apolla: (Smiler)
So far I've posted a variety of dead people's music... and a lil' bit of living people.

There is one Dead Musician who is notable by his absence so far. Today that ends.

I'm going to ask you all to do me a favour: Forget everything you know - or think you know - about The Doors. Forget all the bullshit 'legends' because first, foremost and forever, the Doors were a blues band. Sure, they did some weird things with them, but the Blues were their thing. That's why LA Woman is their greatest achievement...

Anyway, today's track is Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love?" as performed by the Doors in Vancouver, 6 June 1970 with blues guitar giant Albert King guesting.



I love that they open with a Bo Diddley lick too, because that's one of my favourite sounds in the world. I love "Who Do You Love?" as a track anyway - the Band's version of it in the Last Waltz, Dion's version recently, and of course the original.

What I love about this particular track though, is that I feel it's proof that behind all the hype and legend and Lizard King bullshit, There's this searing King slide guitar - I am an absolute sucker for slide guitar and it is not a coincidence that the three guitarists I love the most were all slide-eriffic (George Harrison, Rory Gallagher, Robby Krieger) - but the rest too. I once wrote that Ray Manzarek's organ sound was "if the River Styx had a soundtrack" because of how unearthly and deathly I always felt from it, and it works for this. I'm not sure a real bass wouldn't sound better, but that's all part of the Doors' weird charm. I love the way drawing the riffs out becomes a hypnotic loop one can really feel... or I can, anyway. But I love the jams on All Things Must Pass so I'm designed that way. I love Jim's howling and screaming because I can feel that he feels the music and is just going with it. (This is where talking about teh Doors starts to sound dickish so I won't continue)...

I know The Doors aren't for everyone and I've a good idea as to why. I even agree with some of the anti-Doors arguments. But I love them, and I love them playing the blues like the good little white middle class boys they were.

And for me no matter where I go, or what I discover, it always comes back to Jim.

Forty Years.....

Sunday, 3 July 2011 15:13
apolla: (Smiler)

Forty years.

I can't really compute it, if I'm honest. I feel like I should be utterly bereft, but I'm not. I mean, Jim Morrison is dead. As of today, he's been dead forty years. That's a middle-aged person ago. I've been a fan long enough that I remember the thirtieth anniversary, and how I felt then. Utterly shite, basically. I probably cried. Hell, I'm almost certain I cried. There were riots in Paris on his twentieth anniversary. The consistently dreadful behaviour of 'fans' nearly got him kicked out of Pere-Lachaise, but I can't imagine today will be all that much of a deal. The rabble-rousers got old and are probably spending their Sundays in garden centres or outlet malls.

As is so often the case, this will be as much about me as Jim. It's the only way I can connect to him, after all. Forty years... I outlived him a couple of years ago, you know. It tore me apart for a few days (or possibly months, or maybe it still does) but I just about got over it. Maybe he's the world's oldest twenty-seven year old and I never quite have to outlive him.

It's not easy being a Doors fan. I think I know at least a little how ELO fans feel when they're met with smirks of derision when they announce that they are, in fact, ELO fans. ELO fans don't even have the advantage of having someone who looks like Jim Morrison out front. Anyway, my point is that a lot of people who have some knowledge of popular culture have a particular view on 'who' Doors fans are. Doors fans are, the generalisation goes, whiny-angsty students who sit in darkened rooms burning incense, or they are pitiful people who wear Jim-like clothes and spout pseudo-Rimbaudian crap. Well, I've done a lot of angsting in darkened rooms but incense gives me a headache and I've never got down with Rimbaud particularly. The worst thing that can be said about Doors fans, or Doorzoids as more than one critic put it, is that they have no sense of perspective: Jim is greatest at everything and nobody else ever did anything nearly as good as he did. Jim is beyond criticism and everyone should live a life like Jim. They are blindly-worshipping followers like those morons in Life of Brian who just repeat everything back to him. Have you heard that girl on the live recording who agrees with everything Jim says, even when he turns on a sixpence and says the opposite of what he'd just said?

In fact, I was at Glastonbury last weekend in the mud-n-sun, and one of the people I was there with told me he spent a portion of his youth trying to be like Jim. I'm paraphrasing, but he said with the weariness of someone who has come out the other side of a troubling obsession: “I acted like a complete twat.”

I myself have spent the last ten or so years battling between using Jim as a Life Lesson and just plain following him down the troubling road to The Mythical Edge (nothing to do with U2). I have never wanted to be Jim, but I have come close to swan-diving off The Mythical Edge to find him. It is no credit to me but I have sat alone, emptying a bottle and calling to the sky for him. He has never come, of course.

He's just that kind of guy, really. A lot of people have probably died trying to be like Jim, just as a lot of people have died trying to be like Keith Richards. I don't know if this is a good or bad thing, or maybe it just is. The shame of it is that Jim was always more than just a Hellraising Rock Star. He was incredibly well-read, thoughtful and determined to do more than just basic three-minute love songs. In fact, there's not a single Doors song you could call a straightforward love song. Seriously, find me one.

The Doors have always been both under- and over-rated. While their advocates will never cease listing their strengths and moments of brilliance, they remain on the outskirts of the Rock Pantheon, outsiders even now. Their work is too arty/pretentious, the great songs too long to get much radio play. They exist in a pre-video world so there's not much to show on TV. They're not for the Normal People. I once blogged, a long time ago, how I would not be a Doors fan if I had been beautiful, or popular. The Doors belong to us weirdos and freaks, so they never quite fit into the stereotypical view of the 1960s. Indeed, while everyone in 1967 was all Peace And Love, the Doors were doing The End. See also Love, who like their Elektra stablemates, took psychedelic music and skewed it. This is the dark side of the sun, man, and it doesn't quite fit. Jim makes it into those endless lists of rock stars and stuff because he is seen as a stereotypical rock star. And don't you believe for a second that he didn't encourage it... but it wasn't all he was.

