I caught the Doors doc "When You Are Strange" on American Masters last night and went to bed dreaming of Pamela Courson's ironed red hair. I used to want to be her. In high school I had a thing for the arm candy of legends. Of course now I know it's not cool to idolize the dead junkie girlfriends of dead junkie rock stars. But still, I'd love to have her small nose.
This is a lament, really.
Man, they don't make 'em like they used to. Where are the self-styled rockers who can pull of a concho belt? I want spectacle, dammit. Bright stars who sizzle into burnouts. I love a deeply conflicted hero. Snarling, soulful screamer-poets? Yeah, those are my boys.
And the band, my God. When was the last time you went to a concert where 16 cops stood on stage keeping the peace? That's a show, my brothers and sisters, stamped with this warning: the frontman may or may not pull his dick out, but there are sure going to be decency rallies in response. Oh, how I want to live in that antagonistic world!
I know, I know, Jim's was a different time. There was actually a youth movement, a counterculture. Conservatism was worth bumping up against in your brown leather pants back then. I read somewhere that this is not a world a 60-something Jim Morrison could live in. True for Janis, too. And Jimi, for that matter. This time, our time--NOW--it's gone all tepid and complacent. We can't handle real rock stars anymore. We can't build 'em, either.
Sure, I've loved many. Stephen, Robert, Finn, Eugene. But I've never loved one who actually changed anything except the landscape of my heart. That's not enough, lads. I want it epic. The Doors still sell a million records a year. A million. Most of my sweethearts would be lucky to see a gold record in their dreams. And for a long time that's actually why I loved them. But watching that footage of Jim at the Hollywood Bowl again got me thinking, I'm witnessing a bona fide supernova. And I know, record volume's not the point. It's value.
But I want bigger bang.
