"Snow nestled in Spring. When Sun makes wine & blood dance dangerous in the veins or vine. To have just been born for beauty & see sadness. What is this frail sickness?" - Jim Morrison, Untitled poem
Thom Yorke (Radiohead): “Anyone Can Play Guitar is like a chant almost. The second verse is ‘I wanna be Jim Morrison’ and I’ve got this pathological disrespect for Jim Morrison and the whole myth that surrounds Jim Morrison, simply because it has affected the people in bands and in the rock business, in that they think they have to act like rock stars in order to live up to the legend.”
Louder Sound: “The mysticism that’s grown up around Morrison since his death is similar to that which guitarists seek to perpetuate around their instrument. That there is something more metaphysical to it than just a bit of practice: that it’s a gift that’s bestowed rather than a craft that anyone can accomplish with a bit of application.”
Thom Yorke: “Yeah, it’s really hard! And the better you are at the guitar the worse songs you write. I hope that maybe one day that song will appear on MTV in between a couple of rock tracks and you’ll get all these guys going widdly-widdly and then we come on going ‘Anyone can play the fucking guitar, it doesn’t mean anything!’ Jim Morrison’s a fat, talentless bastard and he’s dead. And none of that means anything. It’s more important just to have your own voice within the business than to live up to this thing that you’re supposed to live up to. There’s this brilliant thing Lester Bangs said about how on the one hand rock’n’roll should be taken very seriously, while on the other hand it should be completely taking the piss out of itself.”
Mass Writer (Steve Hoffman Forum Resident): I hear a lot of people questioning Jim Morrison's talent. You gotta realize that, besides being a great lyricist and poet (which alone takes philosophical intelligence), this guy basically heard all the music in his head and had to describe it to the band. That's like some Mozart level. He was naturally musical, he just got almost no training and did not know how to express it correctly. Queen of the Magazines is a song contained within Rock Is Dead which has a bridge that sounds pre-arranged, like the band had rehearsed it before. But has anyone ever noticed that Radiohead’s hit Creep (1992) bears some sonic similarities, to Queen of the Magazines? Creep makes you wonder if Morrison-hating Yorke had a copy of the Rock Is Dead bootleg. The chord progression is not exactly the same and the arpeggiated sequence could be dismissed as coincidental, but it makes you wonder... Thom Yorke is blasting trained guitarists in this same exact interview, saying that "the better a guitarist you are, the worse songs you write." Sounds to me like he was just trying to be shocking and bratty. Thom Yorke sounds like a victim of the media infused Jimbo projections, and like most Morrison haters, these people are ignorance-born lackeys due to a bad Oliver Stone film.
RidderontheStorm1969: Don't let this obviously miserable little bastard get under your skin or question yourself as a Doors fan. I'm glad Thom's Yorke's life has worked out better than Jim Morrison's but that is all the more reason for "Thom" to keep his toxic mouth shut and be a little kinder. Art is subjective, Jim Morrison was a very talented artist and Thom Yorke can go intercourse his little self (it might put him in a better mood). How he says ''AND HE'S DEAD'' as if that's supposed to be some sort of sick burn? Well, Thom Yorke is a nasty, miserable creep AND HE'S UGLY! May he get trapped in an elevator with David Crosby for days and days. Thom Yorke made it known that he suffered from depression. What exactly did he think Jim Morrison suffered from? Being too high on life? What a classy and compassionate person Thom Yorke is. If anyone would like to point out to Yorke that image he hates so much was created by Jim Morrison's "friend and admirer" Danny Sugerman. Among the many good aspects of Jim Morrison conveniently suppressed was Morrison's tendency to give people the "don't do drugs" lecture. Pamela Des Barres noted this in her memoir "I'm With The Band". Yorke can take his complaints to Sugerman, Hopkins, Manzarek, Densmore and others who helped create the "Morrison mystique". Jim Morrison had no control over how people would exploit his image after he died.
A Clockwork Orange (1971): As is the norm for Kubrick movies, the critics did not seem entirely comfortable with this avant garde movie. They claimed that it was just a crude and very dangerous display of sado-masochism dressed up as high art. The primary messages of this film were directed to his fellow Jewish tribesmen and would be largely invisible to the outer parties. We infer from Kubrick's earlier masterpiece, 2001 Space Odyssey, that Kubrick is an evolutionist and Darwinist, and we know that being a Darwinist is a sin among his Jewish kinsmen. The very aversion therapy that the inner party psychiatrist was administering to Alex late in the movie to curb his criminality, Kubrick was administering to his fellow tribesmen right from the opening scene, to curb their liberal universalist illusions. The setting is in a future time in which the people speak a language which is a mixture of English and Russian. The protagonist, Alex, is a high school dropout born and raised in a public housing project.
Alex is what you would call a tabula rasa -a blank slate- from a cultural standpoint. Alex's parents are exactly what the inner party wishes us all to become. The talented and intelligent Alex transforms his acts of theft, rape and torture into artistic performances. High art and violence become intertwined and reinforce each other - doubtless a profoundly disturbing and disorienting revelation to the inner party and their liberal hangers on. Thus, Kubrick's message that high art is a differentiating mechanism - fraught with potential for conflict and competition - is broadly consistent with Professor Geoffrey Miller's thesis in The Mating Mind, that our brains evolved primarily as ornaments of fitness in the highly competitive sexual selection process.
And finally, we get the conspicuous IP psychiatrist Brodsky, who has developed a new aversion therapy. He is going to remake Alex by showing him movies - which, of course, is exactly what the IP has been doing to all of us for the past 70 years. Only Brodsky has an advantage - a serum that allows him to get the job done in 2 weeks. Alex screams for Brodsky to stop the movie, pleading the gross unfairness of making him dislike Beethoven as, in Alex's words "all Beethoven ever did was write music!" Thus the scene is Kubrick's wicked stab at his fellow tribsmen - forcing them to see and hear the clear and dramatic answer to the question why a nation that had produced Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms could have produced the Third Reich, as they are forced to recoil in horror at the juxtaposition of Beethoven with the Nuremberg rally - a juxtaposition which Alex vehemently protests for different reasons. The evolutionist in Kubrick surfaces, as the newly pacified and denatured Alex is incapable of defending himself. The "true Christian" of Brodsky's creation cannot survive. And ironically, that is exactly the state that the IP has left us in after 70 years of effort invested addicting us to passive entertainment and then desensitizing us to vice, crudeness and ugliness while attacking Christian mores. In the final scene Kubrick informs his audience that the conditioning can be reversed in an instant, as soon as it is in the Interior Minister's political interest to reverse it. And, of course, the Interior Minister has Brodsky (and his ilk, by implication) to blame for all of the conditioning's ill effects. The implied message directed at the inner party is that any ambitious interior minister who so wishes could reverse the real world cultural conditioning (degradation) of the past 70 years very quickly as well, whenever the hold on power demands it.