He was more than just the smirking, shirt-allergic Adonis of legend. Seriously man, he was. I'm not a Doors fan because Jim was 'cute' and I've never had a crush on him. All-consuming obsession sure, but not a crush. He was, is, and ever will be, more than that. He is my hero, and I won't ever apologise for it. He was a writer of generally good and occasionally great music. He was more than the punchline to a fucking joke.

I have never wanted to follow him blindly, although maybe sometimes I have. I've seen and oftentimes agreed with criticisms of him, and his work. He did skirt the line between arty and pretentious and sometimes he fell right over it to become mired in self-important wankery. I pity the fools who turned up late to some shows and missed the support act (a small time group called Led Zeppelin) and got instead an incoherent drunken ramble from headliner Jim. You don't have to tell me what a dick he could be: I've read pretty much everything there is to read, and I know. He's still my hero, both because and in spite of his great weaknesses. He's still the guy who gave us 'The End' and 'The Unknown Soldier' and 'Five to One' and 'The Soft Parade'. Sure, he's also the 'genius' behind 'Horse Latitudes', which I don't think was intended as a comedy, but “mute nostril agony” is hilarious. The Doors gave us some practically perfect slices of late-60s rock music: 'Love Me Two Times', 'Love Her Madly', 'Break on Through' and freak anthem 'People Are Strange'. They gave us some extraordinary bits of art-rock too: the seventeen minute, epic 'Celebration of The Lizard', aurally bizarre 'L'America' and the achingly beautiful 'The Crystal Ship'.

Have I mentioned Jim's fantastic, brutal, beautiful voice? Well I should. He could croon like Sinatra but he could also yell and scream with the best of 'em. His voice is like his legend: alternately seductive and violent, alluring and grotesque. Who else could scream at you to WAKE UP and then take you on a journey like that in a Doors concert? For me, Jim's power is not in his face, but in his voice.

A few weeks back, I listened to LA Woman all the way through. Then I did so twice more. The Doors is a great record and the five that follow all have tremendous moments, but LA Woman is an unquestionably remarkable record. Jim's voice is already ravaged, but it's perfect for some dark, terrible blues. 'Been Down So Long' has been my own personal theme tune for years. There's not a duff song anywhere on the record, although 'Riders on the Storm' has always veered dangerously towards cocktail lounge music for my liking – I think it's Ray's organ sound – but it's still a good song. If they'd been able to follow that up, the Doors would likely have regained the ground lost by the Jim's Cock trial.

More woulda-could-shoulda there. I have my dreams of what they and he could've achieved if he'd lived. Some of them are barely even cloud cuckoo land, some of them really are as entrenched in reality as possible. None of them will come true, so I should just put them away. He is dead, after all.

In death, we can take Jim as we need him. I needed a hero to cling onto who would not disappoint me. Even in death, he's managed to do so from time to time, but he's still the guy who turned down car commercials. It's likely that had he lived, he would've sold out as thoroughly as any of the others, but he didn't live to do so, and remains more or less unsullied. He didn't ever make peace with authority and even now remains dangerous, in his way, to society as it currently is. I needed him to be that person, unapologetic for himself. I needed him to be someone I could admire precisely because he never did fit in.

Mind you, seeing Doors CDs being sold in Starbucks took some serious rationalising. It's pretty good in some ways that Himself is dead – I can just blame it all on Father Ray, Robby & John.

Right now, I'm sat in Starbucks on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I'm drinking an iced latte, I'm dressed in a bright yellow sundress and I would honestly describe myself as 'cheerful'. Except for the small detail that Jim Morrison is dead. And you know what? He's been dead for such a long bloody time that it's simply how it is. Of course I'm sad, but if you think I'm going to let this drag me down for my entire damn life, you're more delusional than I am. I am, finally, just about resigned to it.

For the rest of my life and beyond it, I will always believe that a world without Jim in it is worse than one with him in it. I will always believe that he would've become a mighty figure... but I'm not going to shed any tears over it today. He's already had enough of them from me. He would've been a magnificent sight to behold and his work would've been more than just the occasional hint of brilliance, but it didn't happen and until I get my time machine, that's how it's staying.

Today in the sunshine, the shadows are out of sight and it turns out we could survive without him. Jaysus, that should break my heart – but it doesn't. Into the sunshine, indeed.

Forty Years.....

Sunday, 3 July 2011 15:13
apolla: (Smiler)

Forty years.

I can't really compute it, if I'm honest. I feel like I should be utterly bereft, but I'm not. I mean, Jim Morrison is dead. As of today, he's been dead forty years. That's a middle-aged person ago. I've been a fan long enough that I remember the thirtieth anniversary, and how I felt then. Utterly shite, basically. I probably cried. Hell, I'm almost certain I cried. There were riots in Paris on his twentieth anniversary. The consistently dreadful behaviour of 'fans' nearly got him kicked out of Pere-Lachaise, but I can't imagine today will be all that much of a deal. The rabble-rousers got old and are probably spending their Sundays in garden centres or outlet malls.

As is so often the case, this will be as much about me as Jim. It's the only way I can connect to him, after all. Forty years... I outlived him a couple of years ago, you know. It tore me apart for a few days (or possibly months, or maybe it still does) but I just about got over it. Maybe he's the world's oldest twenty-seven year old and I never quite have to outlive him.

