While Georg Simmel was a deep reader of Nietzsche and shared his romantic attraction to ‘an endless succession of contrasts’, he took an urbane distance from the latter’s aristocratic radicalism. Instead of seeking extremes in the mountains of Sils Maria, Simmel found them in the metropolitan crowd, where one can feel the uniquely modern loneliness of passing a thousand faces without recognising a friend. Nietzsche’s peaks and valleys produced noble heights and abject depths. Simmel’s metropolis instead cultivated blasé citizens who, afraid of being subsumed, distinguish themselves with externally cool indifference. His imagery hints at Germany’s romantically inflected nationalism. Worn-down spiritually, cynics have convinced themselves that only crude consumption and exchange are real. Every cynic is a spurned lover. On the other hand, the person with a blasé outlook knows it is better to have loved and lost. And the moment that love seems possible again, the blasé are one step away from leaving behind their indifference and becoming the cynic’s opposite: the sanguine enthusiast. As Simmel put it: ‘For man, who is always striving, never satisfied, always becoming, love is the true human condition.’ Simmel concluded that ‘truth is valid, not in spite of its relativity but precisely on account of it’. Simmel saw that the individual’s quest for truth would inevitably fail. Simmel fitted with common neo-Kantian sensibilities that, having been burned by the mid-19th-century collapse of Hegelian absolute idealism, focussed on the validity of limited, particular truths. Similarly, the Christian passion for ethical perfection was for Simmel an estranged expression of grief for a fallen world and a confession that goodness does exist – in this world. But there is also an element of tragedy here: to love truth is to love something we feel duty-bound to seek, even though it remains always out of reach. Like Herman Hesse’s protagonist in Steppenwolf (1927), Simmel chased an elusive absolute. In his final book, The View of Life (1918), Simmel abandoned his earlier relativism in favour of a philosophy of life. ‘By virtue of our highest, self-transcending consciousness at any given moment, we are the absolute above our relativity.’ Source: aeon.co
The Doors played the Hollywood Bowl on July 5, 1968, a concert that shows them at the height of their musical prowess and their career. Before the show Jim Morrison had met with Mick Jagger at the Alta Cienega motel. The Doors later had drinks with Jagger and Keith Richards, both of whom had attended the Hollywood Bowl with Pam reportedly sitting on Jagger’s lap during the show. That spring The Doors had started filming what would become the “Feast of Friends” documentary, so they decided to film the Hollywood Bowl show. Robby Krieger recalled their encounter: “We had some drinks with Mick Jagger, and he was chatting up Pam (Pamela Courson, Jim Morrison's girlfriend), you could see Jim didn't like that. So Jim decided to take acid—too much acid. Jim was usually so reserved, but the acid had made him real self-conscious.”
So supposedly at The Hollywood Bowl concert, Pam Courson was seen sitting on Mick Jagger's lap, which actually bothered Jim. Now this picture is shot after The Doors play the song “When The Music Is Over” and right before “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)”. Mick Jagger tried to be diplomatic when Melody Maker magazine asked him how he'd liked the Doors. Jagger reportedly said, ‘They were nice chaps, but they played a bit too long.' Source: pamelacourson.tumblr.com
Jim Cherry: I am both a Doors and Stones fan. Jim Morrison was way beyond Mick Jagger in terms of having a larger purpose. Mick Jagger was in it for the money from the beginning. Not that there is anything wrong with money, but Jagger was just a good blues-based rocker. Jim was truly on a personal quest. Their styles were totally different. Jagger was/is an exhibitionist, interested in everything money could buy. Jim instead never owned a house and hardly any possessions. I think it's also important to remember, considering these two singers, that comparing Morrison's voice to Jagger's is like comparing gold to tin. Also, in any category you care to name, except those of self-promotion, money-making and longevity, Jagger is a light-weight compared to Morrison. I understand that Mick Jagger and Jim Morrison didn't like each other too much and were rather competitive. Jim was compared to Mick early in his career, however, after seeing Jim perform at the Hollywood Bowl, Mick called Jim's performance "boring." Later, Jim had some negative comments about Mick Jagger ('that faggot').