This movie appeared in 1971, and shortly thereafter, the 200 or so people in Hollywood who Ben Stein informs us decide what we are to see every night suddenly decided that - "popular culture was formed in the black community." Public school field trips to the symphony, so popular in the 1950s and 1960's ended for most school districts. The dumbing down of education and culture began in earnest. The coincident 180 degree turn was dramatic. The problem is that Hollywood feels compelled to sell us ugliness and vulgarity. Indeed their own group psychology prevents them from doing otherwise, for to produce and sell to us our own vision of beauty would only reinforce the one remaining boundary that separates our culture from the mud of oblivion. To sell us our own vision of beauty would only strengthen us and reinforce that one remaining isolating mechanism that keeps us what we are, and the IP cannot bring itself to do such a thing. Truth be told, they never will. Source: www.euvolution.com
COVID-19, while not as lethal as media coverage would suggest, is a reminder of our mortality and human fragility and will necessarily have a jarring effect on a Western liberalism that has become increasingly distant from the confrontation with death. Just as one has to confront death in order to truly live (or to become “authentic” in Heidegger’s philosophy), our society is in constant flight from death and thus inevitably collapses into decay. We do not “live towards” Death, with a sense of purpose and a feeling that we are part of a much grander civilizational trajectory. We do not understand that Death has shaped our historical path, and that it hangs over us in ways that should direct our actions in the present. The Age of Fantasy is confronted with the ultimate reality. I also see the cracks already forming in the Western conceit. This society that is against “hate” and prides itself on “coming together” is already struggling to stop people rioting over toilet paper and bottled water. Source: www.theoccidentalobserver.net
“Nobody understands you better than yourself, but if someone tries to do it is because he loves you.” —Jim Morrison
Jim Morrison couldn't handle the pressures of success and we see a slow train wreck as he turns to excesses in drugs, drink, women and insanity. Jim Cherry's main character Michael Gray thinks he wants fame and adulation, but he seems also to understand that what his quest gets down to is a search for Reality itself - Reality with a capital R. He's just crazy enough and desperate enough to believe that touring with a Doors cover band might actually make the discovery of "true meaning" happen. The Last Stage is written with such great detail you'll believe it's also the story of Jim Morrison's life, you'll think the lead character is Morrison onstage. Was Gray just a devoted Morrison fan? Or did he have a self identity problem? By the end of the story, this guy was in Los Angeles, getting ready to perform at Whisky a Go Go, carousing with aging rock stars and actors, interviewing agents and screenplay writers, reliving Jim Morrison's lifestyle, and exploring all his old haunts. He even bears an uncanny resemblance to Jim Morrison. He has a chance meeting with Ray Manzarek and eventually concocts a tribute to his hero. His idea is to form a Doors cover band with him filling Jim's leather pants, which he successfully pulls off when he convinces an amateur but talented band to back him up. This band puts their original material/career on the backburner as Michael and his vision takes precedence. Despite his machinations and complexity (Grey like Morrison) he never loses 100% of his likeability.
My father was military even after he wasn’t. When I was a kid we had lived in a typical white picket fenced in house, several of them. Eventually settling in a suburb of Chicago, so I could identify with Morrison. His father too was military and the family had been Navy nomads moving around the country at every change of assignment. Looking around my former neighbourhood, I realized there are times of our lives when the answers to our problems is to bury our flesh in that of others. And what happens when you make compromises? You end up compromising yourself. “You saw Morrison up there on stage, and he was just singing those songs,” I thought aloud, holding up a cigarette, punctuating each statement by stabbing it in the air. “But somehow you knew just by looking at him he was singing about existence.” Morrison lived on the edge and pushed the others to those extremes. He was the artistic center of the band, the spark, that indefinable something that led The Doors beyond their boundaries of the rational into the irrational fires of creativity, a landscape never before seen; their new world, a sensuous wild west. While all three were talented musicians, after Morrison died they never again hit the creative or popular high Morrison had driven them to.
Jim Morrison was the first rock and roll method actor. By behaving in an outrageous and provocative manner, Jim Morrison attempted to fill the void, to prevent panic from overwhelming him. “A lot of that was insinuated by Morrison and the music added the mysterious feel to it.” They looked at him skeptical, “Look, most of his lyrics are pretty simple. And Morrison liked it that people were reading all these deeper meanings into his lyrics. He thought art was a two way street and the audience brought something to the experience too. Why was he so hung up on serial killers? It’s your own death, that’s the killer on the road that we’re all going to pick up one day on the trip of life, death. What about Five to One?” Five to One has been the subject of speculation since the instant Morrison put together the combination of the ratio’s 5 to 1, and 1 in 5 into the song. Some people read that the numbers meant the number of baby boomers to those over thirty. It’s nothing that simple, you’ve got to remember Morrison was a genius, it’s nothing as mundane as statistics. Morrison liked the poems of William Blake. In the Songs of Experience or Songs of Innocence, I don’t know which one, I get them confused, but it talks about the five senses each person in that poem has, five senses to one person, five to one. What’s the 1 in 5? The reverse one person has five senses.” They all looked at me and as the thought exploded in their minds.
I tried to get into character, I was trying to think like an actor, trying to get Morrison’s character in my head and how he would act in these situations. It was not easy because I wasn't so smart as him. Morrison himself came from a theatre background, having studied at Florida State, he went on to UCLA to study film. Theatre was always one of his main intentions. Morrison created the "rock bad boy" archetype or more accurate, the "rock mad boy" act. He showed us (more moralistically than we can surmise) all of us have a dark, insane side, he amplified it on stage on a spectacular level, he even transformed intermitently in that dark creature in his personal life, and then he killed himself (because he had to kill the demon to save himself). More than dying for our sins, he had to die for his own sins (real or imagined). Although his death has been considered oficially an accidental overdose, he was perceptive enough to differentiate heroin from cocaine, so it's not strange to think his death was actually an outright suicide. James Douglas Morrison really didn't want to die, but on a moral level he thought he must kill Jim Morrison, the insane rock star. His poem ‘As I look back’ reads like a brief autobiography of his time at school and UCLA; the drugs, the songs, the money and the fame – his final goodbye to America: his suicide note.
Let’s examine Pamela Courson. She was burning something in the fire grate of the apartment, that was reported; she was witnessed, letters or something. Could that have been a suicide note that she didn’t want anyone else but her to read? Was it the preface to ‘last words, last words, out’? Something she must have read. If she was such an advocate of Morrison’s work, why would she destroy this? Was it incriminating? “Give me songs to sing/and emerald dreams/to dream/and I'll give you love/unfolding.” (Written for his muse and common-law wife Pamela)—Jim Morrison. 'The mouse that caught the cat', that was what Jim called Pamela, a cat. I could see her in the Brownie pack, in her floral dress, refusing to conform. We all heard the stories of just how wild Pam had been as a child, and if you compare Jim’s childhood, she was the wilder of the two. After all, Pam did leave Orange High School in her junior year and transfer to Capistrano Union High School for her senior one. This was a school some eighteen or so miles from Orange; however, it's rumored she did not graduate – how then Pam was studying art at L.A. City College in 1965? Pamela Courson had become a beatnik who truanted frequently, caused her parents considerable turmoil and anguish. Capistrano was in another district and there Pam would have been less likely to embarrass the reputation of her father – the principal of a junior high school. But precisely what did happen in that last year 1964? Did Pamela make a mistake? She hung around the beatnik bars, she hitch-hiked and went to places which other girls of her age would not have been allowed to do. Did her parents simply let her go? Pam was ‘difficult’ as Jim was ‘difficult’; they were, as a result, allowed the freedom to roam.
There was always this idea that Morrison was going to write the next great novel. Let’s take away the pages, think about the 1960s and the rising role of the famous rock star. Maybe he had not written the great American novel; maybe he had lived it instead. Only he doesn’t write him down like Kerouac did – he lives out the pages of the fiction for others to chronicle. Then he found that it consumed him, and like Victor Frankenstein before him, found that there was no end to the beast. A beast made up of parts; there was no father, no mother. Jim Morrison was just a creation, hungry for knowledge and understanding, ready to push the possibilities. Morrison turns in on himself and the personality splits for self-protection, just like R.D. Laing foretold, and bam, it’s like petrol and a match. The stage persona takes over and the real James Douglas Morrison is engulfed, swallowed whole by the music making machine. "The cost of freedom is the loss of innocence" said Jim Morrison once. Did Pam ever go back to Paris between 1971 and the fatal 25th April 1974? How about if this was the date she first met Jim. Where did they meet? Some say The London Fog on Sunset strip, others say at a party on the campus where Pam studied, the LACC. Wherever they met, I think that date 25th April is significant. Only Jim and Pam understood what made their relationship work, or not work a lot of the time. He often cheated, he would go off on a drunken adventure and she wouldn't see him for days and I guess he wasn't always the most considerate person to live with. She had an eating disorder, a drug problem and she was very temperamental.
