by Ray Manzarek
They stayed for quite a while. Enjoying the recording process and the erudite company of Rothchild and Morrison. When they finally left, Paul looked at Jim and could only laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Only Jim Morrison would bring the fucking chief of police to a Doors recording session. I can see it in the L.A. Times gossip column now. ‘The Kings of Acid Rock hang with Tom Reddin.’” We all laughed.
“And Paul Rothchild, noted producer, gets busted,” I added.
Paul laughed hardest of all and then shoved Jim. “That was close, man.”
Jim feigned innocence. “I didn’t even know who he was!” We all roared our disbelief and Babe, right on time, arrived with two six-packs of very much needed ice-cold Tecates. What a night! What a session. What a great album to record. What fun. It was a good time for the Doors.
Jim and Tom, A Baker, flew off to Phoenix for their “hijacking” trial. The assaulted stewardess was confused as to who did what to her and which one of the bearded Irish manly drinking men was actually Jim Morrison. Jim and Tom were acquitted. It was a case of mistaken identity. He wouldn’t be so lucky in Miami.
The Lords, and The New Creatures was published by Simon and Schuster. An actual hardcover book of Jim’s poetry printed by a major publisher. The poems Michael McClure had first seen in London. The very poems Michael had helped Jim print in a private limited edition of 250 copies. Now for all the world to read. To be sold in bookstores. In the poetry section. Alongside Ginsberg, Rimbaud, McClure, and Kerouac. Jim was overjoyed. I’d never seen him so proud. It was a dream come true. Another one. First the Doors…then a book of his own verse. He was a happy man.
But Jimbo was waiting in the wings. Like the narcs and the vice squad boys at our gigs, he, too, was holding a warrant. But this warrant was a death certificate. And Jimbo was bent on serving it.
And the events kept spinning. In between recording, concerts, mixing sessions, album releases, book publishings, John and Julia’s wedding, Lynn and Robby’s wedding, interviews, photo sessions, songwriting, rehearsals, and drunken debauches with the faux Doors and Tom, A Baker, and whatever Hollywood harpy that would glom onto Jim…came the Miami trial!
The State of Florida vs. James Douglas Morrison, Metropolitan Dade County Justice Building, Miami, Florida, Case 69-2355.
It was a farce. It was absurd. It was Kafka, Beckett, and Ionesco all rolled into one. One hundred fifty photos were offered in evidence but there was not a single photo of Jim’s schlong. There were photos of Jim with a skull-and-crossbones hat, Jim with a lamb, Jim kneeling in front of Robby, Jim leaping about, Jim being tossed offstage, Jim leading the snake line in the audience, the stage collapsing, the audience rioting. All of it. Photos of everything. But not a single photo of Jim’s member. Nary a snapshot of the ivory shaft. Not one photo! Why? If he had whipped it out, why was there no photo? There were photos of everything else. One hundred fifty photos. It was Kafka again.
And yet they were convinced that he did it. The charge, as read in court, said: “He did lewdly and lasciviously expose his penis, place hands upon his penis, and shake it. And further, the said defendant did simulate masturbation upon himself and oral copulation upon another.” That’s a lot of hot sex. I missed all that shit. So did the photographers. Except for the simulation of oral copulation. That was Jim on his knees in front of Robby’s guitar as Robby played a solo in “Five to One.” Jim was feigning worshiping Robby’s dexterous fingers as they flew over the fretboard. The powers that be—the police, the city fathers, the prosecutors—all thought Jim was feigning giving Robby a blow job! What nasty little minds. What a joke…on us.
And so it went. A farce. But with Jim’s ass on the line. We were not allowed to use “community standards” as a defense. Our attorneys were going to take the jury to see Hair with full frontal nudity. They were going to see foulmouthed comics on the Miami hotel strip. Woodstock, the movie. Prostitutes working the streets. The argument was going to be…if you bust Jim for indecent exposure, public profanity, and lewd and lascivious behavior, then you must arrest these others. If you arrest one, you must arrest all. The judge, Murray Goodman—up for reelection—said, “Inadmissible evidence!” He was a hanging judge. He wanted to look tough. Every time we brought up a salient legal point concerning free speech, the rights of the artist in contemporary American society, or community standards, Judge Murray slammed his gavel and said, “Inadmissible evidence.” We were fucked. We had no defense except for the lack of schlong shots and a lot of witnesses who would testify that they didn’t see it, either.
