So I'm 13, and I'm slouching through Harvard Square on my way to get Pink Floyd boots at the used record store. I'm just starting to grow my hair long-- which never really worked out-- and I'm wearing a grey t-shirt sporting the hundred-yard-stare of Jim Morrison of the Doors. From across the street, a guy three times my age shouts: "Fuck! Yeah! The Doors!" And for that moment, we are brothers.
*The Kids in the Hall'*s Bruce McCulloch argued that Doors fans are born, not made. But he ducks the question of why we're not making them anymore. Today, one of the first standard-bearers of rock is less hip than Journey. Let's review the case against the band: First we have Morrison himself, who's been blown into a caricature by his super-sexual persona, his wifty poetry, and his early death in a Paris bathtub. The music sounds like a weird cross between shit-kicking blues-rock and brain-spraining acid-jams, and it's easier to get your avant-garage fix from the Velvet Underground, your rock shaman verse from Patti Smith (or not at all), or your psychedelic extravagance from countless Nuggets bands. As dead 1960s rockers go, Jimi's legacy has left Janis and Jim in the dust. It may be a strange way to put it, but the problem with the Doors is that they were not efficient.
Rhino has reissued all four sets from their gig at the Felt Forum in January 1970, right before the release of Morrison Hotel-- and still in the shadow of Morrison's drunken, obnoxious, and allegedly obscene performance in Miami, which threatened him with jail time. Many tracks from these shows have been released before, but on this box you can listen to them bootleg-style, with all the repeated songs, tuning breaks, and banter with the audience.
The Live in New York set sounds like an unedited performance, but in fact, the tapes had been so worked-over for other live albums that the team had to meticulously reconstruct it from 8-track and 2-track source tapes, using fan tapes as reference. Guest John Sebastian's harmonica wasn't even captured in the original mix; producer Bruce Botnick brought him back to the studio this year to replay the solos, based on what they got from tape bleed. Why go to the trouble? Because this is the truth. It's what the Doors sounded like, without the heavy hand of an Oliver Stone looking for the juicy parts-- and without the impatience of the iPod generation trying to trim it down.
As you listen to the set, Morrison doesn't come off as a self-absorbed mystic: He's far more like the troubled kid in school who couldn't sit still and didn't fear anything. He demands and rewards attention. He's petulant with the audience, even barking at them or pleading to "give the singer some" when they won't stop talking.
The vibe from the crowd may explain why the fourth show starts rough: After scolding the crowd, Morrison sounds disengaged or mocking as he wanders through the first few songs. But then he suddenly rewards the audience with a rare performance of his rock suite/poetry slam, "Celebration of the Lizard". The piece isn't exactly a lost classic-- it's not his most powerful verse, and musically it doesn't gel like "The End"-- but the best thing about this recording is how into it Morrison gets, from the quiet couplets to the screams. It's easy to see how people fell in love with the poet no matter the poetry, although some of his verse is still dangerous: The "Horse Latitudes" poem that he interjects in "Moonlight Drive" boasts his strongest imagery, and the contrast between that and the seaside groove is still striking.
The rest of the band is here to support the star, and it never lets him down: The Doors were a loose, groovy, and ferocious combo, here playing a setlist that sticks to rock and blues and skips all the winsome and folky stuff that cluttered up Waiting for the Sun and The Soft Parade. Organist Ray Manzarek played the hooks that turned songs like "Hello, I Love You" into pop hits, but here he's focused on driving the rhythm section. Even his legendary solo on "Light My Fire" changes in concert from a melodic improvisation to a jam that climaxes in frustration, as you can hear him stabbing the keys with all ten fingers and wishing he had another ten besides. On the other hand, guitarist Robby Krieger is ferocious right from the riff of "Roadhouse Blues", and he makes their cover of Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love" one of the best recordings the Doors ever made.
History hates this band for its excess, but so what? The Doors thrived on excess. When Morrison gears up the crowd with his groin and his ego and roars, "gonna have a re-al, good time," no excess, no overdose, no scream is big enough for the good time he's got in mind. And that's the way to remember him.