You'd think they would be both happier without each other. Yet, anytime she left him, Morrison would fall into a despair and make any effort to get her back. According to Vince Treanor, The Doors' road manager, Pam "was flighty, gushy and really unfocused. Her diet was usually strange chemicals. She was temperamental at best and her drug habit made her almost maniac depressive. I didn't think she was that pretty either. But she was his favorite X object, a bad influence and maybe his undoing." Paul Ferrara, who met Pam intimately, remembers: "Pam supplied some sense of normality to an otherwise hectic rock star existence. At times I was invited for dinner. Pam had been cooking all day. Stoned, and with jewels and flowers in her hair, she was the perfect hostess for Jim and his house. She had some authority issues as well; she was always stoned or in a state of bliss." Robby Krieger opined that Pamela was "mostly good for Jim. If it were possible for Jim to have a mate for life, we all felt that Pamela was that person. You could tell that Pam was really the one that Jim wanted to be with. He would always come back to her no matter what happened. She was just as crazy as he was so it kind of worked out perfectly.” The main characteristic of their relationship was clearly expressed in the words of the song “Queen of the Highway”. Pam was the princess and Jim was the monster dressed in black leather. She was the only one who was prepared to stand up to him, rather than pander to him. That, it would seem, was what he liked – that was what he needed, especially in a woman.
From the first lilting tones of the guitar, I was immersed in the song. I became part of the song. I didn’t need to remember when to come in, I didn’t need to remember the words, I didn’t need to react, just act. I just was the song, I was Jim Morrison! I screamed again as the band lashed out into a musical torrent of primal torment. I whipped myself into a fury, twirling, dancing with the music, no acting, no rehearsed moves, being on-stage was like having sex, you exist outside of time and space, you’re immortal. I fell to the floor hard and delivered the last lines from the floor. I laid on the floor for a second or two, one arm hanging off the stage, the shirt matted to my skin, my chest heaving, I was empty, devoid of everything, I stood on the precipice looking out into the darkness, as I pulled myself to a sitting position, then it happened… applause, real applause, people waving and cheering. It filled me with a warmth and became a power within me, it was birth, a metamorphosis, new worlds lay before me that hadn’t existed before, I felt as if I were becoming larger than the room, like the room couldn’t contain what I was becoming, I rose up out of my mind sound like a gambler looking for the big score and you’ll live happily ever after. But it never happens, the big score is always right around the next corner. That night I had a dream: I met the real Jim Morrison, lean in his leather clad glory wearing a white shirt that accentuated the shiny black leather of his pants. He was sitting at a table having a beer. He pushed out the empty chair across from him with a tap of his boot. We were isolated at a party, although the room was crowded with people. Morrison's face became blurry. A stranger appeared and asked me, “hey, want to go to a concert?” Then I was walking the familiar hallways of the school, the light coolly reflected off the waxed marble floors. I heard the sound of faraway music echoing in the halls. I was alone. I followed the sound through the hallways of the labyrinth school. It became louder and louder as I approached the auditorium, I recognized the music, it was The Doors at their peak playing a scorching rendition of an obscure song. It was loud and Morrison’s voice was a growl, then the music stopped. I was walking backstage, there were velvet curtains, backdrops from plays, tied off ropes running up to sandbags and wooden catwalks. Suddenly, there was Jim again, waiting for me. “Have a seat, man. Want a beer?” Before I could answer he pulled out an open beer from somewhere. He said. “So, I understand you’re going to be me... now. Make it look like a part of the act. I fell down a lot.” “You think I can do it?” “Sure, consider this my blessing and just remember, it’s all a dream.” I said bluntly, “I just want to get to the truth.” “What if you can’t handle the truth,” mumbled Morrison, avoiding my anxious eyes. I was taken aback, I hadn’t considered that option. “Listen,” I replied, “the truth has to be out there. We deserve the truth?” “But why?” he taunted me. “That’s a luxury we can’t afford. And they only tell us what they want us to believe. Truth is subjective. Oh, there are people out there who think they have been really successful, but have they? Have they really? It’s that glass ceiling and about never being quite good enough. I played a little game, I called it 'let’s crawl back inside my brain.' The game is called – let’s go insane.’ He smirked quizzically. Then the bearded poetic Jim Morrison was sitting back in the chair smiling benevolently at me.
Is that why Morrison acted so confidently, he knew that joy? “Celebration of the Lizard.” I said to the band. I rattled a tambourine to give the snake slither to the piece, the feeling of a story being told around a campfire, a preface that Morrison usually invoked when priming his audience. The band hit the first discordant notes of the ‘song’ it was a poem, really more theater, a loose narrative of a post-apocalyptic world where the survivors gather to tell their stories. Morrison variously acted, screamed, or moaned through the piece. Since my parents lived nearby, I decided it was time to tell them what I was doing for a living, it was a chance Morrison also took and it was the last confirmed communication he had with his parents. He sent them a letter telling them he was in a band and, “what did they think of that?” They, especially his father, had disapproved citing failed childhood piano lessons.
I wasn’t going to be as confrontational as he had been, I hoped. My parents were quite a bit older than me. I was a late life baby for them. As a matter of fact, my older brother and sister were often mistaken for my parents. My father answered the door. He was a tall, lean man even in his seventies. An Annapolis graduate. After he left the military he had become a corporate lawyer who took stock in lieu of his full salary. Around the time I was in high school he owned so much of the stock he was given the chance to buy the company, which he did. Then he turned around and sold the company again within the year. The new owner breached their contract and my father took them to court and won. Winning several more millions of dollars. He had a cocktail in his hand when he answered the door. “Hello Mikey,” he said, as I breathed out a sigh of exasperation.“Come on in, your Mother and I were just having a cocktail.” My mother was in the den. She had helped my father’s career by being the charming, witty hostess, wife and mother, for both the military and corporate worlds. Her only real failing in life was wearing perfume that was much too rosy smelling. “Mike!” She said, as she got up from the couch to give me a hug, “its so nice of you to come down for a visit.” “I didn’t come down, for a visit. I’m actually in town on business.” “That’s good to hear,” my father said. “What business would that be?” “Here, take a look.” I said, handing him a scrapbook that I had put together with the few reviews there were. He handed it to my mother. After a couple of minutes of leafing through the pages and skimming the headlines my mother asked, “I don’t understand this, Mikey, what do you have to do with this band?” “I’m the lead singer and songwriter.” “Oh, Mikey!” My mother said, disappointment clearly in her voice. “You have so much potential, you could be doing so much with your life.” “I am doing something with my life.” “Mikey,” my father said as mildly as he could, “your mother and I gave you so much more than even your brother and sister. We had such great hopes for you,” he paused, “but then again as of late, not that much has been forthcoming from you.” My eyes started welling up from the usual litany of disappointments. I tried to think of anything else to staunch the tears. My parents looked at each other. My mother, tears streaming down her cheeks, nodded her head to my father almost imperceptibly. “I’ll loan you the money for graduate school. You’ll have to give up this band thing of course, get a job in the area of the graduate degree, and pay the loan off within five years. The same deal we gave your brother and sister.” I started gathering up my scrapbook and left their house.