It wasn’t enough. We weren’t able to change the obscenity laws of America as we had set out to do. We had seen it as a grand and noble cause for artistic freedom, for the rights of free speech; another battle against the encrusted, entrenched Establishment. But it wasn’t enough. We lost. The judgment on the bench docket read: “It appearing unto this Court that you, James Morrison, have been regularly tried and convicted of Indecent Exposure and Open Profanity. It is therefore the judgment of the law that you are and stand convicted of the offenses as above set forth.” The chilling sentence read: “It is further considered, ordered, and adjudged that you, James Morrison, be imprisoned by confinement at hard labor in the Dade County Jail for a term of six (6) months and that you pay a fine of Five Hundred Dollars ($500.00).” Six months in Raiford. Impossible. Brutal. Jim could never do it. An appeal was immediately filed. We would fight it all the way to the Supreme Court if we had to. It never came to that. Jim left for Paris before it even got to the state level. He carried that six months in Raiford with him for the rest of his life. And he began to drink more seriously. How he left the country with two charges against him I’ll never know. He probably just bought a ticket and got on the plane for Paris. How could they check? He left from L.A. The case was in Florida. There were no computers handling that sort of criminal check in 1971.
Judge Murray did, however, let us take five days off in the middle of the trial to go to England to play the last great hippie fest. The Isle of Wight Festival. It was an incredible lineup. Jimi Hendrix, who would be dead two weeks later; the Who, with the debut of Tommy; Miles Davis, with his new electronic funk aggregation; Joni Mitchell; Sly and the Family Stone; Jethro Tull; Ten Years After; Leonard Cohen; the Moody Blues; Donovan; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; John Sebastian; Kris Kristofferson; and the Doors. And half a million English hippies. A sea of soft garments and colors and nubile bodies. An ocean of humanity. An amazing two days. There was some absolutely brilliant music. Brilliant playing.
Our set was subdued but very intense. We played with a controlled fury and Jim was in fine vocal form. His voice was rich and powerful and throaty. He sang for all he was worth but moved nary a muscle. He remained rigid and fixed to the microphone for the entire concert. Dionysus had been shackled. They had killed his spirit. He would never be the same in concert again. They had won.
The satyr didn’t even make an appearance. Five hundred thousand hippies and the satyr didn’t show. He knew it was over. He knew Dionysus had been defeated by the forces of righteousness. By the Judeo-Christian-Muslim view of God as other. There would be no more feasting on young goat in a béchamel sauce, the ritual dish of Dionysian feast days. The “kid in mother’s milk” of kosher dietary prohibition. They had won. There would be no more dancing with the maenads. No more hopping about on those silly little goat legs. No more humping. No more cackling. No more wine. Not for him. It was now time to retire. Into the trees of the forest. Into the ether. Where he waits with Pan to this day. Waiting to be called again out of the green. The dark, fertile green of the earth.
The Isle of Wight was our last filmed and recorded concert. We would play only four more live performances after that. Bakersfield and San Diego on a weekend in California. And Houston and New Orleans. That fateful last concert in New Orleans, where the bayou and the voodoo conjoined to snuff out Jim’s spirit. It just left him. Halfway through the set his energy, his vital force, his chi, just left him. It be
came a vapor. An exhalation of the stomach that rose out through the top of his head. Off into the ether. Perhaps to join Pan and the satyr. Perhaps to dissipate into the universe.
