by Ray Manzarek
I tell you this…
No eternal reward will forgive us now
For wasting the dawn.
We began the lengthy recording process of the Doors’ fourth album, The Soft Parade. It was to be a sonic extravaganza, with horns and strings augmenting our basic guitar, keyboards, and drums sound. We were going to bring in jazz cats, country-and-western pickers, and classical players. Had synthesizers been more advanced, more user-friendly back then, I would have scored the whole thing myself. But after that Paul Beaver episode with the monster modular Moog, well, forget synths.
So off we charged…into “Tell All the People,” the song that finally caused writer’s credits to be attributed to each composition. Jim didn’t want to say Robby’s line “get your guns, follow me down,” and Robby refused to change it. Jim didn’t want people thinking he was advocating violence, so he said, “Well, let’s make sure everyone knows you wrote it, Robby.” That was the end of the composing credits “All compositions by the Doors.” But we also had Robby’s hit single “Touch Me”; a jazz-rock-inspired “Do It”; a country rocker—by way of Muddy Waters’s “Got My Mojo Working”—called “Easy Ride”; Jim’s autobiographical (and acknowledgment of Danny Sugerman) “Wild Child”; the jazzy, atonal, country-and-western “Running Blue”; the classical “Wishful Sinful”; and the very unusual four-part suite, “The Soft Parade.”
I enjoyed the hell out of the production of the album. John didn’t. He said Rothchild was pushing too hard, demanding too many takes, becoming too much of a perfectionist. Maybe he was…but it worked. I especially enjoyed working with Paul Harris on the arrangements for the tunes that were going to get a sonic wash of horns and strings. Harris did a beautiful job. Robby was indifferent to the process.
And Jim was elsewhere. Off editing with his three new “friends.” The three UCLA Film School graduates—bachelor’s degree in cinematography—were going for their imaginary master’s. Jim and Ferrara and Lisciandro, assisted by Babe “the Blue Ox” Hill were going to cut the Doors documentary and take the film world by storm. They had become puffed up and arrogant—hubris had reared its ugly head again, as it so often does with the semi-talented. They had taken to calling themselves the “Media Manipulators.” Now, Frank and Paul were old buddies of mine from UCLA. We had taken acid together. They were good guys and I was happy to see Jim hanging with them instead of Tom, A Baker, or Freddy and Wes. At least they were pursuing art. But “Media Manipulators”? I don’t think so. I’d seen their student movies and they had a ways to go. But at least it was keeping Jim off the streets, and their editing suite was right across the boulevard from Elektra Records’ new recording studio on La Cienega.
We were the first group to record there. We were all excited at the prospects of breaking the cherry of a brand-new, state-of-the-art recording studio. And we thought it was going to be for free. Hell, Jac Holzman built the damned place with the profits from Doors’ record sales. Everybody called the new Elektra facility on La Cienega “the house the Doors built,” so why shouldn’t we record for free? Besides, it was an in-house studio. It would be for all Elektra artists. Outsiders could hire the studio at the going rates, but Elektra’s own people could record there anytime they wanted and for free. Right? We were excited. Wouldn’t you be?
Bullshit! No free time. No freebee recording sessions. Everybody paid. Strangers or family…everybody paid. However, Jac did say…
“Boys, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. For you…” And you could see the calculator in his head whirring. You could see that he wanted to be generous to us, he was on the West Coast now, he wore love beads, he had grown his hair long, he was not a crass materialist, he was a new man who believed in peace and love for all races, religions, creeds, and nationalities. But he was also from New York.
“For you…a ten percent discount!”
I almost snorted in his face. Jim just spun around on his heels, unable to face Jac. Robby rescued the situation as John tried to figure out how much a 10 percent discount would be.
“Uhh…thanks, Jac,” said Robby. “That’s great of you. We really appreciate that. Thanks again.”