I realized the extent of the hell Jim Morrison had suffered with his parents. His Admiral father yelled at him for wasting his time making drawings or poems. Steve Morrison’s absences were, by necessity, so frequent that they were seen as the norm rather than the exception. As is the case with many navy children, Jim had grown to think of his father as nothing but a visitor in his own home when he returned periodically, and of his mother as the primary head of the household and disciplinarian. It was during one of these absences, Jim said, that he wet his bed; it is unclear how old Jim was at this time. The boy went to his parents’ room and climbed into the big bed where his mother was sleeping alone. Clara, waking and taking in the situation, reportedly pushed her son out of the bed and, according to Jim, humiliated him for his lack of self-control, taking him back to his room and forcing him to sleep on the wet sheets. This incident, he said, left him afraid to sleep on the bed at all, and from then on he would curl himself up in a ball on the floor and pray for his mother’s death, counting the days until he could get even with her. “After that,” Morrison reportedly said, “I never had a childhood.” To kill childhood, innocence in an instant. While Morrison's grades were not specially high, his I.Q. was tested at 149 and his grasp of history, literature, and art stymied even his most learned teachers. One teacher reportedly even went so far as to check with the Library of Congress to make sure that some of the books Jim was reporting on actually existed, so obscure were their titles and subjects.
Morrison became a storyteller, a myth maker with a vivid imagination. If we weren’t traveling, or at a gig, there was a lot of down time. It was downright boring. The days we played were filled with drama and excitement of the gig, the bustle of loading and unloading equipment was completely counter balanced by ripping boredom. No wonder Morrison found ways to amuse himself by hanging out windows, ledge walking, and later drinking. One night when I got on stage, in the front row was a table of four truly beautiful girls. All decked out in their finest wares, dripping with sequins and pearl necklaces. They looked uncomfortable and awkward in the clothes, like kids playing grown up, still tripping on their mother’s high heels. I knew the boys had girlfriends, which is how I came to think of their little troupe, as ‘the girlfriends’. These weren’t your average Rock ‘n’ Roll chicks, these were your exotic type, not the type of girl the boys were used to, nor would have been able to attract had they not been in a band. Each show I tried to find someone in the audience to sing to, the seduction was easy, just sing a song and look into their eyes as if you were looking into their soul. Playing Morrison made me feel like I could move the world, picking up whatever girl at a gig was easy, sex became a liquid to me and unlike the boys I didn’t have a girlfriend, there were plenty of women who wanted to be with the new “Jim Morrison.” I went back into the living room where everyone was sitting in a circle on the floor very zoned out. The night diffused into a hazy golden color. That’s how I remember it, all of us sitting in a circle in that living room. Each of the boys smiling like he was in a golden halo, or maybe a spotlight in the surrounding darkness.
“If you tried to see Jim Morrison as a whole person instead of a hero... what you reflect of him probably reveals some aspect of you, more than of him.” She looked into my eyes one last time, “are you sure there’s still a you in there?” I was not sure, so I didn't give Deirdre any answer. “How do you know he was a hero? Maybe he was a loser.” She said, softly. “Because he’s not me.” “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” “I am the Lizard King.” I said, grandiosely. “You take that seriously?” “It’s my job.” “Tell me something else about Jimmy.” “Jimmy was a tabula rasa. He could be an altar boy, or maybe a murderer. He was a mirror, get it!? You got what you looked for, he was amazing at reading people.” “What did you see?” I asked. “A lover.” She said, eyeing me lasciviously. “I knew Ray and Jim at UCLA. I was a theatre student and I wanted to be an actress. I was in Jim’s first UCLA movie. I may have been the first person to get Jimmy interested in witchcraft.” She looked at me with such a look of desire, “I could tell you a lot about Jimmy,” she repeated. She seemed pretty drunk, slurring every word she uttered, but I was morbidly interested. “What’d you talk to Jimmy about?” I asked. “We talked about a lot of things, like poetry and Artraud.” “Artraud?” I said, taunting her about her pronunciation. “Yeah, Antonin Artraud, the French theater guy.” She said, waving it off.
New Orleans was sort like Jim Morrison, swampy mystery and a controversial history, like the flowers slowly killing the trees. But New Orleans was a double-edged sword for Morrison. After one trip he said he enjoyed the city’s sights and sounds, and visions of Victorian spaceships. But it’s also where The Doors had their last concert, where Morrison pounded the microphone into the stage until it splintered and Ray Manzarek said he literally saw Jim’s spirit leave his body. The good thing about the French Quarter, if you walk six feet you’ll find a shop that has whatever you want, need, or desire, including Voodoo, luckily I saw a shop that had a hand lettered sign in the front window d-a-i-q-u-i-r-i. The lettering seemed deliberate, unsure of itself like whoever wrote it wasn’t quite sure how to spell daiquiri. Inside the shop there were about twenty soft serve ice cream machines. Each had a different flavored daiquiri stirring in it. We quickly replenished our twenty-ounce beers with daiquiris. The boys were walking down the street, a daiquiri in one hand, their girlfriends in the other. Everybody was happy. I saw a couple of lesbians walking down the street. In the next instant I saw a group of women, each wearing a solid pastel colored dress with a silk ribbon sash slashing across their bodies, they were beauty contestants! I ran up to them and bowed, over exaggeratingly courteous, stepping easily into Morrison’s persona. “Hello, ladies!” I said, “where you all from?” “All over!” They all shouted enthusiastically. There was literally a sea of people in front of me. It was then that I truly understood what was meant by the phrases ‘a sea of humanity’, and ‘an ocean of people.’ They ceased to be several thousand individuals they became one thing, a new creature to do with as I pleased. Suddenly, I knew what Morrison knew. You become part of a crowd, faceless, anonymous. The individual becomes lost, you lose your self in a crowd, free to live your dreams, free to enact your nightmares, all bets are off, there are no limits, no laws. It was the door to power, the power that despots and rock stars know. There’s always been something of the fascist about Rock ‘n’ Roll. “Could any Hell be more horrible than now?” -Jim Morrison
I used every trick Morrison knew to whip crowds into a frenzy. I screamed, writhed, fell to the stage, jumped, until the audience didn’t want to hear anything else. There were sullen looks and thrown equipment barely missing me. On stage, the band occasionally tried to sabotage my show, a song would end early, or they wouldn’t hit the vocal cue they would just keep soloing. I’d look over to see what was going on, to see one or all of them laughing. Traveling in the van was a dour experience, sullen and silent. My relationship with the band deteriorated from that point on. I fell into old habits. I drank more. The women I picked up tended to be the girls wearing leather pants and purple hair. I had left my life behind, my family, Deidre, I could leave them behind too. All that was left was the end. On the matter of that grave marker in Paris, are we really expected to believe that The Doors management and the band really didn’t do something to get a grave marker in place? That, even to this day, seems to me like a callous act, an almost indecent act. An act I can’t understand if, as the band members claimed, they missed and loved Morrison so much. Rock ‘n’ Roll really isn’t about sex, drugs, and Rock ‘n’ Roll. Maybe it’s not even about the music. It’s about changing the world. Rock ‘n’ Roll should be in a continuous state of revolution. Morrison got that one right.