I remember that concert like it was yesterday. A packed warehouse on the docks. Low, dark, and ancient. Slave vibes, juju vibes, Marie Laveau, and Dr. John walking on gilded splinters. It was musty with 150 years of cargoes coming and going on the Mississippi. I didn’t like it. It was like Van Gogh’s Night Cafe. It was not a place to make music. It was a place to plan a crime, buy drugs, or commit a murder. Halfway through a lackluster set, Jim suddenly left the stage. I could feel it. I usually played with my head down and my eyes closed. Concentrating on my left-hand bass, right-hand organ, John’s beat, Robby’s chords and fills, and Jim’s words. I knew where everybody was at every moment. I could feel them. Their presence. Their essence. And at a most inappropriate place, in the middle of a song, in the middle of a short solo, Jim left the stage. Now in the middle of “Light My Fire” Jim would frequently leave the stage to get a beer as Robby and I soloed for upwards of ten minutes or more. But this was not “Light My Fire.” And Jim was gone. I could feel him leave. And then I looked up and I was shocked. He was standing at the microphone! He hadn’t left the stage. Only his essence had. And it was streaming up from his stomach and out through his crown chakra. Out into that voodoo night. Spreading itself over the assembled multitude. Disappearing into the sweat and heat and dust and rafters of that ancient edifice in the New World city of Orleans on the bayou. And then Jim began to sing again. But without any commitment to the words. Without passion. Without energy. He was spent. Exhausted. He badly needed to rest. He needed to rediscover himself. And he needed time away from his drinking buddies. He needed time away from those ne’er-do-wells on the Morrison dole. He needed to be a poet again. A quiet, contemplative poet.
John and Robby saw it, too. And they saw Jim lose it at the end of the set. They saw him pick up the mic stand with its heavy, weighted base and begin to smash the stand into the old plank flooring of the stage. Over and over and over. Smashing the stage to pieces. Smashing his life to pieces in a blind rage. A fury had overtaken him and he couldn’t stop. He splintered the wood and shattered his soul. Vince finally came out from behind the amps and put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. He immediately stopped. His rage dissipated with Vince’s comforting touch. He put his arm around Vince’s shoulder and just stood there, at the mic, looking out at the audience as we finished the final chorus of “The End.” We would never play that song with Jim Morrison ever again.
When we got back to Los Angeles, Robby, John, and I had a short meeting and unanimously agreed to stop performing in public; Jim wasn’t up to it anymore. It was too much of a strain on him. We couldn’t risk his health, both physical and psychological.
We told him and he was happy with the decision.
“Listen, man. Why don’t we not tour for a while and just concentrate on writing,” I said. “What do ya say?”
“Sounds good to me,” he responded. “I don’t feel like touring, anyway.”
“We thought we could just stay in L.A. and rehearse,” Robby said. “You know, work on songs together.”
“Cool,” Jim said. “We gotta get ready for our last album, you know.”
A silence hit the room. The dark green thing stuck its tentacles into my stomach and stirred my gastric juices in a nasty, evil way. Robby went pale. The air was sucked out of John’s lungs. Last album? Robby finally spoke.
“What do you mean?…Aren’t we…aren’t we gonna work together anymore?”
Jim looked perplexed. “What are you talking about? Of course we’re going to work together.” He took a laconic pull off his Tecate. “I meant our contract with Elektra. It’s over after this record.”
The air rushed back into John’s diaphragm. “We’re free!” he jubilantly exclaimed.
The green thing released its stranglehold on my duodenum. “Seven records,” I said, smiling. “And this one is the last. We can do anything we want after this.” I was so relieved.
“I thought you meant you were gonna…work with…someone else,” Robby said.
Jim laughed. “Like who?”
“I don’t know, like anyone.”
“Why would I want to work with someone else?” Jim asked. “Who can play better than you guys?”
“Well, we know that,” said John laughingly. “We just wondered if you did.”
“Shit, John, I’m not the ‘little moron.’ I know what I’ve got here,” said Jim.
“You’d better, goddamn it,” I said.
“I do wanna do a poetry album, though. But I’ll get to that…when I get to that,” said Jim. And he took another pull on his beer.
“Well, we got a lot of work to do right now,” I said.
“Yeah…we got our ‘last album’ to make,” Robby joked.
“You got a title, Jim?” John asked.
Jim pondered, bobbing his head laconically. “Yeah…I think so.” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “I think…maybe…L.A. Woman.”
“Cool!” John said.
“I like it,” I said.
“Kind of an ode to Los Angeles…and a woman, at the same time,” Jim said.
