The Doors (Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger) were playing once again with Dave Brock on vocals on April 26th.
We were all running late that day. Abe bought tickets last minute but had to work and I spent the afternoon with Jeph touring the LACMA museum.
Drifting through modern art, we sat in each other’s silences, talked about the Surrealist Women’s Exhibit.
And we spoke about little things. Jeph is my oldest friend in Los Angeles. Always sporting a Hawaiian shirt and an off-the-wall positive attitude, it’s easy to be his friend.
We walked along the tar pits and wandered in the museum like it was cavities of someone else’s mind.
Then I left him to rush over to Frank’s, where the dogs were, and get ready for the Doors show in Anaheim.
I was exhausted, and Frank trapped me in his living room with Stones music. He said, “You seem to be more into the Stones these days.”
I said, “No. I love dancing to the Stones, but once I start listening to Doors music, I obsess.”
No one really knows what to expect when you say something like that. Most of the time, people usually think I am exaggerating or being dramatic. I have had to ration Doors music earlier in my life, just to get on with things. I get stuck sometimes, listening to them. Trapped in a melody, trapped in time. It’s difficult to function, so often I avoid Doors music all together until everything around me has changed, and the routine shifts.
I wore a simple hippie t-shirt with birds and hearts, skinny jeans, and danced out the door as Frank tempted me with one last Stones song.
I made good time in traffic and arrived to Downtown Disney about an hour before they were scheduled to hit the stage.
I waited in line, looking for Cece, the girl who hustled the last Doors show with me at the Whiskey in August. I didn’t see her or Abe anywhere. I also couldn’t get a signal to call or text anyone. If Abe could find me in Joshua Tree, he could find me here, right?
The line snaked around the entrance a few times, so I just got in line after will call and waited. Funny enough, the man in front of me was an American who lived in Paris, and the three men behind me were French. Charming, middle-aged and wonderfully flirtatious, they kept my attention on what museums to see, what to look for and what to eat.
When the line started moving, they bought me a drink, and soon I drifted away looking for my friends. I turned into CeCe and got an enormous hug. She and her boyfriend greeted me and we all went to the bathroom.
On the way out of the bathroom, I ran into Abe. We hugged and pecked- he swung around to the bathroom and returned for introductions. He always thinks people act weird around him. Its that high school reject in him I identify with, but he hasn’t yet learned from that life. Its pure perception.
We made our way to the bottom floor by the stage. It was incredibly crowded. Abe said, “It will take too long to get a beer down here, so I am going to go upstairs, ok?”
I held onto his hand and reluctantly let it go.
CeCe, her man and I got a spot at the end of the bar, on the far right of the stage. A young man of about 25 wavered back and forth, staring at me.
CeCe said, “I think you have a fan.”
I smiled and waved. He lazily opened his eyes a little and raised those plump lips into a bigger smile. He was handsome and very, very drunk.
I said, “It’s so easy to make new friends here.”
The lights went out and the music for Carmina Burana: Introduction burst from the speakers, which is odd since it is on the soundtrack for the film (I know no other affiliation) and I happen to know Ray Manzarek hated the Doors movie. Then “Roadhouse Blues” kicked in.
I frantically looked for Abe, pushing through so many people, their perfume and sweat rubbed off on me. I made my way all the way to the staircase to the upper level . . . no Abe.
The music . . .
The music was calling me.
I slid, and excused myself, and pushed, and wiggled my way back to the spot by the stage and danced.
This time, Dave Brock toned down his over-sexualized, bawdy Morrison impression and just sang the music with an occasional leap in the air.
I danced, and my drunk boy fan turned towards me and put his hand on his heart, stumbling back. I laughed. He was adorable, though totally gone.
We danced through “Break on Through” and then “When the Music’s Over”. At that point, despite knocking into me and another woman, he knocked into a short Hispanic man, forcing his drink to spill. The Hispanic man didn’t like that and Drunk boy’s friend intervened. Then security escorted him out.
I sang and danced.
“I want to hear
I want to hear
The scream of the butterfly”
Then they did “Moonlight Drive” one of my favorites. This is where the group singing died out and only the hardcore fans kept singing along. Ray even sang “Horse Latitudes” which is an unusual track and even hard to listen to.
Next song was “Wild Child” from the Soft Parade album (considered their weakest album but I feel it is sorely underrated), then “Rock Me” . . . oh Rock Me . . . the song that might get me to close my eyes and make love to any man like he is Jim Morrison.
“My Eyes Have Seen You” from Strange Days . . . “Love Me Two Times” . . . then “Not to Touch the Earth” . . . . mmmm. What a great arrangement, even better than the Whiskey I think.