A Cosmic Mating: As his cue came up, Jim Morrison caught her eye. Pamela raised her sight from her Vanilla Coke, sipping it intertmitently. As Jim walked off the stage at the end of the set, she was waiting for him with a beer at the club stairs. "I think I love you," I said. “Really?” She said smiling, “you can tell that from across the room?” Then she asked "what happened here?" touching the side of his face where he still had some cuts from the debacle of the biker bar. "Critics," he joked: "What's your name?" "Pam," she replied. “Paaaam.” I said, drawing the word out to the southern drawl Morrison affected when he wanted to impress someone with his charm, “Pam, the same as Jim’s wife’s name.” “You remind me of Morrison.” “I’m supposed to, that’s the whole idea.” I said. “No, there’s something about you that’s the same.” She enthused. I turned my head at an angle, another Morrison simulation, then smiled broadly. “Indeed.” She was aching for a way out and I invited her to my apartment. “You wanna do some ‘shrooms?” Magic mushrooms, psilocybin, was a natural psychedelic. You eat a few and see visions, like blood everywhere. She came back a few minutes later with a very delicate looking porcelain teapot and teacup. We settled into having a joint while I sipped the tea, which for how bad the mushrooms tasted in their natural state, tasted like any other tea I’d had. Aside from the joint, we could’ve been maiden aunts gossiping. “Cool. You know what’s really fun to do now?” “No.” she said, watching silvery comets shooting past my eyes. “Going swinging! C’mon there’s a swing set right out back.” She jumped up and started pulling me towards the patio doors. The night seemed to have turned into a wild, wicked world. The wind whipped at my hair and clothing. I wondered if this dramatic world was real or because of the LSD tea. Some part of me didn’t understand why we had to come outside, while another part of me knew I wanted to go swinging. Out back was a rusting swing set with two well-worn ruts under the rubber and chain swings. We each grabbed one and started pumping our legs towards the stars. “Higher!” She yelled, “isn’t this fun!” We pumped our legs urging the swings higher. We were laughing as the stars drew close and fell away, we couldn’t stop laughing. I let go and was rolling around in the cold dewy grass. I was still laughing when I saw a silvery spider web. Suddenly I felt like I was in a box, silvery spikes splintered through the top. It was a coffin, the ghost of Jim Morrison was inside. I was cold, and I was crying. “I’m dying! I’m dying!” I grabbed my stomach and rolled over on my side. I felt empty. “I’m alone, I’m all alone.” I cried. We woke up the next morning feeling raw and vulnerable. I felt like every nerve had been exposed, like I had touched an open wire. I was still cold. I pulled what blankets I could around me tighter. Pam woke up and rolled over. “It’s all right. You shouldn’t be afraid to reveal yourself to me. But you pretty much do that on stage every night.” “Not really,” I said, “I expose Jim Morrison. I go out there night after night ‘being’ Morrison. Everyone thinks I am him. So much of this cover band thing falls on me. They laugh at me every chance they get. They just don’t understand everything I’m going through. So I try not to show any weakness. A king cannot appear to be as the common man.” “See, you are him!” She gushed and threw her arms around my neck. “I started this, the band, to accomplish certain things. In certain respects it was a search for love.” I heard myself saying. Did I mean her? “It’ll happen if you believe it will.” She looked shy for a second. “You know that’s all I’ve been looking for.” “I love you!” She blurted out. In her eyes I could see the light of true belief burning. “Come with me,” I said. “No one has ever believed in what I want to do like you do.” “What about my dreams?” “Forget it all. I left everything behind to be here.” She said she had to think it over and left.
Calling Pam
I put about some dollars in change in the pay phone and dialed her number. It rang I tried to drown out the traffic going by on Santa Monica Boulevard. “Hello?” She said. “Hi, I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner.” “Oh, hi,” she cooed softly. “Where are you?” “I’m in L.A. me and the band, we’re going to play The Whisky this weekend.” “That’s great!” She said. “Can you come out here to see me?” I asked supplicant. “Our last argument hurt, especially after what we shared.” “You were hurt?” I protested, “you were living with a new boyfriend.” “I thought we had more than that together.” She whispered. I thought for a moment. “I miss you. Things haven’t been going as well as I had hoped and I’m just trying to get things together.” “Isn’t it a little late?” “No, the gig is still three days away, it came up suddenly, I didn’t have time to do anything except make the arrangements and get out here. I’ve been running around finding a motel for the band and sending out invitations to the show to movie producers, and every newspaper in L.A. And the morning after I have a meeting with an agent, I really want you to come.” There was silence on the other end. I could feel her wavering ambivalence. I felt her moving away from me. I didn’t want to lose her, “let me tell you the truth, I don’t really feel like I belong here. I feel like I’m a fraud.” “You belong there, I believe in your talent.” “Then come,” I said, plaintively. “I need someone who believes in me, and someone I believe believes in me, if that makes any sense. I see the parts of me in you that I miss. I wish I could be quiet again, that I didn’t have to howl to get noticed. I’m an oddity no matter where I go. In my family, at the college, in my own band! Even the bars where I feel the closest to comfortable, I talk about life and death, and they look at me suspiciously. Just come, I miss you.” I said, “or stay in that one small town, and when you marry Billy Carlson, the mechanic you’ve known since third grade, send me an invitation.” I paused, hoping to hear her laugh. She laughed. “Look, I have money. I can send plane fare, you can be here tomorrow, and we can rent a house on Norton avenue, just like Jim and Pam. Or up in the hills, anything you want.” To kill the time in between I spent it the same as Morrison had, drinking. Walking back to the motel room from Barney’s, I was thinking how I wouldn’t have to deal with the boys after tomorrow night. Pam was supposed to arrive sometime today. She hadn’t told me what time to expect her, but I gave her the hotel room number and address. As I walked up the steps to the room I noticed the door to the room was open. “Pam?” I walked in. “I’m not interrupting am I?” She asked. She was lying under the sheets, seemingly naked. “Hi honey, no, I don’t think you are.” We spent the next couple of hours making love.
Oddly, I could connect with the far away memories of what must have been the real Jim and Pam's first personal date. Jim and Pam lying on a gilded bed, enthralled with each other. Pamela laughing, amused at Jim's declaration 'I'll give you a fancy place, silk clothes and diamonds!'. Jim knowing he had found his cosmic mate, assuring Pam 'You are not my groupie' in a sudden serious tone, 'you are my girl.' Her fingers, so softly tactile, exploring his body, making his brain explode with an unknown, inviolable pleasure. He kissing her possesively. She tasted like Vanilla Coke and candy. 'I wanted to hold you in my arms since you laid your eyes on me at the London Fog,' Pam confessing, transfixed. Her eyes were glazing over and he made love to her like an eternal promise. Jim became Pamela's protector, drowning in a sea of interminable desire. As all the true love stories, Jim Morrison's unique relationship with Pam Courson was misunderstood. I chose Love and married Pam. Jim Morrison said that Love was the answer.