It's not easy being a Doors fan. I think I know at least a little how ELO fans feel when they're met with smirks of derision when they announce that they are, in fact, ELO fans. ELO fans don't even have the advantage of having someone who looks like Jim Morrison out front. Anyway, my point is that a lot of people who have some knowledge of popular culture have a particular view on 'who' Doors fans are. Doors fans are, the generalisation goes, whiny-angsty students who sit in darkened rooms burning incense, or they are pitiful people who wear Jim-like clothes and spout pseudo-Rimbaudian crap. Well, I've done a lot of angsting in darkened rooms but incense gives me a headache and I've never got down with Rimbaud particularly. The worst thing that can be said about Doors fans, or Doorzoids as more than one critic put it, is that they have no sense of perspective: Jim is greatest at everything and nobody else ever did anything nearly as good as he did. Jim is beyond criticism and everyone should live a life like Jim. They are blindly-worshipping followers like those morons in Life of Brian who just repeat everything back to him. Have you heard that girl on the live recording who agrees with everything Jim says, even when he turns on a sixpence and says the opposite of what he'd just said?

In fact, I was at Glastonbury last weekend in the mud-n-sun, and one of the people I was there with told me he spent a portion of his youth trying to be like Jim. I'm paraphrasing, but he said with the weariness of someone who has come out the other side of a troubling obsession: “I acted like a complete twat.”

I myself have spent the last ten or so years battling between using Jim as a Life Lesson and just plain following him down the troubling road to The Mythical Edge (nothing to do with U2). I have never wanted to be Jim, but I have come close to swan-diving off The Mythical Edge to find him. It is no credit to me but I have sat alone, emptying a bottle and calling to the sky for him. He has never come, of course.

He's just that kind of guy, really. A lot of people have probably died trying to be like Jim, just as a lot of people have died trying to be like Keith Richards. I don't know if this is a good or bad thing, or maybe it just is. The shame of it is that Jim was always more than just a Hellraising Rock Star. He was incredibly well-read, thoughtful and determined to do more than just basic three-minute love songs. In fact, there's not a single Doors song you could call a straightforward love song. Seriously, find me one.

The Doors have always been both under- and over-rated. While their advocates will never cease listing their strengths and moments of brilliance, they remain on the outskirts of the Rock Pantheon, outsiders even now. Their work is too arty/pretentious, the great songs too long to get much radio play. They exist in a pre-video world so there's not much to show on TV. They're not for the Normal People. I once blogged, a long time ago, how I would not be a Doors fan if I had been beautiful, or popular. The Doors belong to us weirdos and freaks, so they never quite fit into the stereotypical view of the 1960s. Indeed, while everyone in 1967 was all Peace And Love, the Doors were doing The End. See also Love, who like their Elektra stablemates, took psychedelic music and skewed it. This is the dark side of the sun, man, and it doesn't quite fit. Jim makes it into those endless lists of rock stars and stuff because he is seen as a stereotypical rock star. And don't you believe for a second that he didn't encourage it... but it wasn't all he was.

He was more than just the smirking, shirt-allergic Adonis of legend. Seriously man, he was. I'm not a Doors fan because Jim was 'cute' and I've never had a crush on him. All-consuming obsession sure, but not a crush. He was, is, and ever will be, more than that. He is my hero, and I won't ever apologise for it. He was a writer of generally good and occasionally great music. He was more than the punchline to a fucking joke.

I have never wanted to follow him blindly, although maybe sometimes I have. I've seen and oftentimes agreed with criticisms of him, and his work. He did skirt the line between arty and pretentious and sometimes he fell right over it to become mired in self-important wankery. I pity the fools who turned up late to some shows and missed the support act (a small time group called Led Zeppelin) and got instead an incoherent drunken ramble from headliner Jim. You don't have to tell me what a dick he could be: I've read pretty much everything there is to read, and I know. He's still my hero, both because and in spite of his great weaknesses. He's still the guy who gave us 'The End' and 'The Unknown Soldier' and 'Five to One' and 'The Soft Parade'. Sure, he's also the 'genius' behind 'Horse Latitudes', which I don't think was intended as a comedy, but “mute nostril agony” is hilarious. The Doors gave us some practically perfect slices of late-60s rock music: 'Love Me Two Times', 'Love Her Madly', 'Break on Through' and freak anthem 'People Are Strange'. They gave us some extraordinary bits of art-rock too: the seventeen minute, epic 'Celebration of The Lizard', aurally bizarre 'L'America' and the achingly beautiful 'The Crystal Ship'.

Have I mentioned Jim's fantastic, brutal, beautiful voice? Well I should. He could croon like Sinatra but he could also yell and scream with the best of 'em. His voice is like his legend: alternately seductive and violent, alluring and grotesque. Who else could scream at you to WAKE UP and then take you on a journey like that in a Doors concert? For me, Jim's power is not in his face, but in his voice.

A few weeks back, I listened to LA Woman all the way through. Then I did so twice more. The Doors is a great record and the five that follow all have tremendous moments, but LA Woman is an unquestionably remarkable record. Jim's voice is already ravaged, but it's perfect for some dark, terrible blues. 'Been Down So Long' has been my own personal theme tune for years. There's not a duff song anywhere on the record, although 'Riders on the Storm' has always veered dangerously towards cocktail lounge music for my liking – I think it's Ray's organ sound – but it's still a good song. If they'd been able to follow that up, the Doors would likely have regained the ground lost by the Jim's Cock trial.

More woulda-could-shoulda there. I have my dreams of what they and he could've achieved if he'd lived. Some of them are barely even cloud cuckoo land, some of them really are as entrenched in reality as possible. None of them will come true, so I should just put them away. He is dead, after all.

In death, we can take Jim as we need him. I needed a hero to cling onto who would not disappoint me. Even in death, he's managed to do so from time to time, but he's still the guy who turned down car commercials. It's likely that had he lived, he would've sold out as thoroughly as any of the others, but he didn't live to do so, and remains more or less unsullied. He didn't ever make peace with authority and even now remains dangerous, in his way, to society as it currently is. I needed him to be that person, unapologetic for himself. I needed him to be someone I could admire precisely because he never did fit in.

Mind you, seeing Doors CDs being sold in Starbucks took some serious rationalising. It's pretty good in some ways that Himself is dead – I can just blame it all on Father Ray, Robby & John.