High Spirits in the countercultural frat house: A secret history of Jim Morrison (2000) by Jim Cherry: "I didn't want strawberries. I wanted raspberries. Alright? Christ, the room service here is a bleedin' disgrace, ain't it Keef?" Mick Jagger lounged on a monumental couch in a penthouse suite atop a hotel in LA. On stage, a waif-like satyr, all lips and hip moves, off it, he often resembled a testy young housewife, having a moan about this, a gripe about the price of that, flouncing in and out of hotel rooms. In public Jagger made every effort to seem a bad dog, but in reality his hedonism was of a controlled nature: the odd spliff, the odd vodka, a fondness for coke, all done with a restraint and self control which was, in his chosen line of work, practically unheard off. Jim Morrison, whom he had seen playing the Hollywood Bowl, had not to worry about the androgynous Jagger flirting with Pamela, since most of American girls preferred the more sexy and masculine Morrison over Jagger anytime. Jagger's long term partner in crime Keith Richards was his polar opposite, with a taste for class A narcotics. Richards, lit another marlboro and stared with laconic indifference at Jagger. "Raspberries. Maybe we should do a song about Raspberries. Fats Domino's cornered that market with blueberries." Richards ignored Jagger's suggestions. "Where are we playing tonight, Mick?" Jagger corrected him: "We're not playing. The tour's finished. Remember Altamont last week?" Then the telephone rang. Richards didn't move a muscle. Finally Jagger minced over to the phone. "Hello? Oh really?" Jagger put his hand over the phone. "Jim Morrison's in the lobby, he wants to come up and see us." Keith blew smoke, intrigued. In a few minutes there was a knock at the door. Jagger rushed out of the room adorned with eyeliner and wearing a skin-tight suit. Keith remained still where he was, reaching for another marlboro. Jagger opened the door and there stood Jim Morrison, with a bottle of Chateau Margaux wine under his arm, dressed in his trade mark black leathers. Morrison lolled his head on one side and his mouth curled into a lazy grin. "Hmnnm," he said in his famous elliptical fashion. Jagger smiled at him and elected to talk as if he came from Dartford, by way of Louisiana. "James. How y'all?" Morrison strode slowly into the Stones' hotel room.
Keith followed Morrison across the room with his eyes. Several days earlier the Stones' Altamont concert had degenerated into violence and murder. The dark lyrics and awesome, percussive rhythms had proved an all too apt soundtrack to the chaos and paranoia of a mass drugs bacchanal gone horribly wrong. Morrison flung himself down on the huge couch opposite Keef. Their eyes remained locked. Morrison was feeling confident and was ready to joust. He leaned forward. "Can I have a cigarette?" Keith dropped the pack on the table. Jagger moved over to the drinks cabinet and found a corkscrew and some antique wine glasses. Morrison blew a plume of smoke, whilst Jagger examined the wine bottle. Morrison ran his fingers through his hair and grinned. "Maybe Chuck Berry should have dropped acid," Keith said. "Well" said Morrison, "If he had've, he might of found another chord to play with." "That's right" Jagger said in what had now become a sarcastic Mayfair drawl "and made some money, instead, while we're playing Madison Square garden he's in some sweaty promoter's office in the back end of Missouri arguing about giving a pick up band fifty dollars. Isn't that right Keef?" "Yeah." Morrison dragged on his cigarette. Keith sipped at his Margaux. Jagger looked at Morrison, who was getting a joint rolled out of a concealed pouch in his jacket. "What did you think of Altamont?" Morrison looked up at Jagger and said nothing. "I take it you heard about Altamont?" Morrison was burning hashish with an onyx and gold lighter. "Well... If you're gonna dance with the devil..." Jagger made his grammar-school-boy-affronted-by-being-told-he'd-failed-an-exam look. "James, what do you mean by that?" Keith waved his hands gently in the manner of Al Jolson singing 'Mammy'. "He means we asked for it by playing sympathy for the devil. The dark shit." Jagger looked at Keith, then back at Morrison. "James, It's only rock and roll." Morrison took a big hit on the spliff. He exhaled and spoke. "I'm afraid it's more than that. Some kids