the greatest evening of my life...
I was there. I couldn't believe it. I pinched myself as the seats filled, slowly, almost languidly. We waited. Suddenly, without warning or cue, Wembley Stadium was plunged into darkness.
'Carmina Burana' smashed through eardrums as the silhouttes took their familiar places on stage. One sat behind drums, one poised and quivering over a keyboard. A third, with the neck of his guitar looking like a third arm, while the fourth stood by the microphone stand. The audience held its breath.
'Ladies and Gentlemen', the House Announcer went into cliche, obviously enjoying every instant of it, 'from Los Angeles, California.... The Doors!!'
I died. They kicked instantly into 'Roadhouse Blues'. The lights came on. The focal points were Manzarek and Krieger. The legends were a few feet away. Eight rows from stage, I trembled. The keyboard blazed away, honkytonk, blues. Ray grinned and pointed to Robbie - a 'take it away' cue. He did. The guitar screamed into the solo I'd never expected to hear played in the original. And they played on.
Ian Astbury is not Jim Morrison. The good thing is that this is a fact he is well aware of. So he doesn't engage in the futile attempt of trying to be Jim. What we saw that night was an English boy visibly thrilled beyond belief to be on stage with his idols. Yes, he did the tight trousers (not leather, mind you!). Yes, he did the yells. Yes, the jumps. Yes, the hair. But on stage, that close to The Doors, being one of them, singing Jim's words, it's inevitable. You would do the same. I know I would.
I have never felt more of a trip. Ever. As I feverishly described to friends how I felt a near religious awakening, a mad-psychedelic brightness, close to flying... they ask the same question: 'cool. what were you on?'. Totally sober, ladies and gents, totally. This was a Jimtrip, far beyond anything I'd ever even expected to experience.
They played everything, and I, at first incredulously singing along, was suddenly thrown into the proceedings with more violence than I thought myself capable of. The glasses were whipped off, and the hair bobbed furiously. When they began playing the L.A. Woman songs (they played almost the whole album), it hurt to think of the fact that this is what Jim never did on stage, that he never came back from Paris. I choked back actual sobs, but felt the drum beat through my gut in intense physical pain. A terrific hurt.
I closed my eyes and saw Jim.
I looked up and saw Jim.
I looked on stage and heard the "tortured Indian yell" when Ian wasn't even near the microphone, so I heard Him.
And He was happy.
My body moved to its own accord, without conscious input from me. It reacted to the music with crazy abandon, something I wish I was normally capable of. But it was all instinct. Mr. Mojo Risin'... my knees thudded to the floor automatically, painfully. Crawling King Snake ... somehow I could feel myself moving to the slow, grotesquely sensual rhythm.
During 'Peace Frog', I was dancing insanely through the aisles. 'Jim', a few people yelled, amused. I turned, delusionally grinned right back at them. As the music grew stronger, I found myself suddenly on corduroy-clad shoulders, moving across a sea of banging-heads towards the front of the stage. The shoulders deposited me in the front of the makeshift mosh-pit, two feet away from an encouraging Ian. I turn around for a second, and see Wembley Stadium going wild.
The ultimate Jim-wannabe dream came true:
I'm tottering, staggering, dancing (?) on a chair in the front row. Unbelievable.
Ray was sublime. He played his Bach-inspired solos, and his superelaborate Chopin-like intros. Trying banter with the audience, he wasn't cool. Or smooth. Just old and out of practice. Which was really rather endearing. A super crowd-savvy Ray would be rather disconcerting. Anyway, in the good old days, a certain other member took care of the conversation entirely by himself. But Ray played good as gold, and he played, among other things, that keyboard solo from 'Riders...' that is going to be the only piece of music playing at my funeral.
Robbie rocks. No, seriously. He is one of the best guitarists, if only in terms of versatility. Tapping, speed, acoustic, flamenco, arpeggios, solos, slurs, he did it all. The two legends were massaging each other's egos constantly on stage, and Ian was only too willing to lend a helping hand. This might have been painful had they actually deteriorated to rock dinosaurs. But they played inspiringly. And they were The Doors.
They finished with Soul Kitchen. [What else?]
The crowd cleared out in minutes.
--
Remarks were yelled across the teeming, exhausted masses:
"So how was it, man?"
