Meeting Ray

Jim Morrison and Ray Manzarek were one of the best teams in Rock 'n' Roll history, but nobody seems to have given much credit to Morrison/Manzarek and they never achieved the legendary status of Lennon/McCartney or Jagger/Richards, but maybe it was because the credits on the records read The Doors instead of Manzarek/Morrison. Ray was the linear mathematically precise keyboard player from Chicago who loved the blues. He met Jim Morrison at UCLA when both were there in the film school; the rational and irrational working together. Soon after, Ray met John Densmore and Robby Krieger at a meditation center, and The Doors were born. Morrison lived on the edge and pushed the others to those extremes. He was the artistic center of the band, the spark, the indefinable something that led The Doors beyond their boundaries of the rational into the irrational fires of creativity, a landscape never before seen; their new world, a sensuous wild west. Robby, who wrote most of the 'hit' songs followed Morrison's lead, adapting Morrison's imagery and themes. While all three were talented musicians, after Morrison died they never again hit the creative or popular high Morrison had driven them to.

Ray was playing with Michael McClure at Lounge Ax on the North side of Chicago. The trendy Clark Street area where the St. Valentine's Day Massacre had happened, but now was just old buildings filled with Starbucks, bookstores, and upscale theme restaurants "owned" by sports legends. The club had always enjoyed a cult status, even to a suburban boy like me, as one of Chicago's premiere clubs to see bands. So, when we got there it was disappointing. The reality clashed with my idea of what it was going to be like after years of hearing how cool it was. We walked right past it at first, we stood on the sidewalk looking for the address. When we turned back the way we had come, three girls came out of a blackened storefront. They were dressed in spandex and lace tops. I yelled to them “Hey! Is this Lounge Ax?” They looked back and sized us up before answering.
“Yeah,” she said. I looked over the facade, there was nothing announcing its presence, no sign that said Lounge Ax, no fancy logo, or neon sign just the blackened out front window. I guess you were just supposed to "know" this was it.
“Is it open yet?”
“Yeah, go on in.”

Inside, Jim and I stopped to pay the ten dollar cover charge. As we ventured deeper into the narrow space the rest of my romantic illusions were thoroughly dashed. The nightclub was wedged into the storefront. The bar ran almost the length of the club, at the back was a riser for the 'stage' that rose maybe eighteen inches above the floor. The space between the bar and the stage was four feet of linoleum for a dance floor, and opposite of that, of all things, were wooden bleacher seats, four or five seats high. It looked like there were five or six of the stage risers stacked on top of each other and bolted together. In the middle of the linoleum floor was a music stand and a keyboard, surely Ray's. The keyboard was being given a respectful space by the growing crowd in the shrinking room. The crowd seemed an even mix of women and men, but every third guy had on leather pants and a white shirt, concho belt optional for individuality, waiting to be discovered by Ray. We got a couple of beers and chatted away time until the show started.

Without announcement Ray and Michael McClure came out from behind a black curtain. Michael McClure, the beat poet, was friends with seminal beat writer Jack Kerouac who was an early influence on the young Jim Morrison. Later, after The Doors and Morrison's fame, McClure met Morrison, and they became friends. On this night McClure was dressed all in black with a Dr. Whoish multi-colored scarf . While he was arranging his manuscripts on the music stand, Ray adjusted himself behind the keyboard. He turned the power knob on and waited for McClure. Ray's graying hair was in a short spiked crew cut, he was dressed in latter day Carnaby Street fashion. Ray looked to McClure who nodded and Ray started to play. The crowd pressed in, a solid mass from stage to door, the waitresses pushed their way through the crowd. I lost track of Jim, but could feel his presence close by.

Ray played the accompaniment to McClure's words. Filling in the holes where words ended. Ray added his own statements, describing the indescribable. And McClure's words complimented the music, filling in the holes of Ray's music, giving form to the formless, interweaving to create aural textures. I closed my eyes bopping my head, grooving to the whole thing and let the eurythmia carry me away. McClure's words invoked Morrison, Ray played the ribbon of notes that make up the iconic opening of Light My Fire, “do-do-do-dew-do,” the crowd pressed forward as one, I opened my eyes, and for a moment I saw colors! The music had taken me on a trip! They had stripped away the boundaries of ordinary perception. For a moment I had stepped through the doors!

Ray looked up from his keyboards, "any questions?" He asked the audience. While McClure leafed through the pages on the music stand
"What was Jim like?" Someone yelled from the back.
"I could tell you what he was like, man," Ray said, in his gravely voice, "but what you really want to hear is, he was a cool guy, and fun to hang out with. He was, but he also could be a jackass, but that was only when he was drunk."
"Is Jim dead?" Another disembodied voice asked.
"Now, that wouldn't be much fun, would it," there was a kindly, but condescending tone in his voice like a somewhat stern schoolmaster in his twentieth year of explaining an overly simple problem to students, "if I told you Jim was alive, and living at 1349 California Avenue?" It couldn't be as simple as going to that address to find Jim Morrison alive and well. But what if it was reverse psychology? I let myself be intoxicated by the thought for a moment. What if Ray were telling the truth? What if it could be so simple as to find Jim Morrison alive, as to just knock on the door at that address! What would I find? A middle-aged Jim with a white beard and a world weary smile relieved it was all over? Or a cantankerous Morrison, pissed off at being discovered? Either way, I would be the greatest hero of the Doors world! Maybe of the Rock 'n' Roll world! Maybe of the world! But my imagination reined in from its fantasy, I knew Ray had been born and grew up in Chicago, I figured that address was probably his families old house or his Grandparent’s house or something much more prosaic like that.
"Seriously," Ray said, "Jim was a great guy but he denied himself his birthright, to see the future. So take his example and lead as an extraordinary a life as you can, push beyond your boundaries, see as much of the future as you can, and report back." During all this McClure had been standing at the music stand listening to Ray, without a signal Ray went into their next piece.