Jac beamed. He was proud of his New Age generosity and proud of the fact that he hadn’t let the Doors play him for a sucker. He had it both ways, in his mind, and he was a happy man. We shook his hand and got the hell out of there as fast as we could. Beat a hasty retreat to the Doors’ workshop across the street, killed a six-pack of Tecates, smoked a joint, and had a good laugh at Jac’s “generosity.” Oh well, it was a great facility nonetheless. And The Soft Parade became one of our most innovative albums. Even if it did take an ungodly long time to complete. Perhaps too much “quest for perfection.”
We did the Smothers Brothers’ television show. “Wild Child” and “Touch Me,” complete with horns and strings from the Smothers Brothers’ pit band. We brought in Curtis Amy to lip-sync his brilliant solo on the ride-out. Everything was a lip and finger sync except for Jim. Rothchild and Botnick had made a mix of the songs without vocals. Jim had to sing live. He had to give an inspired performance on demand. Right then and right there. National television! Do it again, man. Be brilliant again! Summon up all your talents and abilities and psychic courage and be brilliant. Pay no attention to the artificiality of the surroundings. Pay no attention to the fact that the rest of the musicians are just goofing and playing to a prerecorded track. Pay no attention to the cameras in your face, the excessively bright lights, the cue to “go!”—just deliver brilliance. And, by God, he did! He was strong and handsome and masculine and sensitive. His tone was in great form. He was right on pitch and his voice was in a fine roundness, all rich and deep. His reading of the “I’m gonna love you” bridge section, the ballad section, was positively crooner like. He had approached his idol, Frank Sinatra, in mellow television romance pipes. It was cool. He was cool. We were all cool. But most of all, Curtis Amy. He was the coolest.
You can see the performance on our home video Dance on Fire on Universal.
And you can also see Robby’s black eye. Jim and Robby both got punched out by some anti–long hair, hippie-hating rednecks a day or two before the TV show. Wearing long hair in those days was dangerous. It meant you were against the prevailing order of things. Against the war in Vietnam. Against the “decent, wholesome Christian values that have made this country great!” And, therefore, you had to be killed. Like the American Indians. Kill the hippies, kill the Indians…kill anything, as long as the white man prevails.
So Jim and Robby took a few blows for freedom of expression at a bar down the street on Santa Monica Boulevard. Unfortunately, Robby took one in the eye and it turned black.
When we got to the TV studio, the makeup people were aghast.
“You can’t go on television with a black eye,” said one.
“It’s all black and blue and purple…and even green!” said another.
“Ewww, it’s disgusting,” said the campy male.
“Leave it,” said Robby.
“What do you mean, ‘leave it’?” said campy.
“I don’t want any makeup.”
“You have to have makeup. You simply have to.”
“Everyone has makeup.”
They were like a trio of harpies, hovering around Robby.
“Not me,” said Robby. “I want people to see my black eye. It’s kind of a badge of honor.”
“It’s disgusting!” said campy.
“Good. Leave it,” said Robby.
“You can’t just…leave it,” said one.
“You must let us cover that eye for you,” said the other.
Jim spoke up. Black snake to the rescue.
“Hey. If he doesn’t want makeup…he doesn’t have to wear any. Now leave him alone.”
And they backed away. Very unhappy. Very disappointed.
And Robby Krieger went on national television, on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, with a black eye. It was a first.
In between reco
rding sessions for the album we played some monster gigs. Our first basketball arenas. The L.A. Forum—home of the Lakers—and Madison Square Garden—home of the New York Knicks. We took the horns and strings from the sessions with us. It was quite a spectacle. Very untypical for the Doors, but what the hell. At the Forum we had a Chinese classical musician play a pipa for the audience. They didn’t get it. And we had Jerry Lee Lewis play his country set for the audience. They didn’t get it. When we took the stage with the horns and strings—Curtis Amy on sax, George Bohanon on trombone and two jazz friends of theirs on trumpet and baritone sax plus violins, viola, and cello—they didn’t get it. They only wanted “Light My Fire.” That’s all they knew and that’s all they wanted. What a lame audience.
