Jim convinced his band mates to change the name to the Doors, based on two distinct pieces of writing. Aldous Huxley's cult hit, "The Doors of Perception" and a quote by William Blake. "There are things known, and there are things unknown and in between are the doors". From that moment on, history would never be the same. Jim was coming into his own, and he was ready to make a splash.

In 1966, Columbia Records dropped the Doors, who were by this time playing 5 shows a day, 6 days a week just to make ends meet. Playing at a tiny Sunset Strip Club known as "The London Fog", Jim became known throughout LA as a fiery, passionate sex symbol. By the end of 1966, things were looking up for Jim and the others. They moved their shows to a more fashionable club, "Whiskey a Go Go", and it was there that "Love" band member Arthur Lee convinced Jac Holzman of Elektra Records to sign them up.

Late 1966 to early 1967 proved to be an exciting time in Jim's life. It was in this period that he was achieving the fame that was inevitable. They recorded their first album which featured "Light My Fire". It went to number one in the US in April of 1967, and world wide recognition was only one step away. Morrison soon became heralded as a rock idol, and he began to adopt his 'Lizard King' image, along with different music styles.

The electric sounds, the often cryptic lyrics, all gave birth to Jim's stage presence, where he could be himself. When he was on stage, he was controlled by his music, and with his music he could control the audience. He also claimed that when he was performing, the 'spirits' of dead Indians took him over. That earned him the name "The Electric Shaman." Some concert goers even claimed they saw the shaman side of him, and that gives great credit to the power he possessed.

It was during that time in Jim's life that he began to devote more of his passion to his writings. He even self-published some of his works for friends and family. Morrison then published The Lords and The New Creatures in 1969. Each copy of the books were dedicated "To Pamela", Pamela Courson, Jim's girlfriend (who later became his wife), who was with him until he died.
Too soon, Jim's wild behavior began to cause him trouble. Obscene dancing, and lewd behavior involving a young female groupie, at a Connecticut concert got him sprayed with tear gas, and charged with breaching the peace and resisting arrest. Jim's reputation as a leather-wearing, drunk was beginning to proceed him, but he never played down the rumors, Jim Morrison was who he was.

During a Miami concert, Jim was also charged with 2 counts of indecent exposure, 2 counts for open profanity, 1 for public drunkenness and one more for his "lewd and lascivious behavior for exposing himself and by simulating masturbation". Jim was found guilty of indecent exposure, and concert promoters now feared a repeat of the Miami events, and concert bookings dropped. However Morrison didn't seem bothered by the change in events, for he had never been completely sure about how he felt over his popularity. In fact, some feel he was determined to ruin his career. The Jim Morrison the world knew, was not the Morrison he wanted to be. To himself, he was James Douglas, not the rock star idol everyone portrayed him to be

Death Disclosed: Jim Morrison, twenty-seven, rock superstar, The lead singer of The Doors. Though his manager fueled suspicion by keeping Morrison's death a secret for six days - until after his burial last week - there was no evidence of a drug connection as in last year's deaths of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, nor was Morrison's fifth-a-day booze habit officially a factor; police listed a heart attack as the cause after Morrison was found dead in the bathtub of his apartment in Paris, where he had been living as a writer in recent months. His trademarks in the rock culture included his arcane, keenly suggestive lyrics, sung in a throaty baritone, by turns sullen and frenzied. But with his skintight pants and lascivious style, the Florida-born admiral's son was best known as an erotic male performer in the line of succession that runs from Elvis Presley to Mick Jagger; Morrison once overdid it to the extent of being found guilty of indecent exposure at a rock concert in Miami. Morrison leaves his wife, Pamela his parents, a brother, and a sister. SOURCE: NEWSWEEK - July 3, 1971
Unfortunately, Jim soon left the band after that albums release, and several months before "Riders on the Storm" went to 14 on the US charts. Sadly, Jim's star burnt out soon after, and on a Saturday night in a Paris hotel room, Jim Morrison died of heart failure and became number three, following in the footsteps of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix who had both died the previous year. Jim's wife Pamela and an anonymous doctor were the only two to see Jim's body. To this day, that fact disturbs many, and over the years, has given rise to rumors that Jim faked his death to finally escape the limelight that had been consuming him.

