"Perception of The Doors" or "Light My Fire Under a Bushel"

I’ve never been a big fan of The Doors. That’s hardly a controversial statement within my circle of music nerds. The hipster line on The Doors for years has been, “Pretty cool musically, and obviously important historically, but way overburdened by Jim Morrison’s ego, vocal dramatics and insanely bad songwriting.” I’ve never been an outright Doors hater either – I own a few of their albums and listen to them on occasion – but I’ll admit my gut reaction when I spot someone in a "Jim Morrison: American Poet" t-shirt is to avoid discussing music with him or her if at all possible.

No, as ‘60s music goes, I’m into more obscure stuff. I love poking around the weird little side alleys of hip record stores in search of long-forgotten psychedelic acts. Show me a band that pressed two or three LPs for some fly-by-night California-based label in 1966-71 then disbanded and faded into the ether and I’ll be slapping my Visa card on the counter before I’m finished reading the liner notes. The albums don’t even have to be uniformly good, so long as they’re reasonably interesting and have a standout track or two. I’ve unearthed a lot of good stuff over the years, but true lost classics are hard to come by. My dream find is an album that’s deeply trippy, slightly hooky and as dark as ‘60s rock standards allowed. Sort of like, oh, I don’t know… The Doors?



I was recently listening to a Nico album, and that got me thinking about her cover of “The End,” and that got me thinking about the original Doors version of “The End,” and before I knew it I was listening to L.A. Woman beginning to end. About halfway through “L’America,” it struck me: if The Doors weren’t THE DOORS and instead some forgotten psych rockers I’d discovered in the Oldies section of Rolling Stones Records, this would almost certainly be one of my favorite albums. Everything about it fits my template. It’s grim and grotesque and grimy as hell. It seethes with the kind of menacing organ riffs I adore. Sure, the lyrics are rather cringeworthy, but you could say the same for a whole lot of albums I love (Bullshit philosophizing was just a natural byproduct of the 1960s).



And yet here I sit, still not a huge fan of The Doors. This has made me question a lot of things about my taste in art, my public persona and the very core of my existence. If I read myself correctly, I’m guilty of the worst kind of hipsterism. The Doors’ mainstream success and rabid fan base has led me to hold them accountable for musical offenses that I’d ignore if they were committed by, say, The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. If L.A. Woman was an unknown commodity, I would take immense personal pride in having “discovered” it, just like I do with Trader Horne and Joe Byrd and The Field Hippies. I’d be sending my buddy Zachary links to barely read internet articles on the band’s history, just like I did after I first heard Yahowa 13.



That last paragraph gets to the heart of my problem. I didn’t need to name-check all of those artists to make my point, but I did it anyway, because I want you to click on those links and hear those bands. That’s partially because they’re all wonderful artists who deserve a wider audience, but it’s just as much because I want you to check out these bands specifically on my recommendation. I want to bask in their reflected glory and revel in the narcissistic pleasures of my own obscure, impeccable taste.

Are The Doors a better or a worse band than any of those groups? That’s a matter of opinion, obviously. What’s a matter of fact is that Oliver Stone never felt compelled to make an awful movie about Joe Byrd and The Field Hippies. See, quality is only one factor among many in my complex recipe for musical adulation. The truth is that part of the reason I’ve never cultivated a real passion for The Doors is that they’re already well-traveled territory. There’s nothing exceptional about being into The Doors, and I don’t find the band itself exceptional enough to make much of a deal about them. I’m a big fan of plenty of near-universally adored artists – The Beatles, Bob Dylan, David Bowie – but I think all of those performers are remarkable enough to supersede their mainstream acceptance.



On another hand is a band like The Grateful Dead, a group deeply beloved by a huge swath of music fans and intensely hated by just as many. I’ve started digging the Dead more in recent years. It’s because of that very hatred that I feel OK about stating that publicly. A chance to play the contrarian trumps most things for me. In the case of The Doors, though, the contempt isn’t quite feverish enough and the natural talent isn’t quite mind-blowing enough for me to get past their popularity with Budweiser-swilling undergrads.

So I guess it boils down to this: I like The Doors, but not as much as I would if they were more obscure, more talented or more hated. Of those three, only the talent requirement makes any logical sense, and it’s probably the least important to my public embracing of a band. I realize that this is a ridiculous, possibly contemptible attitude. It’s self-absorbed hipster elitism in the first degree, and it does a disservice both to blameless musicians and to me as a music lover. Still, I can’t see myself fully turning away from it anytime soon. My musical neuroses are too closely tied to my fragile self-image and the theoretical scorn of an imaginary peer group.

At least I recognize the problem. Give me time and I might even reach the point where I feel comfortable including a Doors track on my annual summer party mix. I’m thinking maybe “Hyacinth House.” Sure, “L.A. Woman” or “Love Her Madly” would probably be better party-rockers, but that shit’s way too mainstream, man.

Cult classics: Four artists who flirted with godhood

Plenty of artists can claim devoted cult followings, but only a few have stirred up genuine religious fervor in their fan bases. If one accepts the notion that there’s a touch of the Christ complex lurking behind just about every artistic endeavor, then the musical messiahs on this list were merely fulfilling their destinies. Eric Clapton may have inspired fans to call him God, but these folks actually made people believe it.

