J D OHN ENSMORE “Here, John [Densmore] shares his keen insights into those hallowed times—the labyrinth of rock in the sixties—and does so with an unbridled frankness and a sincere respect for the truth.” —Bill Graham “A must read for anyone interested in Morrison, the Doors, and the chaotic rock scene of the late 60’s.” —Variety “[RIDERS ON THE STORM] is a rarity in the world of rock writing: an insider’s account written without the help of a ghostwriter.” —Boston Herald “Densmore’s sometimes prosaic, but refreshingly candid, recollections seem driven by an intense, almost obsessive need for catharsis…. With no small gift for irony and detail, Densmore recollects the Doors’s formative years.” —The Washington Post “The book reveals never-before-published details of [Densmore’s] love/hate relationship with Morrison.” —Goodtimes magazine “RIDERS ON THE STORM is a deeply moving, even haunting personal memoir. Thoughtful and passionate …” —Philadelphia City Paper “Indispensable for fans of one of rock music’s most flamboyant and controversial groups.” —Publishers Weekly “A searing confession.” —Detroit Free Press “RIDERS ON THE STORM is invaluable first-person testimony, and not just about the Doors.” —Musician “Densmore’s fascinating and deeply personal account is also one of the better books written about rock music’s peaks and pitfalls.” —South Bend Tribune To John Lennon who inspired me to put my personal life on the line ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I want to thank Bob Miller from Delacorte Press for believing in my writing very early on, and finally buying the book and editing it with care. I could tell that it wasn’t just a job. Thanks to Bernie Schwartz for early encouragement and editing. Finally, hugs to Leslie Neale for all the support, and thanks to Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek, Sam Joseph, Michael Ventura, Danny Sugerman, Amy Ephron, Abe Somer, Bill Siddons, Debbie Berman, Paul Rothchild, Bruce Botnick, Leslie Werner, Lanette Phillipson, and Robert Bly. And beneath the weight of this project, I wish to thank those whom I have carelessly omitted. Finally, I want to thank all the fans, old and new, who have responded to my venture into a new avenue of creativity: the printed word. It has inspired me to continue. There would be no book without Phil Cousineau. His help with the structure, editing, and writing was invaluable. Not to mention his friendship, guidance, and work as benevolent taskmaster. PREFACE It seems that whoever met Jim Morrison walked away with a different impression: Southern gentleman, prick, poet, brute, charmer, etc. I lived with Jim for six years on the road and in the recording studio. This book is my truth. It may not be the whole truth, but it is the way I saw it. From the drum stool. CONTENTS 1 BREAK ON THROUGH 2 WILD CHILD 3 MOONLIGHT DRIVE 4 SOUL KITCHEN 5 LIGHT MY FIRE 6 WHISKEY BAR 7 CRYSTAL SHIP 8 TWENTIETH-CENTURY FOX 9 STRANGE DAYS 10 ROADHOUSE BLUES 11 TELL ALL THE PEOPLE 12 WAITING FOR THE SUN 13 ABSOLUTELY LIVE 14 SHAMAN’S BLUES 15 TOUCH ME 16 PEOPLE ARE STRANGE 17 THE MORRISON HOTEL 18 L.A. WOMAN 19 THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER 20 THE END 21 RIDERS ON THE STORM 22 WHEN THE MUSIC’S OVER AFTERWORD BREAK ON THROUGH Paris, 1975 It smelled like rain. I had hoped it would storm. Then we wouldn’t have had to see his grave. My heartbeat was increasing. I looked over at Robby, Danny, and Hervé in the car as we approached the cemetery. They all seemed to be nervously anticipating what was to come. The high thick walls looked ominous, as if they protected something ancient and mysterious inside. As we rounded the entrance, a Chaplin-like gendarme waddled up to us and asked where we were headed. “Do you know where Jim Morrison’s grave is?” I asked with trepidation. “Ah, mais oui,” he answered in a thick accent. “Monsieur Morrison’s grave is up that cobblestone lane. The graffiti will guide you there. It was removed recently, but as you will see, plenty more has been added. So don’t contribute, d’accord?” “D’accord.” Let’s get this over with, I mumbled to myself as we walked past his guardhouse. The lane got steeper and steeper as we ascended past moss-covered gravestones. A cold, damp mist began to surround us. Several mangy cats scurried across our path into dark holes that were graves. Besides many famous European corpses, Père Lachaise Cemetery is home to hundreds of stray felines. Strange that a good ole boy from Florida is there. Jim would’ve liked the company, though. Have to wonder if he didn’t plan it that way. The massive, baroque markers along the cemetery road led the way to Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Edith Piaf, and Chopin. And then the graffiti: “Morrison—this way,” carved into a tombstone probably over a hundred years old; then, painted crudely over one old ornate marker after another: “Acid Rules,” “This Is Not The End,” “Jim Was a Junkie.” As the desecration got more and more outrageous, I sensed that the gravesite was getting nearer. “Over here,” Hervé, the French journalist, said wearily. He was standing behind some large granite crypts. We shuffled along the side of the lane, then began to climb over several tumbledown stones to a small rectangle of cement in the ground. I stared at it incredulously. This is it? I cried to myself. This is the end of the Electric Shaman, the Acid King, Oedipus Rex himself? Shit. Merde. I looked over at Danny Sugerman and my eyes welled up with tears. My stomach knotted, my legs began to itch with the old maddening rash. I wanted to run away. “Do you understand now?” I said to Danny under my breath. He nodded, then turned to me. “My God, I had no idea,” he said, noticing my grief, as if for the first time. “Of course not. You weren’t in the band. You were the publicist,” I snapped, feeling a need to lash out. Robby straggled alongside, quiet as ever, keeping a lid on his feelings, as usual. Our guitarist was introverted, but he was my best friend. “How could he fit in there?” I asked, feeling slightly ludicrous. “He was six feet tall—wasn’t he?” Maybe it’s true, I thought. Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe he is in Africa trying to live out one more myth. First Dionysus, then Nietzsche, then Rimbaud? Wait a minute. He’s dead, you asshole. You watched him destroy himself, I hissed at myself as I stared at the grave. And you didn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t do anything about it. You saw it coming for years, but … Nietzsche killed Jim Morrison, I had once said rather melodramatically to some startled friends in Berkeley. Morrison the Superman, the Dionysian madman, the Birth of Tragedy himself. But who knows who or what killed him? God knows, a million people have come to me hoping I had the answer. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and sighed with deep despair. This is a beautiful place to be buried, Jim, but your plot seems so small and cold and dirty and—unworthy. All our lives we sweat and save Building for a shallow grave Must be something else we say Somehow to defend this place. “The Soft Parade,” remember, Jim? The gravesite was silent. Defiantly silent. I felt the cold rain creeping down my neck. Chills. Hervé and Robby milled around nervously. A young rock-’n’- roll pilgrim nearby strummed a Doors song on his guitar in homage. On his backpack was a Doors sticker. There’s no escape.