However, Jim Morrison was more than a poet, more than a songwriter and a performer. He was a man, a husband and an idol to millions. Although his shooting star has come and gone, he has forever earned himself a place in musical and cultural history. Every year, thousands of fans still flock to see Jim at his final resting place. Pere-Lachaisse cemetery in Paris, France.

The remaining members of the Doors continued with their music, releasing another album, but found it too hard to carry on without Jim. They broke up in 1973. Although since then, several albums have been released featuring the bands greatest hits, and in 1991 Oliver Stone's movie 'The Doors' gave a new generation a look at the man behind the myth. In 1993, The Doors were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
აჰა... დორსისი ისტორია... ვისაც არ დაგეზარებათ წაიკითხეთ

Album Poem Collection

Poems, Lyrics, Stories and Artwork by
James Douglas Morrison

Is everybody in?
Is everybody in?
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin.
WAKE UP!
You can't remember where it was
Has this dream stopped?

AWAKE
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day's divinity
First thing you see.

A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by its quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains on infancy.
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again.
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake.
Enter again the sweet forest,
Enter the hot dream,
Come with us,
Everything is broken up and dances.

GHOST SONG
Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

"Me and my — mother and father — and a grandmother and a grandfather — were driving through the desert, at dawn, and a truck load of Indian workers had either hit another car, or just — I don't know what happened — but there were Indians scattered all over the highway, bleeding to death."
"So the car pulls up and stops. That was the first time I tasted fear. I musta' been about four — like a child is like a flower, his head is floating in the breeze, man."
"The reaction I get now thinking about it, looking back — is that the souls of the ghosts of those dead Indians... maybe one or two of 'em... were just running around freaking out, and just leaped into my soul. And they're still in there.

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

Indian, Indian what did you die for?
Indian says, nothing at all.

Gently they stir, gently rise.
The dead are newborn awakening
With ravaged limbs and wet souls,
Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement.
Who called these dead to dance?
Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand?
Was it the wilderness children?
Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?
I called you up to anoint the earth.
I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin.
I called to wish you well,
To glory in self like a new monster.
And now I call on you to pray.

My friend drove an hour each day from the mountains.
The bus gives you a hard-on with books in your lap.
Someone shot the bird in the afternoon dance show.
They gave out free records to the best couple.
Spades dance best, from the hip.

The music was new,
black polished chrome
And came over the summer
like liquid night.
The DJ's took pills to stay awake
and play for seven days.
They went to the studio
and someone knew him;
Someone knew the TV showman.
He came to your homeroom party
and played records
And when he left in the hot noon sun
and walked to his car,
We saw the chooks had written
F-U-C-K on his windshield
He wiped it off with a white rag
and smiling coolly drove away.
He's rich. Got a big car.

My gang will get you...
Scenes of rape in the arroyo
Seductions in cars, abandoned buildings.
Fights at the food stand.
The dust.
The shoes.
Open shirts and raised collars.
Bright sculptured hair.

Hey man, you want girls, pills, grass? C'mon...
I show you good time.
This place has everything. C'mon...
I show you.

Angels and sailors,
rich girls,
backyard fences,
tents,
Dreams watching each other narrowly,
Soft luxuriant cars.
Girls in garages, stripped
out to get liquor and clothes,
half gallons of wine and six packs of beer.
Jumped, humped, born to suffer,
made to undress in the wilderness.

I will never treat you mean
Never start no kind of scene
I'll tell you every place and person that I've been

Always a playground instructor, never a killer,
Always a bridesmaid on the verge of fame or over,
He maneuvered two girls in to his hotel room.
One a friend, the other, the young one, a newer stranger
Vaguely Mexican or Puerto Rican.
Poor boys thighs and buttocks scarred by a father's belt,
She's trying to rise.
Story of her boyfriend, of teenage stoned death games,
Handsome lad, dead in a car.
Confusion.
No connections.
Come 'ere.
I love you.
Peace on earth.
Will you die for me?
Eat me.
This way.
The end.

I'll always be true
Never go out, sneaking out on you, babe
If only you'll show me Far Arden again.