“And Los Angeles as a woman,” Robby added. “Wait till you hear it. We just started fooling around with it.”
“Shit, let’s try it now!” enthused John.
“Hey, anybody got someplace they have to be?” I asked.
Everybody shook their heads no.
“Well, let’s get busy,” I said.
“Yeah, we got an album to make!” said Jim, smiling. “Let’s not be standing around and jawing idly. Hell, time’s a-wastin’!”
We all laughed and mounted up. Climbed aboard our instruments and began the process that would create “Riders on the Storm,” “The WASP (Texas Radio and the Big Beat),” “The Changeling,” “Love Her Madly,” “Been Down So Long,” “Cars Hiss by My Window,” “L’America,” “Hyacinth House,” and the title track, “L.A. Woman.”
We worked and sweated and argued and laughed and agreed and disagreed. We put those songs through a shitload of permutations. We tickled them and cajoled them and pampered them, and whipped them into line. It was like the old days. We had no pressure on us. No tours. No “fuck clause.” No narcs, no vice squad. No one to hassle us. All we had to do was make music. All Jim had to do was spin out his words from his internal Webster’s New World College Dictionary and then sing them. And, man, he was on it. On the case. He was happening. And he was sober…at rehearsals. I don’t know what he did away from the Doors’ workshop. But at rehearsals he was a happy man. A few beers, that was all. Beers, pinball, Duke’s food, and rock and roll. We were all happy. Deciding not to tour anymore was the best thing we could have done. It was all feeling good. And it was beginning to feel like L.A. Woman was going to be one of our best albums ever. Maybe even a “comeback” album. Certainly a comeback in terms of band communication, joy, and creativity. We were getting along the way we used to. Creating the way we used to. Laughing and joking the way we used to.
But Jimbo was lurking in the background. Jimbo was always clinging to the shadows; somewhere in the background. Carrying with him the negative influences of Felix, and Freddy and Wes, and Tom Baker, and who knows how many other reprobates, degenerate descendants of indentured servants, slimeballs, and general Hollywood trash.
Jim had always wanted the lifestyle of rock and roll. Except now it included a visit from the angel of death. That sweet little child that had visited Brian Jones, and Al Wilson, and Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin.
Death, old friend,
Death and my cock are the world…
When Jim had asked for it, back in ’65, in his inner imaginings, in the picture of the future we all create for ourselves, the rock and roll lifestyle did not include that final visit. And that final visit comes not from some spectral grim reaper but, instead, in the guise of a little child. A sweet and innocent seven-
year-old. A little mop-top who takes your hand and leads you over. Gently, without fear. As if you were going to a playground to swing on the swings. Or as if you were going to the beach to lie in the sun. To play in the soft shore break, to build sand castles, dream castles with your little towheaded friend. Your sweet friend who has been waiting for you all your life. And it ultimately doesn’t matter how long or short your life was…because you’re going to the beach. You’re going to the park. And you’re going to become like your little friend. Like a child again. Filled with a renewed sense of wonder and joy and adventure. Rid of the burdens of obligation and responsibility, rid of the weight of our too-weak flesh, rid of the laborious, incessant measure of time. Of gravitas. Of propriety. Of decorum. Of convention. Free again. Free to fly. Free to break the shackles that bind our hearts, the web of maya that ensnares us…and fly. Into the sun. Into that bright and golden orb of life eternal. Into our proper home. Into the spiritual warmth of radiant energy. To become one with the energy. To become the energy itself. The divine energy. All things. All life. All love. Free, at last.
And even though Jimbo won. Even though Jimbo finally took Jim to Paris, away from the magic circle of the Doors, and shattered the diamond. The diamond within the circle. The diamond that was Jim Morrison, Ray Manzarek, Robby Krieger, and John Densmore. Even though Jimbo destroyed everything in some kind of insane act of self-immolation. I know that Jim, in that bathtub in Paris, immersed in the baptismal waters of the unconscious, floating in the amniotic fluid of his mother once again—in the soft, warm, liquid womb of his divine mother—went out smiling. Into the light. Smiling into that bright midnight. Born again!