Davidson - Leap!: what will we do with the rest of our lives?

For Andrew and for Rachel

Leap, and the net will appear.

attributed to John Burroughs, Jimmy Buffett, and unnamed Zen masters

The Long and Winding Road

W hen I walk through the stage door of the Roseland Ballroom in New York, I hear an unmistakable riffthe long electric piano solo that spirals up and down until it cant go higher or become more intense and then it resolves as Jim Morrison comes in to sing: The time to hesitate is through

Light My Fire by the Doors was the number one song in America in 1967. But onstage at Roseland almost forty years later are Ray Manzarek, the original keyboard player, Robby Krieger, the original guitarist, and between them, replacing Jim Morrison, is Ian Astbury, a singer in his thirties who looks so much like Morrison that the image of the three suggests The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ray and Robby are in their sixties, with silver hair and deeply lined faces, but Jim doesnt seem to have agedhe looks frozen at twenty-seven, the age he was when he died.

The Doors of the Twenty-first Century, as they call themselves tonight, are doing a sound check for a concert celebrating fifty years of rock n roll. Ray stands at the electric piano, wearing a black Issey Miyake shirt with pleats over gray pants. His hair is slicked back, and hes rail thin from lifting weights, swimming, and yoga. I feel juicy, Ray says into the microphone, testing the level. I feel juicy now. I got filth running through my blood, Robby. Its gonna be a dirrrrr-ty night. Its also going to be a loud night, and I make a note to come back later with earplugs and my glasses.

The Doors created and released albums for only four years, 1967 to 1971, but theyve been embraced by succeeding generations, and my son has the lyrics to a Doors song on his blog. After Jims death, Ray kept making music on his own and wrote two books, none of which connected with a mass audience, but that was all right. He hadnt played a Doors song in thirty years when in 2002 the Harley-Davidson company asked the Doors if they would re-form the group to perform at an L.A. concert celebrating Harleys hundredth anniversary. Robby and I said, Lets do it! Ray recalls, but John Densmore, the third living Door, said his ears were too badly damaged to play drums. Their manager brought in another drummer and, to sing, Ian Astbury of the Cult.

Playing for thousands of inflamed Harley-Davidson riders at the California Speedway was so much fun, Ray says, that they went on the road as the Doors of the Twenty-first Century, until a lawsuit forced them to drop the Doors name and perform as Riders on the Storm.

Backstage at Roseland, I ask Ray how he deals with the fact that his most well-loved work was done more than thirty years ago. He waves his hand, dismissive. I tell him I have the same issue on a smaller scale. My first book was a bestsellerit was number two in the country and made into a miniseries. Ive written five books since then and hundreds of articles and screenplays, but none has had that impact. I used to feel upset because people would meet me and say

I know what they tell you, Ray says. You were big once upon a time, and you dont have it anymore. Well, thank you very much, really nice of you to point that out. Have you ever had a success? No, you havent. I see, youLOSER! He shrugs. What can we do with this society? Were vicious that way.

How do you handle it?

You dont. You get pissed off and say, Fuck you. Fuck you! You got the nerve to say that stuff to my fucking face, you fucker?

He imitates the guy confronting him: Well, Ray, you know, a lot of people have said youre just doing it for the money.

Like who? Is he there with you? Put him on the phone, let me talk to that asshole.

No, no, no, theres nobody here. Im just saying

Ray sighs and tells me, You have to put up with shit like that.

I say, I spent a lot of time feeling that I wasnt fulfilling my early promise, whatever that was. Now Ive come around to the fact that I wrote a book thats still in print after thirty years. That makes me feelhumble.

Exactly, Ray says. Heres the point. Did you do one thing? Yes, you did. You got any friends from high school who did one thing? You got any friends from collegeDo I have any friends from UCLA film school who did onething? No.

You did more than one thing.

Whatever.

You dont have those demons?

Oh sure, absolutely. Im more competitive than you are, and youre obviously very competitive. Were competitive animals. Thats the nature of being human, and thats what drives us to accomplish great things. You live your life to the fullest, but at some point, things are snatched away from you. Death is going to happen.

I ask if he still takes psychedelics. No. Thats for your twenties and thirties. Once you open the doors of perception, they stay open.

Not for some, I say. The doors clanked shut when they became workaholics and tried to be superparents.

If theyve forgotten the message, well, now that the kids have grown and retirement is approaching, lets reinvent the gods. Thats what Jim Morrison said. Lets reinvent the godsall the myths of the ages. The problem for Jim was that he had no idea how far he could go, how high he could get, before he was eased out.

Psychedelics do a strange thing, Ray says. You accept that death is going to happen. Your friend is gone, youve danced for a whileyou danced feverishly and madly around a bonfire and had that ecstatic joy and now the dance is over and all you can say is: So be it. Another kind of dance begins.

I had this conversation with Ray Manzarek toward the end of a three-year period when everything I touched turned brown and died. Everywhere Id go people would ask, What are you doing now?

Different things

If Id told the truth, I would have said: Im doing nothing. For the first time since college, I have no work. After twenty-four years and several award nominations, I cant get hired to write for television. In Hollywood jargon, I cant get arrested. I cant sell articles to magazines or books to publishers and I dont know how Ill earn money. The phone doesnt ring, and I have to crank myself up to go out and hustle and why, dear God, do I have to hustle at this age? Its humiliating.

During this same period, my lover of seven years, a cowboy artist Id expected to spend the rest of my days with, rides off with no discussion. My children, whove occupied my first thoughts on waking and my last before falling asleep, are going off to college. As long as they lived with me, I got up at seven and made pancakes, drove them to school, soccer, Little League, ballet, music lessons, helped them write their papers and do research on Egyptian history and carve pumpkins for Halloween. No more. My kids, my lover, and my livelihood are being yanked from me at once and theres nothing I can do. When I tell this to a friend, Peter Simon, the photographer, he says, Oh, honey, youve got money problems and no sex. Thats not good.

Not good at all. I cant sleep, either. I fall asleep but wake at two, my feet jackknifing. Why hasnt my agent called me back? I read or watch a movie, hoping my eyelids will close, but they dont. Three A.M. I have stomach painsits the cowboy, I cant seem to untangle him from my body and I miss him so intensely I want to call and tell him he can name his terms, just come back. It wouldnt work.