Jim was growing increasingly disgusted with audiences like that. They came for a show and not the music. They came to watch Jim become the “wild man.” They didn’t want intense psychic acts in the ether by the black-leathered lead singer. They wanted a freak show, a geek show, as the band played its most famous songs. Jim’s reputation for outrageousness had set up an expectation in the minds of the cud types in the audience. And they didn’t care squat for a Chinese lute player or a country-and-western singer—even if he was “the Killer”—or a jazz saxophone or a string quartet. They wanted visual antics. Wild, crazy shit. Mad dashings about the stage and amp leaping and rafter hanging and all manner of absurdo crap. Well, that’s not why Jim and I formed the Doors. We wanted a rock band that could play jazz and blues and classical music with poetry floating over the top. An aesthetic little quartet. A hard-rocking, loud-as-hell, electronic, plugged-in version of the Modern Jazz Quartet. John Lewis and Milt Jackson on acid. Percy Heath and Connie Kay on hallucinogenics. Crazed but concise. Precision and abandon. Controlled compositions and free-form spontaneity. That’s what the Doors were all about. And the audience was coming to see a freak show. What a drag. Jim was becoming increasingly bummed out with the audience’s expectations of him. And it all culminated a few months later…in Miami.
But before the madness came a Buick car commercial fiasco. They wanted “Light My Fire” for a television commercial. But not for a big-ass Buick boat machine. Rather, for the neat little Buick Opel. A cute four-cylinder two-seater. Like a little Corvette but with a fuel-efficient engine and easily over forty miles to the gallon. It was both ecologically correct and stylish. I thought it was a use of technology geared toward the New Age. Lighter, smaller, cleaner, more efficient. Using our brains to save the environment while maintaining a lifestyle and standard of living we really couldn’t live without. I wanted a simpler, more natural way of life but I wasn’t a Luddite. I didn’t want to abandon all technological advances. And here was one that made sense. A cool little car. And they wanted “Light My Fire” to sell it on the tube.
At the time, there was not a lot of rock and roll on television. There were no all-music channels on cable where you could see the latest hot video by the latest flavor-of-the-month rock band. Hell, there was no cable. Only the three networks and four or five local outlet stations. And hardly any rock and roll. Only on a couple of Saturday-morning local teen dance shows. And then on network Ed Sullivan. And that was it. Our psychedelic, subversive rock music had not yet permeated the visual spectrum. That was to come much later. In our present era.
So to be asked to use a rock song over a commercial for a new, sharp little machine was at once lucrative and subversive. We could get “Light My Fire” played again on national television. We could get rock and roll on a medium that had very little to do with rock music. We could make a few inroads in the changeover of consciousness. Or so I thought. Back then. Back when I was a naïf.
I approved the request posthaste. So did Robby and John. Jim was nowhere to be found. He was on one of his now more frequent disappearing trips. Probably off cavorting with Jimbo. Or perhaps locked in battle with Jimbo. Wrestling for control. Fighting for the destiny of the entity christened James Douglas Morrison.
When he finally did show up a few days later, the Buick commercial was a fait accompli. They needed a yes or no immediately. We said yes and signed paper. Jim freaked.
“You can’t have signed without me!” he yelled.
“Well, we did,” I said.
“Why, man? We do everything together. Why’d you do this without me?”
“Because you weren’t here,” said Robby.
“So what? Couldn’t you have waited for me?”
“Who knew when you were coming back?” added John.
“They needed an answer right away,” I said. “So we signed.”
“It’s not like it’s a typical Buick road hog or something,” said Robby. “It’s a cool little car.”
“Gets real good mileage,” said John.
“Four cylinders,” I added. “A sports car. Two-seater.”
“Fuck you!” shouted Jim.
A silence filled the rehearsal room. Jim had never screamed like that before. He was enraged. And he looked wasted. He looked as if his nerve ends were frazzled. He looked as if he had been doing things he shouldn’t have. And now he was paying the physical price for his excess. And he looked shattered. He was clearly not in control of himself…or his emotions. He stomped around the room, agitated, hyper, angered.