go along and see us guys playing. All they wanna do it horse around and maybe get laid, then they go home, read the sports illustrated, listen to the radio and watch TV. Others come because they know...." "Know what?" said Jagger, bewildered. "That this is something important in their lives. This ain't just entertainment." "Don't you think I know that?" said Keith dryly. Morrison glowered at him. "Yeah, but out here.... We are living on the edge of sanity itself. You found that out at the speedway." Jagger sipped his wine as prudently as a maiden aunt imbibing a cream sherry. "Edge of sanity itself? Bollocks. The Angels are a bunch of fucking arseholes." Morrison's redeyes moved round to Jagger, and watched him take a polite puff on the reefer. "They were players in a drama... the villains of the piece." "Well," said Jagger "at least you don't think we're the villains like every other bastard in this town." Morrison sat forward, warming to his theme. "They're just players man, like us, just players, all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." Keith knocked his wine back. "They have their exits and their entrances." Morrison sat back, impressed." That's right." Jagger raised his eyebrows. Morrison refilled Keith's glass and continued to probe Jagger's patience. "Mick, man, you said it's only rock and roll right?" "Yes, James, and I happen to like it." "But you don't understand. To you it's a fucking business man. To those people out there-" Morrison waved an unsteady hand towards the view of LA. "- to those people out there, it's the thing that they've been waiting for all their lives.... We maybe could change the fucking world." Jagger adopted a sneering fifties matinee idol tone. "Don't get carried way James..." "I'm not. We're at a point in time... If it passes and the world remains the same, it'll be an opportunity wasted. What's gonna be left for those people out there?" "Don't get carried away James, it's rock and roll, if you get carried away you end up like John Lennon, pretending, or for all I know, believing he's Jesus Christ, giving press conferences from inside a fucking polythene bag from Amsterdam." Morrison's congealed eyes narrowed and looked anxiously at Keith. "There's gonna be some hard times coming down. The game is up....", said Keith. "Fucking motorbikers acting like apes... all in the name of peace, fucking forget it." Morrison stood up. "So what does that leave us with?" "Music" said Keith. "Yeah, but if the music just becomes some godamn fucking safe thing we might as well make elevator music. Don't you think?" Jagger stood up and started to comb his hair. "I thought that's what you did do James." "I make music that I fucking believe in." Morrison looked at Keith "do you?" Keith stared up at him over the end of the joint. "What a fuckin' stupid question, man." Morrison indicated Jagger. "Does he?" Jagger had had enough for one day, he was looking out of the window. Morrison threw the antique wine glass against the wall. "That's what we should be doing. Not talking about lawyers." Jagger turned from the window. "I think you better leave James, you're getting out of hand." The wine ran down the wall and Morrison walked over and ran his hand across it. "Do you realise what's going to happen Mick?" he murmured " That this whole thing is gonna pass and it's gonna end up pretty much like it was before..." Jagger struck a defiant pose. "Are you going to leave, or are we going to have to get you thrown out?" "You don't throw people out yourselves then? You rock and roll devils." Keith, his back to Morrison, lit a cigarette and spoke. "I'm a goddam musician. That's it...you know. You start taking it too seriously... Money's at the root of this business. It always will be. They're gonna make money off your ass from here on, dead or alive, same as us. That's how it works." Morrison leant against the wall. "Yeah but it doesn't have to be that way...." Keith blew another plume of smoke. "Well Jim, I don't know about you but I ain't no Mao. I write rock and roll records. And you are one of us." "No, I am not," Morrison replied defiantly. Jagger collected the other wine glasses and shuffled across the room. "Well, whatever, I want to have my afternoon nap." Morrison looked at them both and walked out, leaving the door open. Jagger shut it.
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