful Dead’s equipment,” he finally said. It was like the Dead party line and he had it well memorized.
“I’m not asking to use the Dead’s equipment. I know these amps are all custom built for you guys. We’ll use our own amps. And we’ll use our own drums.”
“Damn right you will,” Pig grunted. He was getting testy.
“I know every drummer has his own setup. But the Vox organ…it’s generic.”
“What…?”
“They’re all the same! Yours is just like mine. They’re identical. It would be so clean and easy if I didn’t have to bring mine up.”
I gave him my best back-slapping smile of camaraderie. “What do ya say, man? Come on, can I use your organ?”
He paused for a couple of beats. Nice dramatic moment, I thought. Then the hammer…
“No way, Jack. I told you, no one uses the Grateful Dead’s equipment.” And he turned and lumbered off, into the miasma.
I gave his retreating back a peace sign and muttered to myself…“Share and share alike, ehh, brother?” Then more loudly to his rear end girth…“Peace and love, man.”
He didn’t even hear me. He was lost in his own little world. His very secure little world.
It was an absurd encounter. Ionesco would have loved it. It was like a scene from Rhinoceros, his absurdist play from the fifties. Here it was 1967 and nothing had changed. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
We also played at Marty Balin’s club, the Matrix. A cool and intimate place to do some experimenting with arrangements and poetry placements. We included a couple of cuts from our Matrix engagement in the Doors box set.
We played with Marty and Grace and Paul’s band, the Jefferson Airplane, at the Cheetah on the pier at Ocean Park in L.A. It was an ancient structure that looked as if it had been built somewhere in the early twentieth century. Back then it was called the Aragon Ballroom. It was all wooden and warm and archaic on the inside. It looked like something from the movie They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, a Depression-era tale of marathon dancing and the pushing of the human body beyond its limits of endurance to win a few dollars’ prize. And there we were, the most spoiled and indulged generation in American history, making ephemeral mayfly noises in the night. What a country.
Jim unveiled his “tightrope walk” at the Cheetah. He balanced himself on the very edge of the stage and did his shaman/Indian dance from one end of the boards to the other. The damned stage was a good eight feet off the floor and Jim was teetering precariously. I was worried. He had an innate sense of balance, a great inner grace, but this was dangerous and he was intoxicated with the music. The rhythm of the drums had sent him into the alternate zone, where the WASP boy no longer held dominance. The Indian was now in charge and he was dancing and riding on that tightrope for all he was worth. It was quite a sight but I was nervous for his safety. If he fell, he’d splatter on the floor, and eight feet was a mean fall when you’re all crazed with arms akimbo. And sure enough—BAM—there he went. He slipped, and I saw him fall off the stage in slow motion and I thought, Oh, shit! But at the last instant he pushed off with his foot from the stage apron, gained his balance in the air, and turned a splayed falling into a swan dive. And damned if the audience didn’t raise their arms up in a kind of mass adoration and catch him over their heads. He balanced there for a second, borne aloft by his devotees, by his own grace, and by a communal act of will. Then he jumped lightly to the floor, ran to the side of the stage, and bounded up the stairs to his place at the microphone. The band didn’t miss a beat, Jim came in on cue…and stage diving was born. At the ancient Aragon Ballroom.
We played with the Airplane again at the Birmingham High School Psychedelic Fair. I don’t know how those kids got it past the school establishment, but it was a real trip-fest. There were booths and bands and color and lights and general San Francisco “be-in”-style love and looniness. Far too free and far too advanced in consciousness for a high school in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley. But those kids pulled it off and it was a memorable weekend. Hell, they had the Doors and the Jefferson Airplane. That didn’t happen again until we went to Europe together in September 1968.
Another great high school gig was at Beverly Hills High, with those icons of the fifties, the Coasters. “Yakety Yak” and “Charlie Brown” and “Young Blood.” What great tunes of my youth. However, there were only two original members left of the quintet. It was sort of a pickup shtick. But the chubby, animated one was still there. He was always the entertaining one, moving about, making silly gestures and google eyes on the various variety TV shows during their heyday. But by
1967 they were a nostalgia act, and the now even more chubby one was letting it all hang out. He was giving Little Richard a run for his money. He just didn’t care anymore, he was stylin’. He was bejeweled. Rings on every finger. Bracelets on both wrists. A huge and sparkling peace medallion around his neck—he was definitely a part of the “love thang.” He loved the idea of peace and love and tolerance of all races…and all sexes. And he was playing it for all he was worth. And he immediately fell in love with Jim Morrison. He took one look at Jim and it was instant love. Or should I say lust. He followed Jim around backstage before the concert like a puppy. Jim, at his most tantalizing and demonic best, completely ignored him. He never spoke a word after a cursory “how do you do,” and drove our poor boy mad.