Was it around”Touch Me” that a group of three fat girls pushed me out of the way to dance next to the stage. I didn’t mind, I was deep in the music. My dancing was in the corner under a shadow, where only my friends and an older man in his 60s could really see me.
The girls noticed me, and one grabbed my arm and said, “I love you.”
I said, “Thank you.”
Then she pushed me up to the stage, she said, “You belong here, come here.”
I resisted at first, but knew in a matter of seconds, all these people would smell my BO. I was dancing so hard, no amount of perfume or deodorant could possibly mask the Minestrone-esque scent pouring out of my body.
So I got up near the corner of the stage and found myself next to the giant speaker on stage left.
“LA Woman” came on, a song a few close friends consider my mantra. It’s a tragic mantra, but if its Doors, I will take it.
The burn of the opening music shook the speaker, and I felt the sound move like wind against my body. I knew my hearing was going to take a hit standing next to this thing. The music seduced me. It was that point when there is nothing but a thin pair of cotton panties between you and a man. The point of no return.
I leaned up against the speaker and started rocking with the music. Security showed up, but politely wedged themselves between me and the audience. They were going to let me stay there. I was propped up high enough that I was dancing just over everyone’s heads but also just below the stage, visible to Ray on keyboards.
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light
Or just another lost angel . . . City of Night
City of Night, City of Night, City of Night whoa, come on!
The music was pounding through my back and I braced myself against the speaker with one arm as I danced like a Go-Go dancer. I sang so hard my lungs scorched through the thumping of bass.
“Drivin’ down your freeways
Midnight alleys roam
Cops in cars
in Topless Bars
Never saw a woman,
So alone . . . so alone . . .”
Dave Brock groaned the lyrics and I watched his hair bounce. From a distance if I squint a little, he could pass for Jim.
The song slowed and throbbed against my butt, and I rubbed myself all over that speaker like a cat slithering on catnip.
I wouldn’t say that dancing is usually sexy for me, though that seems a ridiculous thing to say since you are moving your body to a beat. And I know when people see me dancing hard for 90 minutes or more, the thought occurs to them, “I wonder what she’s like in bed.”
The woman who tapped Abe’s shoulder at the Brixton during the Stones show said, “She is just getting started, you are in for a long night.”
I think it’s humorous. I don’t mind people commenting on my dancing since it does become such a spectacle. And little did she know that the one who can last a long time is Abe. So I won’t deny that my dancing always has a sexual element, despite my overall feeling that it is not overtly sexual.
The exception was this night, at the House of Blues.
That speaker was a hot bed of rhythm and heat.
It was making love to me, saying everything I knew by heart, everything I wanted to hear . . .
“If they say I never loved you . . .
You know they are a liar.”
Gently slapping my ass with building speed, air blowing on the back of my neck and through my hair I fought my reluctance to stop. I wanted to die there, and let the music shake me into smoking embers.
The band bowed off stage, at which point we all started screaming. My throat was dry and cracking.
“Ray? Robby? Please? Don’t stop. More!!!!!!”
They came back out, the lights and cheers from the crowd rose like it was all orchestrated from a hidden booth.
“Riders on the Storm” drizzled on through the speakers, like the mist before a storm. I rocked back and forth against the speaker and sang with Dave in that erotic whisper.
Ray introduced “Light my Fire” next and I curled my upper lip. Of course. Let’s do “Light My Fire” in case we didn’t hear it 4,000 times on the radio earlier that day.
It is my least favorite Doors song, but when it started, the lights turned orange and yellow and my experience took a new level.
At this point, I could see Ray smiling from afar as he pressed hard on the keyboard. I felt like the band knew I was there and enjoyed pushing and stroking the instruments as my body responded from 25 ft. away. It was like strings were tugging on my limbs and hips, and they were the puppeteers.
I anticipated the beat, but felt their breath move me from the speakers and gently push me to their cues.
Was Ray looking at me? Was he smiling at me?
The song went on for its extended length, Ray played the keyboard with his foot again and I was soaking wet all over the place. I mean . . . all over the place.
When they stopped, they bowed, and I screamed for them not to go. They didn’t look my direction.
Here, yeah, I almost started crying.
“Please? PLEASE! NOO!”
Robby handed out guitar picks to everyone in the front but completely avoided my wing of the stage. This I took very personally. WHAT THE FUCK?
The play lists were thrown out to the crowd, and people grabbed for them, tearing them apart.
The security guards who allowed me to dance against the stage, now wedged between me and my obsession.
I said, “What do I have to do to get back there? I really need to meet them.”
Security Guard, “Sorry, they told me no one can go back there.”
Me, “DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM!?”
The security guards chuckled a little.
Me, “Seriously, I will do anything to get back there. ANYTHING.”
A guy behind me said, “She will do anything.”
The Security Guard slowly shook his head as if to toss this around for a second.
