The Unabridged Poe Sparrow

Do I dare attempt to define the emotions/reactions of my seventeen year old self, in the context of that time period/situation, from my present forty-six year old's perspective? You may relate to the result... or dismiss it entirely.  

But for what it's worth, the following account is what the fragments of my memory have pieced together. This is what I "saw"...  

The eagarly anticipated event was originally booked for St Louis' Kiel Auditorium (as reported by sources available to Greg Shaw, in his book "The Doors on the Road"). However, I vaguely recall the last minute cancellation. News of the November 7 "riot in Phoenix, sparked by Jim Morrison's indecent behavior and leading to his near-arrest" prompted our city officials to rescue St Louis' youth from his "evil influences". But somehow *snicker*, the gig was instead quietly shuffled to our relatively small hockey stadium, "The Arena".  

The confusion, lack of promotion, plus a substantial snowstorm left a puzzled and pissed-off Jim Morrison to face a partially filled set-up of folding chairs occupied by only the most determined Doors fans. I believe the term Jim muttered was "fuckin' ol' barn". Then, he proceeded to get as drunk as humanly possible...  

Aside from saturating my psyche into blissful oblivion with the songs off their first three vinyl LPs, my pre-concert exposure to the band's mystique and reputation consisted of scuttlebutt gleaned from varied, but conflicting input. Exactly one year prior, on November 9, 1967, a "rough around the edges" magazine called Rolling Stone presented its premier issue. Harder to come by locally, were the underground publications such as Village Voice and the LA Free Press. Brand new on the scene was FM radio, daring to air entire uninterrupted albums and cuts exceeding the two to three minute AM radio limit! And finally, there was mainstream media: Censored, sugar coated non-cable TV (Ed Sullivan...*cackle*), newspapers, and "glossy mags" (Look, Life, etc.)  

So I had weathered a week of the latest Vietnam bodycount and the election of Richard Nixon (who replaced our "peace signs" with his two-handed, underhanded "double Vs"). I had experienced Jimi Hendrix... A mini-blizzard was a "piece o' cake", baby!  

But was I ever unprepared for The Doors...  
  

Much of my memory of this period in time has been blotted by a number of factors, but some images remain sharp and vivid. The bottom line here: I WAS AGHAST!  

In spite of a wide center aisle leading directly to Jim, I was glued to my seat, in awe... Was this guy really saying and doing what my senses perceived?? He alternately stared at and ignored the audience, mumbling incoherently, his mouth pressed against the mic. His half-hearted attempts to sing came in fits and starts, like a shattered mosaic... interspersed with long intervals of busying himself with some curiously undefinable activities. The latter gradually drew me from my seat-- A veritable moth to flame. I had sleepwalked into the aisle, it seemed, and some brave souls were venturing toward the stage with cameras. Aha! I realized my hands still clutched my wimpy Kodak Instamatic...  

I snapped a few pics from a "safe" distance, then stood motionless, transfixed by the unobstructed view of Mr Morrison's antics. Overall, he was almost comically disheveled, his white guaze shirt halfway tucked in, belt slightly askew, and his out of kilter movements and animalistic noises were unexpectedly subdued.  

The atmosphere was tense, a discordant jangle of expressed and repressed emotion volleying between audience and band. And, most noticably-- between band members. A contest of wills raged on an eerie psychodramatic battlefield. A continuous, yet subtle provocation threaded throughout the delirium, and the organ served as a sinister backdrop, its relentlessness punctuating "something" too dangerous to be unleashed...  

My feet carried me closer. I had come to the concert alone, therefore slipping easily into the role of passive observer, absorbing the interaction of the band...  

Robby clearly wanted to be somewhere else-- ANYWHERE else! He looked downright tearful, his back to the audience much of the time, mournfully shaking his head and shrugging in response to John... Yes, John was an undeniably angry man, beating the sheer Unholy Hell out of his drums. And glaring... I caught his hard flat stare, and quickly looked away.  

Meanwhile, Jimmy was steadily withdrawing into his own realm, liberally soaked in alcohol, slurring and swaying precariously, his eyes closed... A chorus of giggles and guffaws amidst shouts and jeers accompanied his obviously romantic infatuation with an inanimate object-- My face flushed as a burly guy in the front row bellowed that his five bucks should be refunded "if all Morrison's gonna do is hump the mic stand".  

The sequence of events is hazy, but at some point Jimmy abandoned both mic stand and concert, plopping himself onto the edge of the stage, his face hidden in his hands...  

I believe this occurred during the "Light My Fire" solo, which inevitably brings me to my feelings concerning Ray... I reserve judgement on his possible past or present intentions to manipulate/exploit Jim. Right or wrong, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of forming any strong conclusions. Each time I picture him at that concert, ambivalence overwhelms. I simply don't know...  

I had no specific opinions about Ray before the concert, and was quite intrigued with his demeanor. I didn't detect even the minutest sign of reproach, disdain, or ridicule toward Jimmy, and he appeared so cool and unfettered by a situation teetering on all-out mutiny. His aloofly professional, but deeply moving performance mesmerized the audience, quelled the hostility, and reduced me to tears. I was stunned to find myself approaching the stage...  
  

A sudden irresistable force was pulling me toward Jimmy... He sat, shoulders slumped, elbows on his knees, holding his head. My fingers encircled my camera nervously, as I stopped about three feet in front of him. Perspiration dripped from his hair...beading like crystal marbles, trickling across the leather surface of his pants. Slowly, he raised his head... And I forgot about my camera--  

I was looking into the face of an utterly exhausted , bewildered man/child. My first impulse was a desire to cradle his weary head, to soothe... The moment his eyes focused on mine is frozen in eternity. Soft and vulnerable, etching pain straight through to my cortex. I still don't need the photograph.  

Then he changed, undergoing a transmutation so swift it sent me reeling backward. He smiled, mouthing words I couldn't hear-- Lost in the wall of sound. But, it's just as well... Because Jimmy was gone. And in his place was The Lizard King.  

I remember a wave of shock, of backing up FAST, unable to avert my eyes... The rest of the concert is a complete and total blank. I have no memory of returning home.  

Ironically, the only other St Louis Doors concert was again scheduled at Kiel (for June 13, 1969), but subsequently cancelled in the wake of the "Miami debaucle". The Arena failed to take pity on us die-hard Doors fans a second time...  

Approximately two years ago, the "fuckin' ol' barn" was retired in favor of a glitzy new stadium. And just yesterday, a local newscast reported plans to demolish the historical landmark in June. The Arena awaits its execution, broken and dilapidated... perhaps sighing with relief. Hmmmm... I feel the urge to walk the three blocks from my home one day soon. Maybe, I can repectfully dislodge a loose brick...