They finally had to play their set. The backstage dance of lust came to a finish, and the Coasters took the stage…and wowed the audience. It was a greatest-hits show and “Chubby” was at the top of his form. All that desire resulted in a charged performance. He was high-octane and burning. What a lusty showman.
We took the stage next and gave a very hot and intense performance. The kids at Beverly High were intellectual and hip. They got it right away. They were a great audience. Again, how we got to perform inside an official high school auditorium I’ll never know. A band of subversives like the Doors? Playing their Dionysian music in the halls of academe? It shouldn’t be allowed. Ever. Once again, the kids had slipped it past the officials.
The powers that be were simply not yet hip to psychedelia. They didn’t know that they were supposed to hate the counterculture. Hell, they didn’t even know what the counterculture was. They do now! And for them it’s a battle to the death. A battle for the control of the destiny of America, For the control of the hearts and minds of the populace of America. God, I sure hope the fundamentalist fascists don’t win. I hope the lovers win. Don’t you?
back to the beast
We went back to New York in August to be presented with the official top-of-the-charts Billboard Hot 100 plaque. “Light My Fire” had done its work. It was the number-one song in America. We were now “official” and Elektra was gaga. They put on a wingding at the Delmonico Hotel. A press reception and party with gourmet hors d’oeuvres and open bar. In the wine cellar. What a mistake. Jim Morrison and an open bar, in a wine cellar, being honored by official representatives of the music establishment. Mistake!
Everything went smoothly for the first two hours. The presentation was made and the Doors posed for photos with everybody, holding that damned plaque and grinning into the gaggle of photographers that kept flashing big blinding strobes at us. And Jim started drinking. The entire Elektra staff had to have a picture with the Doors. From big honcho Jac Holzman and his lovely sweetheart of a wife, Nina, to Steve Harris, head of promotion, to all the secretaries and mailroom boys and flunky gophers. And Jim kept drinking. And then the disc jockeys. All the boss jocks who had gone on the edited version of “L.M.F.” and helped break the band in the Big Apple had to have a picture, too. And the strobes kept flashing and Jim kept drinking. We were moved from table to table and people just stood up and photos were taken and we moved on to the next batch of unknowns. Who were these people? I swear, I think we took photos with the commissioner of sewers and the chairman of the Fulton Fish Market. And Jim kept drinking.
Finally, we were finished with the photos. Everyone who wanted it had been serviced by the Doors. Now we could eat and drink and laugh and goof and bask in the acceptance of our creation. Robby was beaming. His song, his little baby, had been embraced by all of America. He was the composer of the number-one song in America and he was radiant. He had even met a girl in New York. Lynn Veres. A platinum-haired, effervescent fox. And she was with him at Delmonico’s…even more reason for Robby to beam. John was simply overwhelmed. He was proud and happy but decidedly out of his element. New York City was just too sophisticated for University High’s lead snare drummer in the marching band. But that afternoon, he was on cloud nine. It was good to see him so happy. It’s an emotion that seems to have eluded him in the last decade. I don’t know what happened to the funny, puckish lad of the Doors salad days but he’s rarely seen today. And I miss him.
Dorothy and I were beginning to get loose and goofy ourselves. Dorothy, not being a drinker, was approaching early blitz stage by her second martini. No one drank “martinis” back then, but my little sophisticate had heard about the concoction of gin, vermouth, and an olive in the fifties, and now it was her turn to try that deadly yet deliciously dry combination. She was cute as hell in her intoxication. And saucy! She had a cutting wit that the booze enhanced, giving her conversation a biting edge that had me in stitches. Or perhaps the gin and tonics that I was consuming on that hot August afternoon were putting the silly spin on my brain. But everything she said seemed funny to me. We were having a grand time…and Jim kept drinking.
Andy Warhol was there with a short stack of support personnel from the Factory. Jim was sitting with them in a banquette of manly burgundy, wine bottles lining the wall behind him. I joined them briefly as Andy was presenting Jim with a pink-ribboned gift box.
“This is for you, Jim,” Andy sweetly said. “In honor of this day.”
