Densmore John - Riders on the storm: my life with Jim Morrison and the Doors

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.

B REAK O N T HROUGH

Paris, 1975

It smelled like rain. I had hoped it would storm. Then we wouldnt have had to see his grave. My heartbeat was increasing. I looked over at Robby, Danny, and Herv 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 Morrisons grave is? I asked with trepidation.

Ah, mais oui, he answered in a thick accent. Monsieur Morrisons 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 dont contribute, daccord?

Daccord. Lets 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, Pre Lachaise Cemetery is home to hundreds of stray felines.

Strange that a good ole boy from Florida is there. Jim wouldve liked the company, though. Have to wonder if he didnt 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: Morrisonthis 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, Herv, 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 werent 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 tallwasnt he?

Maybe its true, I thought. Maybe he isnt dead. Maybe he is in Africa trying to live out one more myth. First Dionysus, then Nietzsche, then Rimbaud?

Wait a minute. Hes dead, you asshole. You watched him destroy himself, I hissed at myself as I stared at the grave. And you didnt do anything about it. Couldnt 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 andunworthy.

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. Herv 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. Theres no escape.