I'm surprised you could get it up.
He whips her lightly, sardonically, with belt.
Haven't I been through enough? she asks,
Now dressed and leaving
The Spanish girl begins to bleed;
She says her period.
It's Catholic heaven.
I have an ancient Indian crucifix around my neck,
My chest is hard and brown.
Lying on stained, wretched sheets with a bleeding virgin,
We could plan a murder,
Or start a religion.

I'll tell you this...
No eternal reward will forgive us now
For wasting the dawn.

Back in those days everything was simpler and more confused.
One summer night, going to the pier,
I ran into two young girls.
The blonde was called Freedom,
The dark one, Enterprise.
We talked and they told me this story:
Now listen to this...I'll tell you about Texas radio and the big beat.
Soft driven, slow and mad
Like some new language,
Reaching your hand with the cold, sudden fury of a divine messenger.
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of god,
Wandering, wandering in hopeless night.
Out here in the perimeter there are no stars,

Out here we is stoned
Immaculate.

The movie will begin in five moments,
The mindless voice announced,
All those unseated will await the next show.

We filed slowly, languidly into the hall.
The auditorium was vast and silent.
As we seated and darkened, the voice continued:

The program for this evening is not new,
You've seen this entertainment through and through.
You've seen your birth, your life and death,
You might recall all of the rest.
Did you have a good world when you died?
Enough to base a movie on?

I'm getting out of here!
Where are you going?
To the other side of morning.
Please don't chase the clouds, pagodas

Her cunt gripped him like a warm, friendly hand.

It's all right, all your friends are here.
When can I meet them?
After you've eaten.
I'm not hungry.
Uh, we meant beaten.

Silvery stream, silvery scream
Oooooh, impossible concentration.

Curses, Invocations
Weird bate-headed mongrels
I keep expecting one of you to rise.
Large buxom obese queens
Garden hogs and cunt veterans
Quaint cabbage saints
Shit hoarders and individualists
Drag strip officials
Tight lipped losers and
Lustful fuck salesmen
My militant dandies
All strange order of monsters
Hot on the trail of the woodvine
We welcome you to our procession.

Here come the Comedians
Look at them smile
Watch them dance an Indian mile.
Look at them gesture
How aplomb
So to gesture everyone.
Words dissemble
Words be quick
Words resemble walking sticks.
Plant them they will grow Watch them waver so.
I'll always be a word man
Better than a bird man.

Ladies and gentlemen! From Los Angeles, California... The Doors!

... Well I woke up this morning
Got myself a beer
Well, I woke up this morning
Got myself a beer
Well, the future's uncertain
The end is always near . . .

The World on Fire . . . Taxi from Africa . . . The Grand Hotel . . .
He was drunk a big party last night back, going back
in all directions sleeping these insane hours I'll never wake up
in a good mood again I'm sick of these stinky boots.

Lament for my cock
Sore and crucified
I seek to know you.
Acquiring soulful wisdom,
You can open walls of mystery,
Stripshow.

How to acquire death in the morning show.
TV death which the child absorbs
Deathwell mystery which makes me write
Slow train, the death of my cock gives life.

Forgive the poor old people who gave us entry
taught us god in the child's prayer in the night.

Guitar player,
Ancient wise satyr,
Sing you ode to my cock.

Caress its lament,
Stiffen and guide us, we frozen.
Lost cells, The knowledge of cancer,
To speak to the heart
And give the great gift:
Words Power Trance

This stable friend and the beasts of his zoo,
Wild haired chicks,
Women flowery in their summit,
Monsters of skin.
Each color connects
to create the boat
which rocks the race.
Could any hell be more horrible
than now
and real?

I pressed her thigh and death smiled.

Death, old friend,
Death and my cock are the world.
I can forgive my injuries in the name of
Wisdom Luxury Romance

Sentence upon sentence
Words are healing lament
For the death of my cock's spirit
Has no meaning in the soft fire.
Words got me the wound and will get me well,
If you believe it.

All join now and lament for the death of my cock
A tongue of knowledge in the feathered night.
Boys get crazy in the head and suffer,
I sacrifice my cock on the altar of silence.

Thoughts in time and out of season

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange

Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
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