I walked that same edge that Morrison did, stared into his abyss. I wanted to learn about that existence to see what lay on the other side, to see what I could learn about myself. I did learn a lot about what was going on in Morrison’s head, and what was going on in my head. What had I been trying to accomplish? I was looking for transcendence. I was transformed into something greater than myself. Every Saturday I throw on the leather pants and do a show for my audience of one, the only audience I want, Pam. She is the bit of reality and unreality I need in the world to get through life. I’ve come to realize I did find my new world in Pam and the love she offered to me. My new world of thought and feeling was being able to acknowledge that love to myself. —"Jim Morrison: The Last Stage" (2005) by Jim Cherry
"Amber Heard was regularly verbally and mentally abusive and would often scream at me... over the smallest things," assistant Kate James states. 'She would fly into blind rages where no-one could reason with her." James claims the actress would often binge on wine and drugs - specifically magic mushrooms and MDMA - and text her abuse throughout the night. 'When I woke up in the morning, there would almost always be a barrage of incoherent abuse sent to me from Amber by text between around 2am and 4am. Johnny Depp claims that Heard's allegations that she was a victim of domestic violence were an 'elaborate hoax' designed to generate positive publicity and advance her career. David Sherborne, representing Mr Depp, said the evidence 'demonstrates in her own voice that she was not a victim of domestic abuse, but rather that she was the aggressor'. He added that, in the recordings, Miss Heard is apparently heard to say that no-one would believe Mr Depp if he claimed to be a victim of domestic violence. Adam Wolanski QC said Mr Depp's previous legal team, from whom he parted company on February 11, had 'accidentally' disclosed 70,000 text messages to NGN's lawyers. During the hearing on February 26, lawyers for NGN said texts sent by Mr Depp during his relationship with Miss Heard are 'very damaging' to his case. Source: www.dailymail.co.uk
”I knew Johnny very well years ago. We were together as a couple for four years, and I counted him as my best friend, and as close to me as family. I count our relationship as one of the more significant relationships of my life. I understand that it is very important that I speak from my own experience,” Ryder stated. "I obviously was not there during his marriage to Amber Heard, but, from my experience, which was so wildly different, I was absolutely shocked, confused and upset when I heard the accusations against him. The idea that he is a violent person is the farthest thing from the Johnny I knew and loved. I cannot wrap my head around these accusations. He was never, never violent towards me. He was never, never abusive at all towards me. He has never been violent or abusive towards anybody I have seen. I truly and honestly only know him as a really good man- an incredibly loving, extremely caring guy who was so very protective of me and the people that he loves, and I felt so very, very safe with him." Source: theblast.com
Variations in the sexuality of self-identified heterosexual women are related to preferences for male facial masculinity, according to new research published in International Journal of Sexual Health. The study found that more than half of heterosexual women reported at least some attraction to women, which in turn was related to their assessments of male attractiveness. Even though all the women identified as heterosexual, 62.60% of them reported some level of sexual attraction to other women. In particular, single women, older women, and women who considered themselves attractive were more likely to view more masculine-looking faces as attractive. The study, “Attraction to Men and Women Predicts Sexual Dimorphism Preferences“, was authored by Carlota Batres, Benedict C. Jones, and David I. Perrett. Source: www.psypost.org
Jeff Fink (2014): I returned to L.A. with great satisfaction, as over the weekend I met with Candy Evans, a woman who intimately knew Jim Morrison from 1968-71. This was Candy’s first interview about her time with Jim and I was honored she chose to sit with me as she looked into her past. Candy and I bonded over our mutual desire to see Jim’s non-Lizard King humanity finally brought to light. Among the many memories Candy shared was that Jim spoke to her of wanting to start a family. He even cited specific baby names he favored. Candy, to her credit, made it clear to me that Jim, as fond of her as he was, did not hint that he had her in mind as the would-be mother. Candy noted that Jim even described how a mother-to-be should take great care of her body and mind via prenatal vitamins, exercise and rest, and the complete avoidance of drugs and alcohol. After years of research into Jim’s life, I long ago concluded that a significant amount of information in NOHGOA was the result of Danny Sugerman fabricating stories in order to help sell Jerry Hopkins’s manuscript which admittedly had been again and again rejected. According to Hopkins, Warner Books rejected his solo draft several times before finally biting on Sugerman’s (along with Ray Manzarek as ghostwriter) revision. I’ve come across a number of intriguing clues that could serve to reinforce such a seemingly far-fetched scenario as a man permanently checking out without turning in his room key.
As Jim Morrison himself wrote: “Did you have a good world when you died? Enough to base a movie on?” A number of my interviewees have described Jim Morrison as an “actor” playing a role he wrote for himself. Sherry (a woman from Pasadena who offered a brief interview for Esquire in 1972): "Jim was sometimes impotent. Most of the time with me he never had an orgasm, he gave up. A few times he acted as though he did but I sensed it was an act. If I had not a full response that would drive him wild, because he thought I was holding out on purpose. He oscillated between the man and the child. A long session of sex, then the sudden collapse, whimpering: ‘I need somebody to love me, please take care of me, please don’t leave me.’"
No other music figure has been as vilified, spited on, demonized, as Jim Morrison was. Danny Fields liked to parrot how rude Morrison was - the same Danny Fields that maliciously trash talked Johnny and Edgar Winter brothers just as Johnny was dying. Like all of these types of stories about Jim Morrison, it will turn out that facts have been conveniently left out because dark stories about Morrison are more profitable. Danny Fields hated Jim Morrison and the feeling was more than mutual; it was Fields who forced the meeting between Jim Morrison and Nico. Nico was madly in love with Morrison, was a willing participant in his weird games, and she always spoke highly of him. Nowadays, Morrison has become rock´s critic main punching bag. Lou Reed famously hated the Doors. Since The Velvet Underground are seen by the critics as "heroes", every hero needs a designated "villain" so here enter the Doors. I think the fact that Nico made out with Morrison, it got Lou on his nerves. Lou Reed seemed to hate anyone who were more successful than he was. So, he pretty much hated everyone. Reed was known to be a very nasty, miserable individual and was thoroughly hated throughout the industry.
Nico's love and respect for Jim Morrison is what set Reed off when it came to Morrison. Lou Reed apparently had liked Jim Morrison enough to note, in an interview with Jim Martin in Open City magazine #78: "he's going through all this whole number [onstage] for the kids, very nice, very religious rock & roll," but Morrison's affair with Nico had seemingly left Reed sour. Eye magazine took Danny Fields's suggestion for setting up a photoshoot with Nico and Morrison as a beautiful couple, but Morrison refused to do it, wary of his volatile girlfriend Pamela. Lou Reed had composed for Nico her trademark songs in The VU and allegedly wrote Berlin as a sort of farewell letter. Nico had described Lou as 'soft and lovely, not aggressive at all.' Whereas, Morrison 'was affectionate to my looks and my mind... and the best sex I had ever.' January Jensen remembers Morrison speaking with great pride of Pam’s svelte look. To him, her size made her seem like one of the mythical sprites that frequented Mt. Shasta, and it made him feel powerful by comparison. Instead, with Nico he woul have felt ambivalent, and despite a passionate romance, Morrison returned back to Pam. Jim connected with Pam on several affective levels, specially because Pam also came from a family who had ignored her eccentric personality. Jim Morrison did a good job of keeping his childhood traumas to himself. If we ever fully realized what he dealt with while growing up and the pain he was dealing with psychologically Morrison's life story would go from being sad to heartbreaking.
In Jim Morrison's case, from where I stand, this "myth" and this "image" was exaggerated and promoted by "admirers" with profit in mind. I think Jim Morrison left his former band mates with feelings of anger and resentment at all of the professional and financial opportunities his behavior and actions cost them. "No One Here Gets Out Alive" (aka "Nothing Here But A Lot of Lies") was a misguided attempt by Danny ''Professional Groupie/Parasite' Sugerman, Jerry 'I-Hate-Jim-Morrison-For-Reasons-Still-Unknown' Hopkins, along with Manzarek's help, to recoup the money Manzarek felt Morrison owed him, re-popularize The Doors which was supposed to lead to more professional and financial opportunities for the remaining members. In the end it backfired because all people came away with after reading that book was that Jim Morrison was an asshole. If they had approached Jim Morrison's life and short career with honesty and integrity, Jim and The Doors would not be considered "one the most divisive figures and bands in rock music." I also believe that male journalists resent the fact that women still drool over pictures of Morrison and that's why they are so ready to pounce on anything nasty said about him, regardless of the facts and whether or not there is any proof to back up these stories. Actually he was very self-conscious and people often took advantage of him. Morrison did not have a lot of friends in the industry like a lot of other rock figures who were ten times worse than he was, who are considered beloved. I guess Mary Werbelow wisely stayed out of the whole Jim Morrison biography circus (she may have feared Patricia Kennealy making her life impossible. Kennealy is not a fan of women Jim Morrison actually did have a relationship with and those he actually did love and care about). -by RidderontheStorm1969
Richard Meltzer, rock critic from Crawdaddy magazine (1967): "There was a club called Ondine under 59th Street bridge in New York, and The Doors played like two months, three months of bar-band sets. And looking back, it seems to me what my impression of Jim Morrison was, my initial impression was that it was the music was like universal heterosexual testosterone overkill. But what about the dead soldier? Morrison attains a bizarre duality in The Unknown Soldier. He is killed but survives triumphantly in sound. He is both victim and victor, martyr and apostle. Unfortunately, this is a dangerous combination. It implies that for every part ecstasy, we must have one part death. You wanna end the war, boys and girls? Kill your favorite rock singer first."