Right now, I'm sat in Starbucks on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I'm drinking an iced latte, I'm dressed in a bright yellow sundress and I would honestly describe myself as 'cheerful'. Except for the small detail that Jim Morrison is dead. And you know what? He's been dead for such a long bloody time that it's simply how it is. Of course I'm sad, but if you think I'm going to let this drag me down for my entire damn life, you're more delusional than I am. I am, finally, just about resigned to it.

For the rest of my life and beyond it, I will always believe that a world without Jim in it is worse than one with him in it. I will always believe that he would've become a mighty figure... but I'm not going to shed any tears over it today. He's already had enough of them from me. He would've been a magnificent sight to behold and his work would've been more than just the occasional hint of brilliance, but it didn't happen and until I get my time machine, that's how it's staying.

Today in the sunshine, the shadows are out of sight and it turns out we could survive without him. Jaysus, that should break my heart – but it doesn't. Into the sunshine, indeed.

apolla: (Jimmy M)
I'm an hour late, I guess, but I just saw this link:

What would Jim Morrison look like if he was alive today?

Now, to me, the picture just looks like someone went crazy with the blurring button on Photoshop, but what do I know? I can't believe that actual scientists have done this and have been given, like, real money for it.

It, of course, cued up lots of JIM MORRISON WAS A DRUNKEN EGOMANIACAL BASTARD stuff over on ONTD and lots of OMG SO SEXY!!!! in return. Some of it turned into HE WAS A TALENTLESS DRUNKEN EGOMANIACAL BASTARD (this after someone invoked the other man of the day, John Lennon and it had to be amended) and some turned into 'no way, he'd look way worse' and stuff.

Someone else posted a link of some apparently psychotic Doorzoid who is so crazy it's ruined the Doors for this other person. I didn't dare click.

There was a lot of 'I'd be a supergroupie fer sure!!!" and even some stuff along the lines of "Just as well he's dead then".

I am filled with quiet and resigned bitterness. I should be asleep right now, but no, I'm not and it's 1am. I'm off to see Seasick Steve in Bethnal Green this coming evening. Seasick Steve is two years older than Jim would be and has only become a 'name' in the last few years. He's also a very sweet, kind man of the sort who will give you a hug and make you feel immediately relaxed in his company. This I know from personal experience (and was better than Shakin' Stevens telling me to smile. Sod off, Shaky).

I just really really wish that Jim had lived, not even for selfish reasons. I wish he'd lived to prove his naysayers wrong, that he wasn't a talentless wanker (really, I don't believe he was) and that he was capable of such great things as we can't even conceive of now. I wish he'd been there to fight his battles and make his arguments.

I also wish that this June just passed, I had been backstage at the Pyramid and instead of sidling a little nervously up to Steve to say "Man, you're great!" and getting a hug from him... I wish it had been Jim. I wish the Doors had some kind of fantastic gig and I'd had to knock nervously on the door, hands shaking, to do my job and then just to say "I really loved your set." If all he did was breathe in and out and completely disregard my presence, I actually think that would be OK: if he lived, that would be enough for me. Unusually, I don't think this has ever really been about me... huh.

Or of course, he would've lived to expose himself (narf narf) as a total wanker. In which case I wouldn't care anyway.

Happy birthday, you old bastard. Give Lennon a nod from me too.

apolla: (Jimmy M)
I'm an hour late, I guess, but I just saw this link:

What would Jim Morrison look like if he was alive today?

Now, to me, the picture just looks like someone went crazy with the blurring button on Photoshop, but what do I know? I can't believe that actual scientists have done this and have been given, like, real money for it.

It, of course, cued up lots of JIM MORRISON WAS A DRUNKEN EGOMANIACAL BASTARD stuff over on ONTD and lots of OMG SO SEXY!!!! in return. Some of it turned into HE WAS A TALENTLESS DRUNKEN EGOMANIACAL BASTARD (this after someone invoked the other man of the day, John Lennon and it had to be amended) and some turned into 'no way, he'd look way worse' and stuff.

Someone else posted a link of some apparently psychotic Doorzoid who is so crazy it's ruined the Doors for this other person. I didn't dare click.

There was a lot of 'I'd be a supergroupie fer sure!!!" and even some stuff along the lines of "Just as well he's dead then".

I am filled with quiet and resigned bitterness. I should be asleep right now, but no, I'm not and it's 1am. I'm off to see Seasick Steve in Bethnal Green this coming evening. Seasick Steve is two years older than Jim would be and has only become a 'name' in the last few years. He's also a very sweet, kind man of the sort who will give you a hug and make you feel immediately relaxed in his company. This I know from personal experience (and was better than Shakin' Stevens telling me to smile. Sod off, Shaky).

I just really really wish that Jim had lived, not even for selfish reasons. I wish he'd lived to prove his naysayers wrong, that he wasn't a talentless wanker (really, I don't believe he was) and that he was capable of such great things as we can't even conceive of now. I wish he'd been there to fight his battles and make his arguments.

I also wish that this June just passed, I had been backstage at the Pyramid and instead of sidling a little nervously up to Steve to say "Man, you're great!" and getting a hug from him... I wish it had been Jim. I wish the Doors had some kind of fantastic gig and I'd had to knock nervously on the door, hands shaking, to do my job and then just to say "I really loved your set." If all he did was breathe in and out and completely disregard my presence, I actually think that would be OK: if he lived, that would be enough for me. Unusually, I don't think this has ever really been about me... huh.

Or of course, he would've lived to expose himself (narf narf) as a total wanker. In which case I wouldn't care anyway.