When it was over Ray said, "I'll only sign albums or things like that, no bar napkins." A collective groan went throughout the crowd, "really, what's that anyway?" He asked facetiously, "a napkin?" He and McClure were immediately surrounded by their admirers, the crowd around Ray was a little larger. As the admirers dwindled, a line formed. I stood at the end of the line and watched as Ray signed albums and chatted with girls. I stood there like an acolyte awaiting consecration, ‘but of what?’ I asked myself. While standing in line, I don't know how many times I heard people ask 'what was he like?' or some variation of that question. I wondered how many times Ray had heard that question in the almost twenty years since Morrison's death, and how many times would he hear it in the next twenty, thirty, forty or fifty years. Finally it was my turn.
"I don't have anything." I stammered out.
"Well, good luck," he said, smiling down on me as he stood up and went backstage.

Jim and I sat at the bar having another beer, waiting for I don't know what. Hoping to glimpse, one more time, the life I wanted. The styled hair, the fashionably elegant clothing, enough money in my pocket to buy whatever I desired, people hanging on my every word and rushing towards me. Or hoping Ray would see something in me, or that he'd even leave by the front door. I was beginning to feel like a stalker. I was tired of being a spectator I wanted to be on that stage. I wanted to be the one people were screaming for, trying to be with. I saw a long white limo pull up. From the back, Ray and Michael McClure came walking towards the door.
"Mr. Manzarek," I blurted out, just before they were safely out the door, and then I didn't know what to say. I knew I had only milliseconds to formulate, and say something to him, so I said the first thing that came into my head, "I'm going to start a cover band. Maybe you can come see us and give us a recommendation?"
"Sorry man, but I've been down that road. If that's your path, it's success or failure is your own challenge." And they left. I felt even more foolish than before, like a tourist caught on the wrong side of the velvet rope.

A couple of minutes later Jim and I were walking back to the car. It was about midnight, the night was cool and crisp, the sky dark blue, the streetlight halos like a starry, starry night, our breaths frosted puffs in the November air.
"Let's do it!" I exclaimed.
"Do what?" Jim asked.
"Let's go to that address Ray mentioned. 1349 California Avenue and see if Jim is there."
"You're crazy, it's not close."
"Closer than Madison." I said.
"So, we're going to knock on these people's door in the middle of the night and ask if Jim Morrison is there?"
"Sure, why not? We'd be the greatest heros of Rock 'n' Roll!"
"Or just two drunk guys arrested for bothering people in the middle of the night instead of going home." My enthusiasm deflated, I knew I wouldn't knock on that door by myself. I'd never know what was on the other side of that door. You either are something or not, I was neither. What did I have in life? My trailer? My Collections? Maybe Deidre was right, and I didn’t even have her any more. Where was that new world? I trudged on to the car. Then, I had the one moment of pure genius in my life, maybe there was another way to find Jim Morrison. It ceased to be a dream and became something more tangible, it turned to power as it manifested in my mind and I saw how I could do it! I'd been flirting with it for months and even said it to Ray. It was like I had been wandering in a wilderness and the path was now before me, the dream was over, I had woken up!
"I'm going to do it!" I exclaimed, jumping around, flapping my arms. Maybe it was from my new found sense of purpose, the excitement of meeting Ray, maybe it was the cold, or maybe because I was just a little drunk.
"Do what?" Jim asked.
"The cover band, The Doors cover band idea I told you about!"
"You were drunk." He said, as we walked down the street.
"Yeah, and I am now. The more I think about it, the more I see it can work. I can't get it out of my head."
"Well, can you sing?" He asked.
"No."
"Are you in a band?"
"No!"
"Do you know anyone in a band?"
"No! Jesus, don't be so hung up on the details. If you let the little things like that stand in your way, you're never going to get anywhere. I'll start this band, then maybe Ray will come and see us! And maybe even endorse us!" Then I had a vision, "or even think I'm good enough to perform as Jim, and we'll get together with Robby and John. I can tour with The Doors!"
"You're crazy."

It was a long drive back to Madison. As we sped deeper into the night, I tried to sleep, but couldn't. I rolled around fitfully in the seat, no matter which way I turned I couldn't get comfortable. I couldn't wait to get back to Madison to put my plan into effect. I knew I was running out of time to do something in life, but did I really have the balls to open that door?

(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal (jymwrite@aol.com, please don't forget your mailing address!)

Chapter VII: The Master Plan