Riders on the Storm: My Life with Jim Morrison and the Doors

314 Pages·2016·4.24 MB·English

by  Densmore J.

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.