An American Poet

Jim Morrison, The Lizard King, 40 years dead today...

If there was one book that got me through adolescence semi-intact, it was Danny Sugarman's Doors bio, No One Here Gets Out Alive. Jim studied film in Southern California, met Ray Manzarek on the beach & sang 'Moonlight Drive' into the Santa Monica summer. But it was the romantic doom-mood of his music & his identification as a poet that hooked me. I mean, I kinda liked poetry but it never smacked me relevance-wise & always seemed out-of-time or faraway. Even the beats had a learned veneer that sometimes came across a little too much college-dropout affected. Jim appealed to the confusion & wide-openness, the adolescent in all of us, & Ray tugged us along towards the mysteries of adulthood with a few rolls of his keyboard.

And Jim made being a poet sexy. Not sweaty-desperate, holier-than-thou or boring. The music gave his words glory. "Keep your eyes on the road, your hand upon the wheel." "C'mon, c'mon, and touch me babe/Can't you see that I am not afraid." "Your fingers they weave minuets/Speak in secret alphabets/I light another cigarette/Learn to forget/Learn to forget." The music stretched the dimension of what words can do.

In high school there was an art class where we had to make our own t-shirt art with stencils. There was wax paper and pins and paint and stub-tipped brushes to do our work. Naturally, I brought in a cherry-red t-shirt in and went right into reproducing the Doors logo in black ink. I don't think there was anything my hand touched that I was more proud of during my whole unspectacular career in school

In 1984 I went to France with my high-school girlfriend and a friend. The French really know how to eat. They also know a lot about leisure. For these two things I overlooked their peculiar habit of treated their American brethren as the indolent, grotesque buffoons we often are. Anyway, the highlight of the trip was visiting the cemetery where Jim is buried. I laugh now at the thought of the younger version of myself, as I pricked my finger with a shard of glass or sharp rock and pressed my bloodied digit just under the eye of Jim's bust up there on the graffiti-ized pedestal. Maybe I was thinking of the song 'Peace Frog' and the lyric 'Blood is the rose of mysterious union'?

Everybody should at least once in their life drive through Los Angeles blasting "Riders On the Storm" or "Light My Fire" or "L.A. Woman" on the radio. Day or Night. Twilight's good too. With someone else might be pretty good, I've never tried it. It works pretty good by yourself.

One time long ago in my twenties I felt so crushed, the world crumbling down around me, the one thing that gave me comfort more than anything, more than friends or family, was lying prone on my apartment floor, soul-gutted & scared, and listening to the Doors' "When The Music's Over", over and over again, the lyrics "The music is your only friend/Until the end" flowing through me, soothing me. So, yeah, I don't know if music can save your life, but it did that time.

The Doors are the unofficial house band to the country of Mexico. I don't know why they love them so much over there. They still can't figure out why "The End" isn't their national anthem yet. I'm pretty sure whatever weak-sauce national anthem they have over there, the words "Ride the Snake" aren't in it.

I was never one for rock posters but I bought one once in San Diego when I was going to college (studying film, no less). Some people hang a crucifix above their bed, but not me, no, I had to have that poster of Jim Morrison from some long-ago photo session where he looks like a cat with the world his canary. The image is blown up, his naked torso and arms cut off at the edges of the poster in full Jesus Christ pose, just the words 'AN AMERICAN POET' written in bold black letters on the bottom of the poster. He doesn't look stoned, but he looked pretty immaculate. I thought Jim's sexiness would bleed down by wall and be absorbed while I slept, I guess, but it didn't work at that way. As proud as I was of my vitality-emanating yet, somehow, strangely austere b&w 'rock art' poster, that apartment bedroom never saw anything much in the way of Dionysian behavior. Okay, one time.

Last night I went with a friend to see a Doors tribute band at the Tulalip Indian Casino in Marysville. I thought it was pretty appropriate to see them at an Indian Casino on the 40th anniversary of Jim's death. They were damned better than I expected, too. Check them out if you ever have a chance. They're called The American Night and the lead singer, Nate, uncannily reanimates Jim's shed lizard skin with sonic rubies and sapphires. There's no band I can think of where anything out of their catalog, I'm like, "Yeah, that one, oh yeah, that's a good one too." It was pretty fun.

Nate is a friend of the friend I went with and came out after the show to say hi. I was a little awestruck and intimidated because the fictional/reality filter in my mind doesn't always work right and it really felt like I was hanging out with the Lizard King. Nate even seemed how I imagined Jim would be after a show, just hanging out, like a regular guy. So, needless to say, when my friend Alex suggested he get a picture with me and Nate, you know, for posterity, I couldn't do it. It was just too close to the light. Next time.

Alex did snap some fun photos, though. There's one at the top of this post. RIP Jim Morrison -- Writer/Poet/Musician/Friend