"Pretty good, pretty good. Pretty neat, pretty neat."
--
Amen.
'Carmina Burana' smashed through eardrums as the silhouttes took their familiar places on stage. One sat behind drums, one poised and quivering over a keyboard. A third, with the neck of his guitar looking like a third arm, while the fourth stood by the microphone stand. The audience held its breath.
'Ladies and Gentlemen', the House Announcer went into cliche, obviously enjoying every instant of it, 'from Los Angeles, California.... The Doors!!'
I died. They kicked instantly into 'Roadhouse Blues'. The lights came on. The focal points were Manzarek and Krieger. The legends were a few feet away. Eight rows from stage, I trembled. The keyboard blazed away, honkytonk, blues. Ray grinned and pointed to Robbie - a 'take it away' cue. He did. The guitar screamed into the solo I'd never expected to hear played in the original. And they played on.
Ian Astbury is not Jim Morrison. The good thing is that this is a fact he is well aware of. So he doesn't engage in the futile attempt of trying to be Jim. What we saw that night was an English boy visibly thrilled beyond belief to be on stage with his idols. Yes, he did the tight trousers (not leather, mind you!). Yes, he did the yells. Yes, the jumps. Yes, the hair. But on stage, that close to The Doors, being one of them, singing Jim's words, it's inevitable. You would do the same. I know I would.
I have never felt more of a trip. Ever. As I feverishly described to friends how I felt a near religious awakening, a mad-psychedelic brightness, close to flying... they ask the same question: 'cool. what were you on?'. Totally sober, ladies and gents, totally. This was a Jimtrip, far beyond anything I'd ever even expected to experience.
They played everything, and I, at first incredulously singing along, was suddenly thrown into the proceedings with more violence than I thought myself capable of. The glasses were whipped off, and the hair bobbed furiously. When they began playing the L.A. Woman songs (they played almost the whole album), it hurt to think of the fact that this is what Jim never did on stage, that he never came back from Paris. I choked back actual sobs, but felt the drum beat through my gut in intense physical pain. A terrific hurt.
I closed my eyes and saw Jim.
I looked up and saw Jim.
I looked on stage and heard the "tortured Indian yell" when Ian wasn't even near the microphone, so I heard Him.
And He was happy.
My body moved to its own accord, without conscious input from me. It reacted to the music with crazy abandon, something I wish I was normally capable of. But it was all instinct. Mr. Mojo Risin'... my knees thudded to the floor automatically, painfully. Crawling King Snake ... somehow I could feel myself moving to the slow, grotesquely sensual rhythm.
During 'Peace Frog', I was dancing insanely through the aisles. 'Jim', a few people yelled, amused. I turned, delusionally grinned right back at them. As the music grew stronger, I found myself suddenly on corduroy-clad shoulders, moving across a sea of banging-heads towards the front of the stage. The shoulders deposited me in the front of the makeshift mosh-pit, two feet away from an encouraging Ian. I turn around for a second, and see Wembley Stadium going wild.
The ultimate Jim-wannabe dream came true:
I'm tottering, staggering, dancing (?) on a chair in the front row. Unbelievable.
Ray was sublime. He played his Bach-inspired solos, and his superelaborate Chopin-like intros. Trying banter with the audience, he wasn't cool. Or smooth. Just old and out of practice. Which was really rather endearing. A super crowd-savvy Ray would be rather disconcerting. Anyway, in the good old days, a certain other member took care of the conversation entirely by himself. But Ray played good as gold, and he played, among other things, that keyboard solo from 'Riders...' that is going to be the only piece of music playing at my funeral.
Robbie rocks. No, seriously. He is one of the best guitarists, if only in terms of versatility. Tapping, speed, acoustic, flamenco, arpeggios, solos, slurs, he did it all. The two legends were massaging each other's egos constantly on stage, and Ian was only too willing to lend a helping hand. This might have been painful had they actually deteriorated to rock dinosaurs. But they played inspiringly. And they were The Doors.
They finished with Soul Kitchen. [What else?]
The crowd cleared out in minutes.
--
Remarks were yelled across the teeming, exhausted masses:
"So how was it, man?"
"Pretty good, pretty good. Pretty neat, pretty neat."
--
Amen.