Charles Manson

America’s best-known cult leader of modern times was once just another struggling songwriter on the San Francisco scene, albeit one with a knack for speaking to power. Bitten by the musical bug during one of his many stints behind bars, young Charles Manson headed for California in 1967 with dreams of rock stardom. His mystical lyricism and creepy carriage played well with certain segments of the hippie brain trust, earning him words of praise from the likes of Neil Young and The Beach Boys’ Dennis Wilson.

Manson briefly worked his way into a permanent houseguest position at Wilson’s estate, bringing with him some ragged neophytes who would eventually form the base of his infamous “family.” He made a few attempts at recording with producer Terry Melcher, both in the studio and on location at Manson’s Spahn Ranch compound outside of L.A., but the singer’s erratic behavior quickly soured the deal. The pinnacle of Manson’s musical career came when The Beach Boys recorded his song “Cease to Exist” (re-titled “Never Learn Not to Love”) for their 20/20 album in late 1968. The song was attributed solely to Dennis Wilson, which inspired death threats from Manson.

Less than a year later, his devotees’ murderous rampage solidified his place as a very different kind of cultural icon. The Melcher-Manson album was eventually released under the title LIE as a quick cash-in during the clan’s highly publicized 1970 murder trial, bringing Manson’s musical odyssey to a bizarre full circle.

Father Yod and Yahowa 13

If Yahowa 13 wasn’t real, active group, their story would read like a played-out hippie cliché. Yahowa 13 was originally the house band for the Source Family, a California-based commune founded in the late ‘60s by a decorated WWII veteran, martial arts enthusiast and sometime actor known as Father Yod. Father Yod was an early adherent to the “natural living” movement of the 1950s, an ethos that inspired him to open the vegetarian restaurant that would fund his sect. For a period in the early ‘70s, the Source Restaurant became the hip eatery for liberal-leaning Hollywood types.

The restaurant’s daily receipts were more than enough to support Yod’s ever-growing family of hippies, including three musicians who called themselves Djin, Octavious and Sunflower Aquarian. Performing under the name Yahowa 13, the Aquarians took a wholly improvisational approach to rock, recording entire albums of psychedelic jams without so much as rehearsing. These limited-press albums were sold at the restaurant for a dollar apiece and have become highly sought-after trophies for collectors.

After Father Yod’s death in a hang-gliding accident – one of the hippiest causes of death possible – the Source Family disbanded and Yahowa 13 more or less retired. But don’t despair, fans of psych-rock and benevolent religious cults! The group recently reunited for an album (2008’s outstanding Sonic Portation) and a tour dedicated to spreading Father Yod’s teachings. So, you’ve got your charismatic leader, your veggie restaurant, your oddly named acolytes, your psychedelic rock and your undying spirit force. Throw in an undercover narc or two, and you’ve pretty much covered the gamut of Love Era stereotypes.

Elvis Presley

By all accounts a good Christian lad (even if a little lax on the whole gluttony thing), Elvis never sought religious adulation in his lifetime. That didn’t stop the more extreme elements of his fan base from tossing him up the heavenly flagpole once The King left the proverbial building. In the 30-plus years since his passing, a number of Elvis-based cults have cropped up around the world.

Most of these religions toe the line between sincere and tongue-in-cheek. The website for the First Presbyterian Church of Elvis, for instance, cites a list of “31 Holy Items” necessary for proper Elvis worship, including Brown ‘n’ Serve hot rolls and banana pudding (made fresh each night). The First Church of Jesus Christ, Elvis superimposes Elvis’ face onto classic religious portraits and sings the scriptural praises of the “Lord of Hostess.”

Still, the playful nature of Elvis worship hasn’t stopped anti-cult and pro-Elvis groups from warning against the phenomenon, and there have been more than a couple of scholarly studies about the parallels between Elvis adoration and more established religions. Could it be that Ed Sullivan’s censors were really on to something fifty years ago? Maybe all of that seductive hip-shaking truly did disguise a more sinister purpose.

Fela Kuti

His separatism was grounded more in politics than religion, but in the ‘70s and ‘80s, Fela Kuti was all things to a lot of people in Africa and beyond. The Afrobeat pioneer reportedly had a political awakening after meeting Black Panther Party members during a 1969 American tour. Upon returning to his native Nigeria, Kuti began transforming his estate into the Kalakuta Republic, a commune that would serve as home base for his rapidly growing entourage.

This unorthodox development caught the attention of the nation’s oppressive regime. As raids and harassment by the military became increasingly common, Kuti became all the more defiant. Over the years, he took up the mantle of “Chief Priest,” declaring the Kalakuta Republic a sovereign nation, renaming the compound’s night club “The Shrine” and taking 27 brides in one massive ceremony.

In 1977, the government grew frustrated with repeated failures to frame and discredit Kuti and stormed the compound with more than 1000 troops, killing Kuti’s elderly mother, destroying all of his musical facilities and burning the Republic to the ground. Unbowed, he founded his own political party and attempted to run for President in 1978. By the time of his AIDS-related death in 1997, Fela Kuti was enshrined in the minds of many Africans as a transcendent figure of righteousness, moving from cult leader to something closer resembling a full-blown religious icon.