Rock Is Dead (Complete Version) · The Doors. The Soft Parade ℗ 2019 Rhino Entertainment. Mixing Engineer: Bruce Botnick Bass: Harvey Brooks Arranger: Jim Morrison Vocals: Jim Morrison
Why Jim Morrison is Still Relevant in the Twenty-first Century: A shamanistic shouter, though a paradoxically shy one, also ex-nihilo a capable crooner and songwriter, both craftsman and archetype, as essential to the development of the rock style as to the theory and practice of Götterdämmerung. But there was something bizarrely Horatio Alger-like about his story. What seems unique about Morrison is that he seems less a force of nature and more of a self-willed creation—an auto-didact, even, an intellectual intrigued by Artaud’s theory of a Theatre of Cruelty and determined to materialize it in his own being. Morrison may finally have wanted nothing more than to come back through the doors he’d opened, to return to normality from the other side, to become again the mere aesthete that he’d started out to be. Hence the late attempts at filmmaking, and the fact that, toward the end, he began to think of himself as James Douglas Morrison. As atypical as was his de-facto marriage to longtime companion Pamela Courson, part-Lilith, part-Daisy, it was still a form of monogamy. And, as exotic as Paris still is in all our imaginations, as important as it was as an artistic source for Morrison, the City of Light seemed to have functioned for Jim and Pamela as an opportunity for rest and rehab, a retreat, a temporary retirement home.
Pamela returned to California and lived for a short while in Bolinas with rock journalist Ellen Sander, then in Sausalito for a year before returning to Los Angeles. Diane Gardiner, an old friend who was then working for Jefferson Airplane, revealed: "Pamela told me about Jim's death. It's true that he got into some of her drugs and overdosed, but I don't think Pam tried to cover it up. Pamela was devastated." At the same time, she was fighting to be recognized as Jim’s legal wife. A compromise was reached in January 1974 with a final accounting of the estate. Pamela bought a yellow Volkswagen bug and talked about purchasing land in Colorado. I finally met Pam, only once, in the summer of 1973. She agreed to meet me at the urging of a mutual friend. As she studied the menu, I studied her. She had an almost translucent beauty, a radiance. She made you want to take care of her. I knew, by then, that she was not so vulnerable as she appeared, that she had matched Jim outrage for outrage very capably. But she gave little away during that single lunch, leaving only a lasting impression of power and fragility. She didn’t want to be interviewed, nor would she agree to see me again. Soon she was dead in April 1974. Pamela died of what police called an accidental overdose of heroin. I made a mental note – why this date, coincidence? Probably this was the date she first met or slept with Jim Morrison (April 1966). Pamela left no will, so her & Jim’s estate went to her next of kin, her parents. Then Jim’s parents, who had been content to respect their son’s bequest to the woman he loved most, now made a move to claim what they considered their fair share. Danny Sugerman died in 2005. He was fifty. Ray Manzarek did not attend the funeral. “Ray fired Danny many times,” said Bruce Botnick. “In the end, Danny fired himself. He died.”
William Friedkin was one of the candidates to translate the initial story of The Doors to the screen, the script-writing task offered to Jerry Hopkins—but nothing came together until Sasha Harari paid $50,000 for the rights to No One Here Gets Out Alive. Harari convinced the three Doors' members to renew their support to the man who promoted The Doors concerts in San Francisco and New York from the 1960s, Bill Graham, as co-producer. By the time those talks were complete, the Coursons were promised that their daughter would not be shown in any way to be connected to the singer’s death. Ultimately, Oliver Stone would portray Jim Morrison as an alcohol-soaked, self-indulgent jerk. But he was actually much more: he was a man of staggering intelligence, sensitive, generous, charming, and wryly humorous. Very little of that comes out in the movie.
And however much of a pain in the ass he could be, he didn’t really take himself seriously—at least not as a rock star—and as difficult to work with as he often was, the rewards usually outweighed the liabilities. Wanting to use Patricia Kennealy’s real name in the movie, Stone let the Wiccan witch increase her role from negligible to significant in Morrison's life. Only Patricia had taken the 1970 ceremony to heart, Jim telling everyone he was drunk and he had forgotten it. Eventually Patricia legally changed her name to Patricia Kennealy-Morrison, then started writing a series of rock mysteries under the name Patricia Morrison. When I had dinner with Oliver Stone, he said he had a copy of a diary of a groupie’s affair with Jim, probably Judy Huddlestone. “This is a woman who was naked with Morrison many times! He’s so gentle and loving. And then he turns into an emotional wreck.” Stone seemed to want to relive the most excessive (and sexual) aspects of Morrison. “Oliver Stone set out to make the ultimate ‘sex, drugs, and rock and roll’ exploitation film—and did so at Jim Morrison’s expense,” Joe Russo told the Doors Collectors Magazine. “What upsets me most about the film is that it’s sealed Jim’s fate as the ‘obnoxious party-animal.’ Why couldn’t they have given his ‘Dr. Jekyll’ side equal time?” Oliver Stone's dishonesty, and he was not alone in this, is a disservice to the audience whose ideas are formed by what they see in the movies. —"Behind Closed Doors" (2013) by Jerry Hopkins
Marilyn Monroe has been chosen as one of TIME‘s 100 Women of the Year, in a project marking the magazine’s centenary. She has been selected to represent 1954, the year in which she married Joe DiMaggio; entertained US troops in Korea; filmed There’s No Business Like Show Business and The Seven Year Itch; topped the hit parade with ‘I’m Gonna File My Claim’; and then she left it all behind to study acting, and form a production company in New York. The photo shown was taken in 1952 by Frank Powolny, but remains one of the most iconic images of Marilyn. Other featured actresses include Anna May Wong, Lucille Ball and Rita Moreno. Gloria Steinem, the feminist campaigner who wrote a book about Marilyn, is also listed. “In 1954, Marilyn Monroe—already a sex symbol and a movie star—posed on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 52nd Street in New York City, for a scene intended to appear in her 1955 film The Seven Year Itch. The breeze blowing up through a subway grate sent her white dress billowing around her, an image that lingers today like a joyful, animated ghost. Monroe was a stunner, but she was also a brilliant actor and comedian who strove to be taken seriously in a world of men who wanted to see her only as an object of desire. Today, especially in a world after Harvey Weinstein’s downfall, she stands as a woman who fought a system that was rigged against her from the start, even as our hearts broke for her.” Source: blog.everlasting-star.net
Victor Bockris: Edie Sedgwick left the Factory because she was tired of the NY scene. Andy Warhol wasn't so stingy with money, he was realistic with money. For example, if he knew someone was a drug addict, he wouldn’t hand them 25 dollars, he would tell them they could go to this restaurant and eat for free, just sign the check and he would pay for it, and he indeed, did that, which was the sensible thing to do. But when I worked with him in the seventies, he always paid people more than they asked for. Edie Sedgwick became the first really famous female Warhol Superstar. Edie was something else and the whole thing to another level because of her connection to a family which went back to the Mayflower, and a fantastic androgynous, childlike girl/woman image, with a touch of Marilyn Monroe. She was one of those persons who just burned through the screen.