“Well, thanks, Andy,” Jim responded in a mock macho tone pitched a good octave below his normal speaking voice lest there be a confusion or the slightest doubt concerning his sexual orientation. No need encouraging Andy, after all.
Jim undid the ribbon, opened the box, and took out his gift. A French froufrou phone. A telephone that the beheaded Louis XVI would have used to call for help had the telephone been invented in the age of Versailles. It was white with faux gold encrustation. The receiver rested in a precariously high golden cradle and the dial was solid gold. The whole fucking thing was plastic and it was ridiculous. Jim could only stare at it in disbelief. Was it a put-on or was Andy serious? What would Jim possibly do with such a silly object? Was he supposed to take it back to California with him? What on earth did Andy have in mind giving Jim an ersatz eighteenth-century French telephone?
The gaggle of Factory workers all applauded when they saw the phone. They thought it was a perfect memento. There were oohs and ahhs all around that manly burgundy banquette. Jim put the phone back in its box.
“Thanks, Andy,” he said. “It’s…uhh…just what I’ve always wanted,” he slyly smirked.
I almost lost it right there. Almost sprayed my gin and tonic out over the table like a bit of vaudeville shtick from the old Milton Berle show. “Just what I’ve always wanted?” Jim the joker.
Andy was most pleased. His hollow, dead, void-filled eyes almost twinkled—if those pools of dank permissiveness ever could twinkle.
“You can talk to God with it,” Andy absurdly said.
I took that as my cue to leave. That was enough Factory woo-woo for me. Jim stayed and continued drinking, but damned if he wasn’t maintaining an even strain. It was great to see him in control of his Courvoisier consumption instead of Courvoisier’s usual vice versa. Consequently Jimbo was nowhere to be seen. That redneck stayed hidden in New York City. He never made an appearance at the big show. Too sophisticated. Too worldly for a good old boy. Had Jimbo made his presence felt and attempted any of his mind games with the New Yorkers, well, he would have received better than he could have given. And since it was always a battle for domination, a sort of shit-kicker’s Triumph of the Will, and Jimbo knew he couldn’t win against this uptown competition, he did a Br’er Rabbit and “he lay low.”
As I walked back to the table where Dorothy was entertaining Lynn and Robby, and nursing her third martini, I noticed the composition of the crowd had changed. The nabobs were gone, the commissioner of sewers and his entourage were gone, the director of the Fulton Fish Market was gone. The industry was gone. All those people we posed with were gone. All the adults were gone. They had done their business and quietly slipped away. The Delmonico Hotel’s wine cellar was now occupied by nothing but heads! Billy James was hold
ing forth at a table that was sharing a joint. Danny Fields, Elektra’s East Coast publicist, was doing the same at the other end of the room. The open bar had done its work and everyone was looped. Now it was time for some pot. And, man, out it came. That sweet smoke started to fill the wine cellar and the noise level rose to about ninety on the decibel meter. The party was a success and no one was there to supervise. It was all young people. And that meant people from forty on down, if they were hip. And what remained in the wine cellar that hot August afternoon in Nueva York at the Door’s number-one-record party was nothing but hipness.
Now that the party had reached a proper level of intoxication, it was time for Jim Morrison to take control. He rose to his feet from Andy’s banquette and called out in a most stentorian voice,
“Waiters…more food! More trays of those cute little…whatchacallits. My people are hungry!”
The assembly applauded him. Emboldened, he strode across the room to Danny Fields’s table and gave Danny a big kiss on the cheek.
“Hi ya, Danny. How ya doin’, man,” Jim said as Andy glared across the room in a fit of jealousy and envy. Why should Danny Fields get a kiss from Jim? Why not me? I gave him the God-phone.
I sat with Dorothy, surprised that Andy’s eyes could register any emotion. They always appeared empty to me yet sinister in an excessively permissive way.
Jim flopped down into a chair next to Danny and stretched his arms over his head, luxuriating in his success. And then his hand touched a wine bottle in the rack. His brain flashed and his hand closed over the neck. He hauled it out, placed it on the table in front of him, and shouted out, “Waiter, a corkscrew! And wineglasses for my friends!” He was the rogue pirate, the captain on his ship. “We’re thirsty!” And waiters scurried about, carrying trays of canapés to the tables of hungry potheads, a corkscrew and wineglasses to Jim, and all manner of booze concoctions from the open bar as the decibel level pushed up to ninety-five. We were having big fun in the big city. It was drugs, booze, and rock and roll!