Now before anyone jumps on me for “not listening” to ol’ Jimbo like they did on my previous entry for Bruce Spanksteen, let me just say that I own all of the Doors’ original catalogue with Morrison. So I am an authority of my opinion on this write up. Now I know you’re going to say, “But why do you own all those albums if you don’t like Jim Morrison?” The answer is simple: I started my Doors collection with L.A. Woman, which I still think is a great album, and then later on when I was looking for something to spend my free CD credits on over at BMG, I got the rest. Well lemme just say that apart from Morrison Hotel, which is something I would give 4 stars to, I fucking hate the rest of this band’s catalogue and Jim Morrison.
Seriously, you couldn’t have picked a better moron to play Morrison than Val Kilmer. The two are pretty much alike in their mediocrity. Kilmer with his “I’m a real actor” chops (Top Secret remains his best thing ever), and Morrison with his “I’m a real poet” narcissism go together like a penis and vagina. But this is about Jimbo, and I think we can all agree that the guy was just a raving drunk who thought he was a real artiste and just got lucky ’cause so much of that crap coming out of Ca-li-for-ni-ay at the time was selling (no thanks to The Beatles and Sgt. Pepper for making those damn dirty hippies think they could make interesting music as well). It’s just like Kurt Cobain (whom I’m sure I’ll get to in a future installment). Right place, right time, made enough of an impression at the time, but as time drags on, maybe not as incredibly significant musically as everyone thought.
There are moments on the Doors’ debut which are okay. “Twentieth Century Fox” is as fucking retardedly cock stroking as James got right out of the gate. “Light My Fire” is much better in its edited single version. “Break On Through” is groovy enough. But there is no excuse for a song as so bombastically turd-ridden as “The End.” But you know, that stinker still resonates witht he kids who rediscover The Doors. “Man, that is such a dark song, man!” Mmmhmm. Sorry, but The Velvet Underground were doing the scary death trip/sex thing much more convincingly and much darker. But of course they didn’t have a swingin’ groovy cat sound that the radi ostations wanted to play. And no one would ever accuse Lou Reed of being a sex god, although his forays into kinkdom on “Some Kinda Love” from the VU’s third album are exquisitely tasty. But the VU were of the street. The Doors and Morrison were of the psychedelics.
Which is exactly what mars so much of their work. “Moonlight Drive” is the best thing from Strange Days. That’s more than can be said for Waiting for the Sun which only ripped off The Kinks on “Hello, I Love You” and exposed Morrison as the flaccid moron he really was, and dipped its toes into sub-mediocrity with the yawnsville “Not To Touch The Earth,” and tried to seem relevant on “The Unknown Soldier” that only came off as clueless hippie prancing and then closed it all off by trying to be tough on “Five To One.” Ecchh.
Still, nothing could prepare anyone for the fog of shit that is The Soft Parade. By this point, Morrison was so out of it that he was only in the band to make his paycheck. His ego shot through the ceiling and his brain frazzled with whatever fucking shaman-inspired bullshit opiates he could get his grubby little hands on. “Touch Me” is nothing but Las Vegas, giving Elvis his earliest clues at to where to go when you finally know you suck. “Runnin’ Blue” proved that Bob Dylan really could sing, because Robbie Krieger’s impersonation of him positively blows. And that title track? Pure puke in a punch bowl, people.
After that, Jimbo boozed it up and got to the crux of the matter by embracing himself as the alcoholic he always was and burning out hard enough to put out a couple good albums. The psychedelic bullshit is pretty much toast for Morrison Hotel, and I like the riff from “Peace Frog” as much as anyone else. And then there’s L.A. Woman with its great title track and funkier excursions (though “L’America” is one last stab at “poetry” gone horribly wrong; “The Wasp” actually doesn’t embarrass itself and works). But hey, don’t miss out on some pompous live Doors shit, now. In Concert is the one you’ll want, as it collects the albums Absolutely Live, Live At The Hollywood Bowl, and Alive, She Cried (what a dumb fucking title) into one mess. Enjoy the even “darker” version of “The End” with Jim bitching at the crew to turn the lights down for the first couple of minutes! Thrill to him yelling “It’s getting harrrrrrrrrrd!” and trying to orgasm on another forgettable track (is it “Gloria” or “Little Red Rooster”; Either way, it’s stupid as hell).
If Jim had just come out of the gates being a durnken loser wanting to sing some bluesy rock, that would have been OK. Instead, we are left with a legacy of shitty tracks by a loser who fancied himself the next Rimbaud and who continues to charm the naive youth with his “dangerous” history. Why that dear old Pam wasted so much time with Jimmy is anyone’s guess. But he died hairy and bloated in his tubby, an insignificant whimper of a fart at the start of the ’70s. And hell, the rest of the band just kept right on trucking and issued three absolutely appalling albums in the wake. No one wants to hear Ray Manzarek fucking sing. That organ was never a good lead instrument and/or sub for a bass (which is why Jerry Scheff’s bass work on L.A. Woman is so damn inviting and finally fills out the band’s sound). So to all you kiddies who worship at the altar of Jimbo, just remember, one of these days you’ll get over it. A poet genius? Nah, just a lucky drunk bastard.
