Essay
Brian Ahnmark
People don’t know shit about The Doors.
Is it weird that I celebrate the birthday of a dead rock star with an annual listening party?
December 8, 2009 marked the 11th anniversary of my unhealthy worship of The Doors. It would’ve been Jim Morrison’s 66th birthday, an occasion I celebrate each year by listening to the six Doors studio records in sequence.
Truly, my obsession traces back to middle school, an age ripe for such songs of discord and agitation. The Doors were the first band I truly loved, and the only band I feel compelled to defend to the death.
I know what you’re thinking. The Doors were overrated – a sentiment that greets me every damn time I discuss my allegiance. Which begs the question: How could they be overrated if everyone on God’s Green Earth loathes them? Whenever I talk about The Doors, I am met with one of two responses: the aforementioned vitriol, or the classic “I love The Doors! ‘Light My Fire’… and… that ‘Riders’ song… and… and…” To me, both of these sentiments are flawed in the same way.
People don’t know shit about The Doors.
God, this band was so much more than the lazy public’s short-term memory allows. An unquestionably original sound, rooted in keyboard rather than guitar; sinister baritone vocals in place of banshee wailing; classical guitar texture instead of rhythmic strumming or showy leads; unrivaled theatrics on stage; some of the great underrated albums ever released. I cringe every time I see The Doors’ self-titled debut listed as their best, recorded before the band had really learned to play their instruments. Further, that record sounds like it was put to wax in a Miller Lite can.
Instead, I embrace the taut musicianship of Strange Days, released just six months later. I pine for the completed vision of Waiting for the Sun, which was to have included a poetry/music epic entitled “Celebration of the Lizard” that I believe would have cemented the band’s status among rock elite. I accept the valley of The Doors’ middle records as a set-up for the greatest comeback in rock history, in the form of Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman.
Today, The Doors routinely get cast aside in discussions of rock royalty simply based on the merit (or demerit, more appropriately) of Morrison’s reputation for antics. That drunken buffoonery is what you read in magazines – not what you hear on the records, and not what happened on stage. Detractors of The Doors unfailingly ignore the band’s catalogue of music, which is ultimately the sole lasting legacy of an artist.
Once you look beyond the wretched sonics of the first album and the classic rock radio staples, Doors records showcase an unparalleled range and depth. To hell with “Break On Through” or “Love Her Madly.” Listen to the sizzling guitar leads of “My Eyes Have Seen You.” Soak up the horrific imagery and solo trade-offs of “Not to Touch the Earth.” Feel the pulse of the menacing snare rolls in “Wild Child” or the funk of “Peace Frog” or the chilling prediction of blues death in “Cars Hiss By My Window.”
That prolific creative output never ceases to amaze me, especially when put into perspective. The Doors released one bona fide classic (according to critics), delivered three far superior records, obliterated the AM radio time barrier with a seven-minute single, endured a mid-career drought and a nationwide stage ban, all while engaging in a constant tug-of-war with a drunk/temperamental/insane lead singer who was simultaneously their greatest strength and weakness.
In four years. Four years.
Today, bands idle for that long between records. Out of curiosity, what have you done in the past four years?
At least when Morrison died/disappeared in 1971, he offered the olive branch of immortality. Unlike virtually all of their contemporaries – past or present – The Doors sealed their incendiary career with an exclamation mark in the form of the monumental recording effort, L.A. Woman. It’s a harrowing contradiction, the gleeful vigor of a band rediscovering its passion underneath the ravaged voice of a 27-year-old near-corpse, throat shredded unrecognizable by alcohol and abuse, cracking throughout, perilously teetering on the verge of collapse.
A microcosm of the man, a microcosm of the band, a microcosm of how I wish I lived my life.
December 8, 2009 marked the 11th anniversary of my unhealthy worship of The Doors. It would’ve been Jim Morrison’s 66th birthday, an occasion I celebrate each year by listening to the six Doors studio records in sequence.
Truly, my obsession traces back to middle school, an age ripe for such songs of discord and agitation. The Doors were the first band I truly loved, and the only band I feel compelled to defend to the death.
I know what you’re thinking. The Doors were overrated – a sentiment that greets me every damn time I discuss my allegiance. Which begs the question: How could they be overrated if everyone on God’s Green Earth loathes them? Whenever I talk about The Doors, I am met with one of two responses: the aforementioned vitriol, or the classic “I love The Doors! ‘Light My Fire’… and… that ‘Riders’ song… and… and…” To me, both of these sentiments are flawed in the same way.
People don’t know shit about The Doors.
God, this band was so much more than the lazy public’s short-term memory allows. An unquestionably original sound, rooted in keyboard rather than guitar; sinister baritone vocals in place of banshee wailing; classical guitar texture instead of rhythmic strumming or showy leads; unrivaled theatrics on stage; some of the great underrated albums ever released. I cringe every time I see The Doors’ self-titled debut listed as their best, recorded before the band had really learned to play their instruments. Further, that record sounds like it was put to wax in a Miller Lite can.
Instead, I embrace the taut musicianship of Strange Days, released just six months later. I pine for the completed vision of Waiting for the Sun, which was to have included a poetry/music epic entitled “Celebration of the Lizard” that I believe would have cemented the band’s status among rock elite. I accept the valley of The Doors’ middle records as a set-up for the greatest comeback in rock history, in the form of Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman.
Today, The Doors routinely get cast aside in discussions of rock royalty simply based on the merit (or demerit, more appropriately) of Morrison’s reputation for antics. That drunken buffoonery is what you read in magazines – not what you hear on the records, and not what happened on stage. Detractors of The Doors unfailingly ignore the band’s catalogue of music, which is ultimately the sole lasting legacy of an artist.
Once you look beyond the wretched sonics of the first album and the classic rock radio staples, Doors records showcase an unparalleled range and depth. To hell with “Break On Through” or “Love Her Madly.” Listen to the sizzling guitar leads of “My Eyes Have Seen You.” Soak up the horrific imagery and solo trade-offs of “Not to Touch the Earth.” Feel the pulse of the menacing snare rolls in “Wild Child” or the funk of “Peace Frog” or the chilling prediction of blues death in “Cars Hiss By My Window.”
That prolific creative output never ceases to amaze me, especially when put into perspective. The Doors released one bona fide classic (according to critics), delivered three far superior records, obliterated the AM radio time barrier with a seven-minute single, endured a mid-career drought and a nationwide stage ban, all while engaging in a constant tug-of-war with a drunk/temperamental/insane lead singer who was simultaneously their greatest strength and weakness.
In four years. Four years.
Today, bands idle for that long between records. Out of curiosity, what have you done in the past four years?
At least when Morrison died/disappeared in 1971, he offered the olive branch of immortality. Unlike virtually all of their contemporaries – past or present – The Doors sealed their incendiary career with an exclamation mark in the form of the monumental recording effort, L.A. Woman. It’s a harrowing contradiction, the gleeful vigor of a band rediscovering its passion underneath the ravaged voice of a 27-year-old near-corpse, throat shredded unrecognizable by alcohol and abuse, cracking throughout, perilously teetering on the verge of collapse.
A microcosm of the man, a microcosm of the band, a microcosm of how I wish I lived my life.
