Once, in what now seems like a previous life, I listened to a lot of music by The Doors. Like many other young men with artistic pretensions and a generally sulky disposition, I was drawn to the dark vibe of the music and the cryptic, existential lyrics of the band’s late frontman, Jim Morrison. I fancied myself a wounded romantic for reasons that shall remain anonymous, and I identified with the band’s well-known songs of alienation and pain, songs like “Riders on the Storm,” “Love Her Madly,” and “People Are Strange.” I bought into the myth of Morrison as a shaman in leather pants, and although I never seriously believed he was still alive, it long amused me to think that he might have faked his death to escape an unsatisfactory life as a rock ‘n’ roll sideshow freak.
(Tangent: it’s a big ol’ slice of ’80s cheese-cinema, but I’ve always loved the movie Eddie and the Cruisers, which turns on the idea of a rock star faking his death. And I was also greatly amused to learn that Stephen King’s revised-and-bloated edition of The Stand strongly suggests that the satanic Randall Flagg was somehow connected to you-know-who. End tangent.)
My Doors phase largely ended years ago. I still suffer from occasional bouts of sulkiness, alienation, and artistic pretention, but I’ve moved beyond the particular angst that afflicted me in my late teens and early twenties. These days, Morrison’s lyrics seem less like poetry and more like drug-inspired nonsense, and I honestly can’t recall the last time I spun one of my Doors CDs. Even so, the contents of those discs remain deeply important to me because of what they used to mean. And that’s why I was pleased to read that one former member of The Doors is resisting the market forces that threaten to co-opt every memorable tune ever recorded:
[The Doors] more or less went into the grave with lead singer Jim Morrison in 1971, but, like all top classic-rock franchises, it now has the chance to exploit a lucrative afterlife in television commercials. Offers keep coming in, such as the $15 million dangled by Cadillac last year to lease the song “Break On Through (to the Other Side)” to hawk its luxury SUVs.
To the surprise of the corporation and the chagrin of his former bandmates, [Doors drummer John] Densmore vetoed the idea. He said he did the same when Apple Computer called with a $4-million offer, and every time “some deodorant company wants to use ‘Light My Fire.’ ”
The reason? Prepare to get a lump in your throat or to roll your eyes.
“People lost their virginity to this music, got high for the first time to this music,” Densmore said. “I’ve had people say kids died in Vietnam listening to this music, other people say they know someone who didn’t commit suicide because of this music. On stage, when we played these songs, they felt mysterious and magic. That’s not for rent.”
Although the article adopts what I consider an unwarranted mocking tone toward Densmore and his reluctance to have his work cheapened, it is an interesting read. It tells a sad story of former friends set against each other by financial concerns, of what happens to aging celebrities who have lost any relevance except nostalgia, and of a society in which everything is for sale and those who refuse to sell are utterly baffling to those who do. If you have a free moment this afternoon, go check it out, especially if you’ve ever been dismayed to hear one of your favorite songs bent to the purposes of selling hamburgers or Cadillacs.