Then I said, “I saw Axl Rose! They let me back to see him.”
They chuckled again.
Defeated, I shrunk a little and said, “Well, do you think they saw me, at least?”
Security Guard, “I am pretty sure everyone saw you. That’s why I asked to work this side .”
I put my hands on the barrier and jumped up and down, screaming Beatle-Mania again.
Someone handed me a ripped play list as a consolation prize. This crowd was generous with me.
I turned and pouted towards CeCe and her boyfriend, who were calmly waiting for me to run myself down. Another Security Guard approached and said, “The show is over, the doors are that way.”
CeCe said, “No, the Doors are that way.” She pointed towards the fallen curtain.
I leaned forward and said, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it truly is . . . infinite.”
He smiled politely and once again, motioned to the doors. I growled.
I left and walked out into the cool night air. Abe nowhere to be found. CeCe and I said our goodbyes and I headed back to my car to chain smoke my frustration away.
Once again, I needed more.
I called Abe, and there was no answer.
I was hot and tipsy (people bought me drinks) and I needed to collapse.
First, I thought about heading back to Frank’s where the dogs were, then I resolved to just go to Abe’s since it was only 10 minutes away. I pulled in and somehow saw him.
Me, “What the fuck?”
Abe, “They locked the downstairs so I couldn’t go back down. Good show though.”
That was a good reason.
I said, “Ok, I am coming down hard from this.”
So he led me back into his apartment, and his roommate was still up. I was panting and groaning for more music. It was a little over the top.
Abe put his hand on my back and pushed me passed his roommate, “We are going through a little Doors withdrawal.”
Abe and I showered to get the sweat off. I couldn’t stay in one spot for very long, so dried off, pacing back and forth in his room.
Abe, “Are you upset because Jim Morrison is dead? Thats what this is really about isn’t it?”
Me, “Of course I am upset he is dead. And the same strain of heroin killed Janis. NO ONE CARES!”
Abe downloaded all the Doors albums to his ipod and plugged in speakers so I could listen to it.
People Are Strange
My Eyes Have Seen You
Then, “I Can’t See Your Face in my Mind” came on. A little B-side favorite of mine.
I got on my knees at the side of the bed and put my head between the speakers, then rubbed them over both my ears.
Adorns the sky
Can’t seem to find the right lie
Consume the lines
Can’t see your face in my mind”
Abe, “You need to take a walk and blow off whatever this is.”
I whined, “I need the music.”
Abe put it in a bag and we walked with the music as I skipped and complained about not being backstage.
I was manic and running out of cigarettes.
Abe, “Baby, its almost 3am. I have to go to sleep. What is going on with you?”
Me, “THIS IS my mental illness. Don’t you get it? This is my disease. Once I start with this music, I can’t stop.”
Abe, “Calm down.”
Me, “I am trying. I am annoyed by myself too. My brain won’t stop.”
We walked a bit more in the night, as his little ipod echoed the dead voice of someone who could never satisfy me.
Abe, “What can I do to get you to stop?”
Me, “Nothing. Nothing would satisfy me. Not if they played longer. Not if it was the real Doors concert. It all ends and my mind just keeps going.”
We were out of pot and there was nothing to calm me down. *Note to Self: Bring Valium next Doors concert
Around 4am, I stopped. My breath slowed. The music stopped.
At 6am, I had to be up for a morning show call. I felt like shit. Not to mention, I had to work later in the day at Doggie Daycare.
Abe texted me later that day: “My roommate says U were coked up last night? U did act like you were coming down. Did Frank give you coke?”
Me: “No. I had 4 beers and love the Doors. That’s all.”
“If I had coke, I would have shared some before fucking you. I thought you knew me better.”
Abe: “I said to him U weren’t and would have told me. But where did U get all that energy.”
Me: “I am crazy. I thought you knew.”
Abe: “Last night was a heavy dose of hyper something from U.”
Me: “I have a chemical imbalance.”
Abe: “Tell yr brain to fix it.”
Me: “I have come a long way. I used to be manic like that 70% of the time when I was 16-17. Its not so bad every once in a while for something I love so much.”
Abe: “But how did U talk to people acting strange like that? Its like U could do anything all of a sudden like U arent in control. Yr hot too.”
Me: “I was painfully shy and only close to a few people who thought I was bi-polar. Various theories about what medication to put me on and reactions to alcohol. I was just hyped up and bizarre. I forced myself to calm down, exercise, smoked weed and my brain chemicals balanced more.
I still have bouts of mania and depression, but only few and far between. Pot, sleep and exercise make all the difference. And escaping adolescence.
I do love the Doors WAY too much.”
Abe: “I believe U and cant believe it. :)”
I crawled into work again with sore hamstrings, but the only thing I could think about was, “What’s my next concert?”