Happy birthday, you old bastard. Give Lennon a nod from me too.

apolla: (Default)
First things first:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4-7 sentences on your LJ along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest (unless it's too troublesome to reach and is really heavy. Then go back to step 1).
My books are all over the place at the moment due to decoration, so I went to them and held a hand out for the nearest. I ended up picking up two:

From The Celtic Book Of Living And Dying:

"One day, the bards of Ireland realized that they had forgotten the Tain Bo Cuailgne, the poem about the great cattle raid which pitted the men of Ulster against the men of Connacht. The saints of Ireland join with the poets to ask for God's help. So he revived one of the ancient heroes, who one last time recited the adventures of the men of Ulster, the fight betwen two magic bulls, the deeds of Cuhulainn and the wiles of Queen Maeve of Connacht."

From Philip Lynott, which is a collection of Philo's lyrics and poems and doesn't go as far as page 123:

"Don't believe me if I tell you
Not a word of this is true
Don't believe me if I tell you
Especially if I tell you that
I'm in love with you.

Don't believe me if I tell you
That I wrote this song for you
There might be some other, silly pretty girl
I'm singing it too [sic]

Don't believe a word
For words are only spoken
Your heart is like a promise
Made to be broken

Don't believe a word
Words can tell lies
And lies are no comfort
When there's tears in your eyes.

Don't believe me if I tell you
Not a word of this is true
Don't believe me if I tell you
Especially if I tell you
I'm in love with you."

and just because I can, from 'Fighting My Way Back':

"I'm tough, rough, ready and able
To pick myself up from under this table
Don't stick no sign on me
I got no label
I'm a little sick, unsure, unsound and unstable
But I'm fighting my way back

I'm busting out and I'm going in
Im' kickin up about the state I'm in
Looking to my future, not my pas
I want to be a good boy but how long can it last
Fighting my way back

This kid is going to wreck and ruin
I'm not quite sure of what I'm doing, you see
It all happened a little too soon
But it's all here in this here tune
Fighting my way back"

This surely proves that lying to oneself is a far great, deadlier crime than lying to everyone else. If only.... never mind.

Other Items of Disinterest:

The Doors are on the cover of Classic Rock this month. Last time the Old Bastard graced a magazine cover, the stupid fools at the magazine had used a black and white photo and added blue eyes for effect. Which is perfectly fine, but for one minor detail:

His eyes were brown.

I haven't read the entire article (OMG new interviews with Manzarek, Krieger, Densmore and Botnick, they say!) but I anticipate it being much the same as ever- Father Ray bigs up the Morrison Legend while trying to appear like he isn't, Krieger just doesn't disagree and Drummer John is rather more scathing about the whole thing. In fact, so far, the word 'normal' has been invoked so many times that clearly the current Doors trend is to Paint Jim, Normal.

Please. The man was normal like I'm normal. Which is you know, not all that much, but still more normal than people assumed. He was an chronically shy alcoholic and taker of many drugs (quantity and variety both). He was actually a total Cuddly Uncle Ned's Trio at his worst and a genius at his best. I wish they'd stop trying to analyse him, as if working out the root of Jimmy's problems is what would bring him back.

Nothing brings him back. If dreams could do it, if wishes could do it, if shouting, screaming and sobbing could do it, I'd be drinking tea with the Old Bastard about, oh say, now-ish.

There's nothing to be done. Nothing, that is, that doesn't involve high-level witchcraft, satanism or heavenly bribery. So let's stop trying to understand that which cannot be understood. I have learned one thing more than anything else in my study: The more you learn about Jim Morrison, the more you realise you don't know him at all.

*
Snoreworthy decorating stuff:

I now have carpet in the front room. In fact, both the front room and the bedroom are painted, they're newly carpeted and shiny white Venetian blinds are coming to be fitted very soon.

Very soon, it'll all be sorted out, and it will seem as if Granddad was never here. The chair will go soon, to Uncle Fred who needs a funky electric chair far more than me. A new sofa will come along, then my desk will come in and I'll get a chair for that. I'll get a new wardrobe and stuff....

And it'll be as if Granddad was never here. My dad even broke something off the mirror when he was moving it, so he wants me to chuck that out (regardless of whether it can be fixed, I haven't looked yet). That mirror's been in the hallway as long as I can remember through the course of my life. This morning I stared right at the wall to see if I'd brushed my hair. It took me much longer than it should've done to realise it was wall, not myself.

I don't have to be told that this place was in desperately dire need of redecorating - I'm the one that's been living here for nearly two years. I don't have to be told that this is my home now, because I've been here on my own since February. But see the thing is, I have no particular desire to erase everything from the place that was his. See, I like old things, everyone knows this, so why am I being told to 'go modern' and all that nonsense?

This place isn't really Clare's, it's Granddad's, you see. It's been Granddad's for twenty-five years, and five months does not change that. Another twenty-five years might not change that. Perhaps the new paint and the new stuff don't really make a difference at all, but one of these days I'm going to look around, and it won't bear any resemblance to the place he knew, or I knew.
apolla: (Default)
First things first:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4-7 sentences on your LJ along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest (unless it's too troublesome to reach and is really heavy. Then go back to step 1).
My books are all over the place at the moment due to decoration, so I went to them and held a hand out for the nearest. I ended up picking up two:

From The Celtic Book Of Living And Dying:

"One day, the bards of Ireland realized that they had forgotten the Tain Bo Cuailgne, the poem about the great cattle raid which pitted the men of Ulster against the men of Connacht. The saints of Ireland join with the poets to ask for God's help. So he revived one of the ancient heroes, who one last time recited the adventures of the men of Ulster, the fight betwen two magic bulls, the deeds of Cuhulainn and the wiles of Queen Maeve of Connacht."

From Philip Lynott, which is a collection of Philo's lyrics and poems and doesn't go as far as page 123:

"Don't believe me if I tell you
Not a word of this is true
Don't believe me if I tell you
Especially if I tell you that
I'm in love with you.