“Fuck you guys!” he said again. “I thought it was supposed to be all for one and one for all. I thought we were supposed to be brothers!”
“Jiiim, we are, man!” I said in feeble response to his strange and terrible outburst. “Nothing has changed.”
“You weren’t here,” said Robby.
“Everything has fucking changed, Ray!” Jim said. “Everything!”
“Why? I don’t understand. Just because we signed a contract for a fucking song…why has everything changed?” I asked him.
And then he came back with a line that really hurt me. Hurt John and Robby, too. Stabbed the Doors in their collective heart.
“Because I can’t trust you anymore,” he snarled.
“But it’s a good little car, man,” protested John.
“It’s fucking industry! It’s corporate! It’s the devil, you asshole.” Jim glared. “You guys just made a pact with the devil.”
“The hell we did,” said Robby.
“Oh yes you did, Robby. He seduces you with cute little gas-efficient cars. He shows you what you want and then he puts a little twist in it. Makes you say yes to him when you know you shouldn’t….” He paced the room, manic. “But you go along with it because the deal’s just too good. It tastes too good.” And then he looked at me, “It’s too much money, isn’t it, Ray?”
“Fuck you, Jim.” I was getting pissed, too.
“I know you, Ray. You’re only in it for the money.”
Another knife in the heart. Was this actually Jim saying these things? Did he really believe what he was saying?
“Well, I’m not in it for the fucking lifestyle, man,” I snarled back. “I just wanna make music. And if we can make some money at it…that’s cool with me.”
“Lots of money,” Jim sarcastically said under his breath.
“What’d you say?”
“You heard me.”
He was really pushing it.
Robby jumped into the fray. “Why weren’t you here, man? A big decision had to be made and you weren’t here, again!”
“Where do you go all the time?” asked John.
“Wherever I want!” Jim shot back. “And it’s none of your fucking business. You understand?”
John turned his eyes away from Jim’s penetrating glare. Unable to confront him. Unable to say what was really on his mind. Hell, none of us could confront him. None of us had the psychic strength to call him on the carpet and read the riot act to him. It was probably just what he needed. Maybe even what he wanted.
“No one tells me what to do, John. You got that?”
I jumped in. “Nobody’s telling you what to do, man. We just want to know how come you’re never around when you’re ne
eded. Where the fuck were you?”
“We called everywhere,” added Robby.
“You weren’t home, you weren’t at the Alta Cienega,” I said. “We called Barney’s, the Palms, the Garden District…you weren’t at the Whiskey, Mario hadn’t seen you in a couple of weeks.”
“Even Babe didn’t know where you were,” said Robby.
Jim erupted again. “Hey! This isn’t about where I go.” Then, pointing an accusatory finger, “This is about you guys signing a contract without me.”
A silence filled the room again. Jim had broken out in a sweat. I felt cold and clammy. The evil green thing began wrapping its tentacles around my stomach, probing for weakness. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all.
I felt bad, hurt, misunderstood. Here I was trying to hold the whole damn thing together. Trying to be the adult. Jim had abandoned ship. He was over the top, gone. The Ray and Jim show from Venice no longer existed. I was the oldest. I had to try to maintain the dream, hoping he would snap out of this phase he was in. Hoping that it was a phase. An aberration, a momentary aberration. Hoping that he would come to his senses and we could resume our grail quest together. The four of us. The Doors. Brothers in the void. Supporting and nurturing one another. Hell, keeping one another alive! And we had so much more work to do. More music and poetry. Theater—Jim and I had talked of a multimedia theater project with actors and dancers and rear-screen projections and recitations and Doors’ music—the “Magic Theater” of Hermann Hesse. Films, directed by me, starring Jim, music by Robby Krieger and John Densmore. And finally politics. The takeover of America by the lovers! He had to snap out of it. He had to come back to his old self. His real self.