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The secret to the band’s success is of course their unique approach: they didn’t have a steady bass player – even though there usually was one when they recorded their albums (in this case: Danny Labahn) and from the get-go onwards came up with an hereto unheard blend of blues, pop, jazz, Eastern influences and even classical. All this was possible because of their different backgrounds, as organist Manzarek was classically trained, guitar player Robbie Krieger a blues fanatic and drummer John Densmore a jazz buff who accidentally wound up in a rock band. Then, there’s Jim Morrison, and no matter how fake his attitude might seem today, it’s undeniable that he was a superb vocalist with a commanding baritone he used to sing, whisper, cajole and growl (which he did with style). While they’re famous because of their epics (“The End,”
“Riders on the Storm,” “L.A. Woman”) there’s actually not much
jamming going on here, as the majority of these songs don’t even pass
the three minute-mark. “Break on Through,” the album’s first single,
for instance, clocks in at a concise 2:25, and what a great 145 seconds it
is, from the jazz-accented intro to Morrison’s ferocious hollering and
Krieger’s greasy guitar tone, it’s one of the year’s best singles
(and there were quite a lot of goodies). However, it was the second single
“Light My Fire” that broke the band, and while I actually prefer the
first to the second, this extended album version of the latter (more
soloing, baby) might be better at stressing the band’s unique
acid-drenched testosterone rock. Nowadays, Manzarek’s organ sounds
completely dated, but I can imagine that the Sunset Strip boys
totally loved that never-ending, mantra-like kind of stuff. The album
contains a bunch of excellent tracks, several of which are finished by
Morrison’s fine vocals. “The Crystal Ship,” for instance, isn’t
that interesting when only listening to the music, but it gets its charms
from the drugged vocal delivery. Likewise, the best part of “Twentieth
Century Fox” -aside from Krieger’s short but thrilling solo – comes
when Morrison rhythmically delivers lines such as “She - won’t - waste
- time - on e-le-men-try – ta-halk.” The album also includes a first
attempt at straight blues – Willie Dixon’s “Back Door Man” – and
the result is a simple, struttin’ rendition that has “SEX” all over
it. Even more than Mick Jagger, Morrison employed a degree of sleaze and
vulgarity to make his point, and it works brilliantly here. Playing the blues is something they’d actually return to when they ran out of silly ideas. It’s no surprise then that their bluesiest album would become their most consistent one. But in the meantime, there are a few excellent rockers as well: the fine “Soul Kitchen,” with its restrained verses and rocking chorus would be covered by X a dozen years later, whereas tracks like “I Looked at You” and “Take It As It Comes” – though not nearly as unique as the highlights – are fine in their conformity. In fact, I only have a (several) bone to pick with the album’s “creepy” moments: “End of the Night” (inspired by L.F. Celine’s Voyage au Bout de la Nuit? Probably) is nothing special (and that eerie slide guitar doesn't help much either), and then there’s the lauded final, “The End.” I can’t stand that song anymore |
The
Doors were a talented group of musicians, able to merge the most unlikely
influences thinkable at the time, but they ran out of ideas quickly, not
in the least because vocalist Jim Morison’s theatrical, self-obsessed
and tortured poet-mystique became erratic
really fast. That’s one interpretation. Others claim that The Doors were
perhaps the ultimate chroniclers of late ‘60’s pop culture and
counterculture, the first band to successfully unveil the childish
optimism of the ‘Summer of Love’ nonsense, and pioneers of rock’s
darker impulses as channelled through multi-faceted music and literary
musings that owed as much to French symbolism as they did to psychology
and 19th century European philosophy (Schopenhauer, Nietzsche). Well, of
course it’s true that a lot of Morrison’s shtick was nothing
but a pose (has there been any art school student who hasn’t
been infatuated by Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Nietzsche and Kafka at one point
on his/her journey to maturity?), and that a lot
of his lyrics basically evolved around his “adolescent exhibitionism”
and were a slight version of his heroes’ art (is it surprising they
copped their name from Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception,
Huxley being a prophet of mind-expanding exploration?), but you gotta give
him that he had few predecessors in the rock business. There had been a
lot of poetry volume-waving beatniks around, but they were mainly
interested in cool clubs and jazz, so Morrison’s dark vision and
controversial attitude certainly were something awkward at the time
(it’s telling that Love’s Arthur Lee allegedly had to beg Elektra
chief Holzman to check them out).