Don't believe me if I tell you
That I wrote this song for you
There might be some other, silly pretty girl
I'm singing it too [sic]

Don't believe a word
For words are only spoken
Your heart is like a promise
Made to be broken

Don't believe a word
Words can tell lies
And lies are no comfort
When there's tears in your eyes.

Don't believe me if I tell you
Not a word of this is true
Don't believe me if I tell you
Especially if I tell you
I'm in love with you."

and just because I can, from 'Fighting My Way Back':

"I'm tough, rough, ready and able
To pick myself up from under this table
Don't stick no sign on me
I got no label
I'm a little sick, unsure, unsound and unstable
But I'm fighting my way back

I'm busting out and I'm going in
Im' kickin up about the state I'm in
Looking to my future, not my pas
I want to be a good boy but how long can it last
Fighting my way back

This kid is going to wreck and ruin
I'm not quite sure of what I'm doing, you see
It all happened a little too soon
But it's all here in this here tune
Fighting my way back"

This surely proves that lying to oneself is a far great, deadlier crime than lying to everyone else. If only.... never mind.

Other Items of Disinterest:

The Doors are on the cover of Classic Rock this month. Last time the Old Bastard graced a magazine cover, the stupid fools at the magazine had used a black and white photo and added blue eyes for effect. Which is perfectly fine, but for one minor detail:

His eyes were brown.

I haven't read the entire article (OMG new interviews with Manzarek, Krieger, Densmore and Botnick, they say!) but I anticipate it being much the same as ever- Father Ray bigs up the Morrison Legend while trying to appear like he isn't, Krieger just doesn't disagree and Drummer John is rather more scathing about the whole thing. In fact, so far, the word 'normal' has been invoked so many times that clearly the current Doors trend is to Paint Jim, Normal.

Please. The man was normal like I'm normal. Which is you know, not all that much, but still more normal than people assumed. He was an chronically shy alcoholic and taker of many drugs (quantity and variety both). He was actually a total Cuddly Uncle Ned's Trio at his worst and a genius at his best. I wish they'd stop trying to analyse him, as if working out the root of Jimmy's problems is what would bring him back.

Nothing brings him back. If dreams could do it, if wishes could do it, if shouting, screaming and sobbing could do it, I'd be drinking tea with the Old Bastard about, oh say, now-ish.

There's nothing to be done. Nothing, that is, that doesn't involve high-level witchcraft, satanism or heavenly bribery. So let's stop trying to understand that which cannot be understood. I have learned one thing more than anything else in my study: The more you learn about Jim Morrison, the more you realise you don't know him at all.

*
Snoreworthy decorating stuff:

I now have carpet in the front room. In fact, both the front room and the bedroom are painted, they're newly carpeted and shiny white Venetian blinds are coming to be fitted very soon.

Very soon, it'll all be sorted out, and it will seem as if Granddad was never here. The chair will go soon, to Uncle Fred who needs a funky electric chair far more than me. A new sofa will come along, then my desk will come in and I'll get a chair for that. I'll get a new wardrobe and stuff....

And it'll be as if Granddad was never here. My dad even broke something off the mirror when he was moving it, so he wants me to chuck that out (regardless of whether it can be fixed, I haven't looked yet). That mirror's been in the hallway as long as I can remember through the course of my life. This morning I stared right at the wall to see if I'd brushed my hair. It took me much longer than it should've done to realise it was wall, not myself.

I don't have to be told that this place was in desperately dire need of redecorating - I'm the one that's been living here for nearly two years. I don't have to be told that this is my home now, because I've been here on my own since February. But see the thing is, I have no particular desire to erase everything from the place that was his. See, I like old things, everyone knows this, so why am I being told to 'go modern' and all that nonsense?

This place isn't really Clare's, it's Granddad's, you see. It's been Granddad's for twenty-five years, and five months does not change that. Another twenty-five years might not change that. Perhaps the new paint and the new stuff don't really make a difference at all, but one of these days I'm going to look around, and it won't bear any resemblance to the place he knew, or I knew.
apolla: (Percy)

I realised something quite important today. I am not currently fixated on any one musician or musical group.

Not a one.

I searched back, but could hardly remember the last time such a thing happened. I've been listening to Julie London a fair bit the last week or so, but while I'd willingly be her when/if I grow up, it's not the same as listening to the same song six times over because you like the chord change at 1:23.

I had this particular realisation while listening to The Doors, who are mightily pissing me off at the moment, and for once it's not the singer's fault. Yes, there's another Doors compilation out, this time with yet more unheard bonus tracks which you can't get singly on iTunes. Well, a handful you can, but a lot of the stuff actual fans would want is 'album only', which is code for the company screwing the fans again. Remind me to show you the piechart of who gets what in the 79p per track (clue: between 7-11p is for the people who actually created the music) one of these days.

So, I'm walking along, cursing the names Manzarek and Krieger (Densmore's banking his cheques I'm sure, but as someone who was not in the Doors For the 21st Century/Riders on the Storm, I'll give him a break)... and I realise that I've got my iPod on shuffle because I'm flitting between everything like a moth with ADHD. None of the artists whose music is on my iPod has my attention sufficiently these days.

Now, normal people would say this is because I'm entering society as a more rounded human being, but they'd be wrong. Some would say it's because I have actual real life stuff going on and I'm concentrating on that, but they'd only be half right. The Inner Circle would point out that I probably can't concentrate on Rudolph Valentino and anything else at the same time They'd be a bit right.

Fact is, this obsession thing, for me at least , is pretty cyclical. Dunno about anyone else, but I can't sustain it at Defcon Whatever's The Highest forever. Years, certainly, but not forever, especially if like me, you're dealing with discographies that don't get added to, with artists who cannot create new and interesting things because they're, you know, dead. Even I can only listen to Jailbreak so many times before needing something else. Even I can only endure The End all the way through so many times. I haven't abandoned them, but they've been put aside.