So Warhol had a real goldmine in Edie and he brought her to the center of attention. He made 11 films of Edie between April/May’65 and December ’65. Andy’s favorite “Girl of the Year”? In ‘The Philosophy of Andy Warhol’ in that chapter called Taxi, Warhol says it was Edie. I think one of the things that Andy shows us, in a sense, is that certain men are often jealous of women because they want to be them. And if Andy could have been any of his Superstars, he would have been Edie. She emanated the glamour of playtime 60s art, celebrity, 'the chick better than anyone' and Andy certainly had an interest in trading places with her. So that’s a relationship that could be emotional/ sexual. At the moment Edie does her last film with Warhol, Gerard Malanga brings the Velvet Underground to The Factory. Malanga came from a very poor background. He never had an apartment the whole time he worked for Andy. The thing is that Gerard was totally heterosexual. He was the Silver Factory’s stud. He did have sex with all those girls who came to the Factory. He often brought them in. He picked them up at parties and spent the night with them. That was all very useful to Andy. At the same time, when you are in a group of mostly gay people, and you’re not gay... the “opposition” is vulnerable. So it weakened Gerard’s position ultimately.
Allegedly, Edie Sedgwick and Jim Morrison canoodled with each other at the Castle in July 1967. Robert Rauschenberg: "She was the total essence of the fragmentation, the explosion, the uncertainty, the madness that we all lived through in the Sixties. Her physicality was so refreshing that she exposed all the dishonesty in the room." Edie had found the instrument of her revenge against her family in a figure whose near non-existence, as a moral force, replied to the all-too-palpable hypocrisy of the Sedgwick clan. "There seemed to be this almost supernatural glow to her that's hard to describe," wrote playwright Robert Heide. "Literally there was an aura emanating from her, a white or blue aura. It's as if Edie was illuminated from within. Her skin was translucent — Marilyn Monroe had that quality." "Edie's presence was magnetic", remembers John Cale of The Velvet Underground who had a six-week affair with her. "Although on her last legs with Andy, she still possessed all the elemental magic, frayed beauty and presence of Marilyn Monroe." When Edie got out of the psychiatric hospital, she hung around with a group of bikers called the Vikings. One of the bikers, Preacher Ewing, remembered her as "a larger than life in her capacity to hit the depths. I used to call her Princess, because that's what she thought she was. She'd say condescending that her parents were so fantastically upper-class."
Acid can cause long-lasting or even permanent changes in a user’s psychology, and personality. Jim Morrison was one of the people that took a lot of doses. He would take four or five hits at a time. His personality indeed changed. When attending to the FSU, Jim Morrison's buddy Andy Anderson had founded a rock band named The Prowlers. Anderson recalled: "Jim was just a nice guy, shy, and not made for playing in a rock band." Jim Morrison now had a huge stash of Owsley Stanley’s “White Lightning” acid that looked like aspirin tablets, the cleanest LSD in 1966-67. In those early days of LSD and other mind-altering drugs, there was a series of tests on experimental drugs being conducted by the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Center. Of course the tests were strictly monitored, and students were allowed to sign up for only one of them because of the potential dangers of abuse. Morrison was among the first to sign up, and even using a series of aliases he signed up for every test.
Eve Babitz: Being in bed with Jim was like being in bed with Michelangelo’s David, only with blue eyes. He knew in his worst blackouts to put my diaphragm in and take my contact lenses out. His skin was so white, his muscles were so pure, he was so innocent. He used to suggest, “Let’s go to Ships and eat blueberry pancakes with blueberry syrup.“ My friend Judy Raphael, who went to film school, remembers Jim as this pudgy guy with a marine haircut who worked in the library at UCLA. Jim had lost thirty pounds in the summer of ’65, from taking drugs and hanging out on the Venice boardwalk, creating his life anew. But I thought The Doors were embarrassing, like their name. It was so corny naming yourself after something Aldous Huxley wrote. Even Jim’s voice was embarrassing, sounding so sudden and personal... It was Morrison’s girlfriend, Pamela Courson who was rock ’n’ roll. Pamela collected Luger guns, took heroin, and was fearless in every situation. She was emotionally shockproof. Pamela looked sunny and sweet so it was hard to believe her purse was stuffed with Thorazine. Pamela had control over Jim in real life. And Jim made his audiences suffer for that.
Raeanne Bartlett: Eve and Mirandi Babitz don't seem to be fans of Pamela. Frankly, Eve Babitz, in general, seems like a deeply self-absorbed, callous person. Very intelligent, glib, great with words, but a devourer of souls and excess. I think Eve is not an especially nice person, and enjoys dishing out insults when she can. She doesn't sound like she respects many people at all, and her younger sister is an extension. Pamela was truly one-of-a-kind, and she deserves to be memorialized in a thorough, open-minded, and fair way. Salli Stevenson: It was Mirandi Babitz who said Pamela dyed her hair a dark red from her original strawberry blonde, not me. I just repeated what Mirandi said. Patricia Kennealy was the one who called Pamela a "total junkie." Pamela did heroin according to Mirandi Babitz by snorting it or smoking it. I only met Pamela once in 1967. Jim and I were close friends. Have I exaggerated my personal friendship with Jim? No. Anyway, this girl sent me a photo of a message scrawled on the walls from Jim & Pam's Laurel Canyon's home. Apparently, parts of the home are intact, including the secret shower where this message is. She went to check out the house as a potential buy and she says that there are letters from Jim and Pam to one another hid throughout the home.
"Ready to go?" Jim asked, his expression unreadable. Pamela looked up at him, and her heart skipped a beat. His expression was blank, but there was something in his eyes that reminded her of a brewing storm. "Uh, yeah." She shook her head. "Just a minute." She turned to look at The Factory's silver walls as she stood up, and noticed that Gerard Malanga was looking at Jim with a smug expression. Jim grabbed her wrist and began to drag her to the elevator. Pamela didn't know whether or not she was imagining the tightness in his grip, or the tension in the air. The drug haze hadn't completely worn off yet, and everything still felt a bit hazy. It wasn't until they stepped outside and the cool air hit her face that she snapped out of it and pulled her arm back. "Jim, you're hurting me!" she cried. "What the fuck, Pam?" Jim spat, turning to face her. "What the fuck was that?" "What, you mean making out with Gerard? So what? You were doing the same thing with Nico!" "It's not the same," he mumbled, his gaze suddenly downcast. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?," protested Pam. Jim sighed, "None of them matter. Not Nico, not any girl I fool around with. I don't care about them, Pamela. The only woman I will ever care about is you." —Love Cannot Save You (2019) by Queen of the Highway
-Frank Lisciandro: Jim liked the feeling of losing control, so he liked losing the ethical Jim Morrison?
-Eva Gardonyi: I don’t think he ever lost the ethical Jim Morrison. He lost the well-mannered Jim Morrison, but the ethical, no, he didn’t become an unethical asshole when he was drunk. He might have been an asshole sometimes, but he did it out of some kind of social outrage. When somebody bucked him with their hypocrisy long enough to make him react, because he clearly would see hypocrisy and he was like Don Quixote fighting against hypocrisy. I never yelled with Jim, not for a second. Even when we lived together I never saw him out of line. A couple of times when he was drinking heavily he had a hard time making love, but overall I had a very satisfactory love life with him.
-Frank: Did you find Jim and Pam a strange couple to be together?
-Eva: No, no, she always gave him quite a lot of attention and admiration and he also showed a great deal of kindness and loving behavior toward her really, very sweet. Sometimes she had been a bit vengeful, she went to spend his money as fast as she could. But he was grateful for having her because it was a reminder of something that was very precious for him. Jim wanted Pamela and me to be friends because he felt that I had a levelheadedness and Pamela sort of reacted well with me. And just so I looked after her, I tried. I liked Pamela, she was a really golden child for me. When Pamela called herself “Pamela Morrison” he did not object. I asked Jim if they were actually married and he said, “Why? What difference does it make?” So I don’t think he would have given his name to anybody else but Pamela. —"Jim Morrison: Friends Gathered Together" (2014) by Frank Lisciandro