This would be OK, but nothing's replacing them. In the wake of Thin Lizzy, there were The Small Faces and Humble Pie for awhile, about a year ago; there was the George Harrison Renaissance. There was even a time when I was hardly listening to anything but Mario Lanza. Now? Nothing. I listened to nowt but The Planxty Collection at work today, but I'm not sure if they're a band I can fall in love with, much as I like and respect the music.

Where does this leave me? Am I capable of being interesting, or even existing successfully, without someone there in my head to latch onto? Perhaps this ridiculous Valentino thing will be enough, perhaps it won't, given that the man was tone deaf and left only one recording of the Kashmiri Love Song. I need the music, you see, and without it...

I'm self-honest enough to know and accept that I define myself, my character, by what music I like, what music I listen to. I do the same to other people, which is why I find it important to know what they like (theory being that Robbie Williams fans should be treated with caution and Phil Collins ones with near-contempt, of course). I define myself by the music, and if there's no music, what's left?

apolla: (Percy)

I realised something quite important today. I am not currently fixated on any one musician or musical group.

Not a one.

I searched back, but could hardly remember the last time such a thing happened. I've been listening to Julie London a fair bit the last week or so, but while I'd willingly be her when/if I grow up, it's not the same as listening to the same song six times over because you like the chord change at 1:23.

I had this particular realisation while listening to The Doors, who are mightily pissing me off at the moment, and for once it's not the singer's fault. Yes, there's another Doors compilation out, this time with yet more unheard bonus tracks which you can't get singly on iTunes. Well, a handful you can, but a lot of the stuff actual fans would want is 'album only', which is code for the company screwing the fans again. Remind me to show you the piechart of who gets what in the 79p per track (clue: between 7-11p is for the people who actually created the music) one of these days.

So, I'm walking along, cursing the names Manzarek and Krieger (Densmore's banking his cheques I'm sure, but as someone who was not in the Doors For the 21st Century/Riders on the Storm, I'll give him a break)... and I realise that I've got my iPod on shuffle because I'm flitting between everything like a moth with ADHD. None of the artists whose music is on my iPod has my attention sufficiently these days.

Now, normal people would say this is because I'm entering society as a more rounded human being, but they'd be wrong. Some would say it's because I have actual real life stuff going on and I'm concentrating on that, but they'd only be half right. The Inner Circle would point out that I probably can't concentrate on Rudolph Valentino and anything else at the same time They'd be a bit right.

Fact is, this obsession thing, for me at least , is pretty cyclical. Dunno about anyone else, but I can't sustain it at Defcon Whatever's The Highest forever. Years, certainly, but not forever, especially if like me, you're dealing with discographies that don't get added to, with artists who cannot create new and interesting things because they're, you know, dead. Even I can only listen to Jailbreak so many times before needing something else. Even I can only endure The End all the way through so many times. I haven't abandoned them, but they've been put aside.

This would be OK, but nothing's replacing them. In the wake of Thin Lizzy, there were The Small Faces and Humble Pie for awhile, about a year ago; there was the George Harrison Renaissance. There was even a time when I was hardly listening to anything but Mario Lanza. Now? Nothing. I listened to nowt but The Planxty Collection at work today, but I'm not sure if they're a band I can fall in love with, much as I like and respect the music.

Where does this leave me? Am I capable of being interesting, or even existing successfully, without someone there in my head to latch onto? Perhaps this ridiculous Valentino thing will be enough, perhaps it won't, given that the man was tone deaf and left only one recording of the Kashmiri Love Song. I need the music, you see, and without it...

I'm self-honest enough to know and accept that I define myself, my character, by what music I like, what music I listen to. I do the same to other people, which is why I find it important to know what they like (theory being that Robbie Williams fans should be treated with caution and Phil Collins ones with near-contempt, of course). I define myself by the music, and if there's no music, what's left?

apolla: (OTP)
Heather Mills really will do anything, won't she? Even if her accusations (including that Paul beat Linda) are true... wouldn't it have been best to keep it in the courtroom and not everywhere else?

Still, he wouldn't be the only Beatle to have suffered from a giant ego or beaten his wife. He has taken all manner of drugs and quite openly said so. He does drink, sometimes to excess. He does surround himself with people too willing to do exactly what he wants. Still, I find it hard to believe his children would adore him so much if he'd beaten their mother. I don't know. I hope that it's all false- I'd rather believe her a mental fantasist than reconcile myself to another of my heroes being a total cunt. Mind you, he'd be in populous company.

Anyway, I scribbled this a few weeks ago and thought I'd share it with you:



apolla: (OTP)
Heather Mills really will do anything, won't she? Even if her accusations (including that Paul beat Linda) are true... wouldn't it have been best to keep it in the courtroom and not everywhere else?

Still, he wouldn't be the only Beatle to have suffered from a giant ego or beaten his wife. He has taken all manner of drugs and quite openly said so. He does drink, sometimes to excess. He does surround himself with people too willing to do exactly what he wants. Still, I find it hard to believe his children would adore him so much if he'd beaten their mother. I don't know. I hope that it's all false- I'd rather believe her a mental fantasist than reconcile myself to another of my heroes being a total cunt. Mind you, he'd be in populous company.

Anyway, I scribbled this a few weeks ago and thought I'd share it with you:



apolla: (Default)
So, I'm watching The Doors: Soundstage Performances, which is just a bunch of their TV appearances (not Ed Sullivan) cobbled together with preludes of the Three Remaining and the now-late Danny Sugerman yammering on about it.

If any fuckwitted moron tries to tell me the beard made him unsexy or unhandsome, I'll have words. Being an overweight drunk made him unattractive, but the beard did not. You cannot always have your beauty giftwrapped for you, morons.

If any fuckwitted moron tries to tell me that he was just a drunken twat, I will refer them to any interview or remarks he ever made. He was an alcoholic with a penchant for trying anything that came his way (including once, chloroform), but he wasn't stupid. He was incredibly clever, erudite and thoughtful and I will beat the marrow out of your bones until you concede this point.

Hearing him talk about electronic music, knowing that in his writings (such as they are) he basically predicted reality TV, I would like to suggest we investigate the old fucker's potential for the job title 'prophet'. I'm just saying.

I'm so unused to seeing him move and talk and stuff. I've always taken him first as the voice on the record, second as the still photograph, third as the spectre on my shoulder and only fourthly as a filmed phenomenon. It's strange and yet familiar to see him do his Indian-esque dancing around, to see his lips move, his face emote and in all ways a living breathing man.

Lastly, I shall apologise to Danny Sugerman again: I have over the years been too harsh on you. I don't doubt your true love for the Doors' music, and it's probably thanks to you that anyone still cares about it... but did you have to make such ludicrous remarks as "It's my personal opinion that Jim Morrison was a god?" This sort of thing only makes both of you look like tits. Still, I hope your space in Heaven is cosy and you've seen our boy. Give him my regards, for we both loved him.
apolla: (Default)
So, I'm watching The Doors: Soundstage Performances, which is just a bunch of their TV appearances (not Ed Sullivan) cobbled together with preludes of the Three Remaining and the now-late Danny Sugerman yammering on about it.

If any fuckwitted moron tries to tell me the beard made him unsexy or unhandsome, I'll have words. Being an overweight drunk made him unattractive, but the beard did not. You cannot always have your beauty giftwrapped for you, morons.

If any fuckwitted moron tries to tell me that he was just a drunken twat, I will refer them to any interview or remarks he ever made. He was an alcoholic with a penchant for trying anything that came his way (including once, chloroform), but he wasn't stupid. He was incredibly clever, erudite and thoughtful and I will beat the marrow out of your bones until you concede this point.

Hearing him talk about electronic music, knowing that in his writings (such as they are) he basically predicted reality TV, I would like to suggest we investigate the old fucker's potential for the job title 'prophet'. I'm just saying.

I'm so unused to seeing him move and talk and stuff. I've always taken him first as the voice on the record, second as the still photograph, third as the spectre on my shoulder and only fourthly as a filmed phenomenon. It's strange and yet familiar to see him do his Indian-esque dancing around, to see his lips move, his face emote and in all ways a living breathing man.

Lastly, I shall apologise to Danny Sugerman again: I have over the years been too harsh on you. I don't doubt your true love for the Doors' music, and it's probably thanks to you that anyone still cares about it... but did you have to make such ludicrous remarks as "It's my personal opinion that Jim Morrison was a god?" This sort of thing only makes both of you look like tits. Still, I hope your space in Heaven is cosy and you've seen our boy. Give him my regards, for we both loved him.
apolla: (Default)

You know how I ranted about the article the other day that called Pamela Courson Jim Morrison's 'late wife'?

Well, I wasn't about to let it lie easily, so I found the correct page on BBC News Online to point out mistakes. I wrote the following:

In the article referring to the Doors losing the right to the name, you say that Pamela Courson was Jim Morrison's wife. She was not. They were not married, although she claimed to be his wife in the wake of his death. Jim Morrison did not get married to anyone in his lifetime- the closest he came was a pagan ceremony to an entirely different redheaded woman.
Clare Worley, UK

I got an email (mostly automated, but whatever) today to say thisL

Thanks for spotting that mistake, it's much appreciated.

Best wishes
BBC News website




AND if you go to the page now, it says 'late girlfriend'. OMG, the BBC NOTICED AND DID WHAT I TOLD THEM TO! MY LICENCE FEE JUST MADE SENSE!

*skips away happily*

apolla: (Default)

You know how I ranted about the article the other day that called Pamela Courson Jim Morrison's 'late wife'?

Well, I wasn't about to let it lie easily, so I found the correct page on BBC News Online to point out mistakes. I wrote the following:

In the article referring to the Doors losing the right to the name, you say that Pamela Courson was Jim Morrison's wife. She was not. They were not married, although she claimed to be his wife in the wake of his death. Jim Morrison did not get married to anyone in his lifetime- the closest he came was a pagan ceremony to an entirely different redheaded woman.
Clare Worley, UK

I got an email (mostly automated, but whatever) today to say thisL

Thanks for spotting that mistake, it's much appreciated.

Best wishes
BBC News website




AND if you go to the page now, it says 'late girlfriend'. OMG, the BBC NOTICED AND DID WHAT I TOLD THEM TO! MY LICENCE FEE JUST MADE SENSE!

*skips away happily*

3rd July 2005

Sunday, 3 July 2005 17:28
apolla: (Default)

I have nothing to say about Live 8 that hasn't already been said except that in my great need to avoid RobbiefuckingWilliams, who seemed to be under the impression people were there for him, I missed The Who. I'm told Roger remains Dorian Gray-like in his ability to stay looking forever young. I'm fairly positive that Live 8 will change absolutely fuck all, because rock and roll cannot save the world. Rock and roll cannot even save itself. Which brings me so neatly to the point of this post.

Thirty-four years ago today, Jim Morrison gave up.

You Can Probably Guess Parts Of What Comes Next )

3rd July 2005

Sunday, 3 July 2005 17:28
apolla: (Default)

I have nothing to say about Live 8 that hasn't already been said except that in my great need to avoid RobbiefuckingWilliams, who seemed to be under the impression people were there for him, I missed The Who. I'm told Roger remains Dorian Gray-like in his ability to stay looking forever young. I'm fairly positive that Live 8 will change absolutely fuck all, because rock and roll cannot save the world. Rock and roll cannot even save itself. Which brings me so neatly to the point of this post.

Thirty-four years ago today, Jim Morrison gave up.

You Can Probably Guess Parts Of What Comes Next )

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