The twenty seven Club is a production of I Heart Radio and Double Elvis Media. Jim Morrison died at the age of and he died under mysterious circumstances. I can give you twenty seven reasons why that statement is true. Two would be the number of dealers who would lead him down the labyrinthian path of a grungy Parisian rock club to an unknown fate. Another one would be the number of friends that he seemed to lose into thin air just when his days were dwindling down to nothing.
Twenty more would be the number of minutes, give or take, he'd spend in a stall, awake one minute and unconscious the next, cycling through the many layers of hell in his own mind. Another three would be the number of days it would take for anyone from the Door's camp to travel across the pond and attempt to figure out
what in the hell was going on. And one would be the number of people who claimed to have been there for his last moments when the Lizard King shuffled off this mortal coil, all totally on this our final episode of season two, a grungy Parisian nightclub, absent friends, hell and Jim Morrison lost in fantasy. I'm Jake Brennan
and this is the twenty seven Club. Yeah. It was well after midnight on Saturday, July three when Jim Morrison parked himself off at the bar at the Rock and Roll Circus and raised his arm at the bartender bombers who play. He shouted, it didn't matter what kind of beer it was or what country it came from, as long as it was cold and wet. He wanted it. A pike glass on the bar in front of him, he turned to his left and gave Jimbo a big,
welcoming slap on the back. Jimbo was already a few beers deep, already a few puffs de, already a few snorts of smack deep. Jimbo turned his head slowly to face Jim's, his eyes puffy and half closed, his beer dirty and prickly, and attempted a smile as he did. His last gulp of stella trickled from the edge of his lips, and he knocked the ash off of his half smoked galois and with the other hand crushed the empty blue box of smokes. It had been a long
night already. It was around one am, and the day it was catching up the Jim. The first swig of draft beer was a welcome salve at that moment. He had gone to eat that sweet and sour chicken that had given a bit of golf afterwards, and then to see the Robert Mitchen movie. Pamela stayed at home. She was even more tired than he was. No matter, they said, the best way to see a movie in a darkened theater was all by yourself alone, and the jury was
still out on that one. Afterward, Jim found his way back to the rock and roll circus, another late night deep dive into the deepest of late night skies joints. Maybe he'd run into a rolling stone or a beetle, or maybe Jimmie Hendrix. Shit, no, wait, he thought, and shook his head violently. Jimmy was fucking dead. He looked up from his bar stool at the mural on the
wall of Jimmy reimagined as a clown. Jim shook his head again, like if he shook it hard enough, he would clear out whatever was still in there that was messing him up. His eyes were close shut, his head still shaking back and forth, and the stella rattling around in his brain. When he heard the bartender show they called nep see, Jim opened his eyes. He looked at the bartender and pointed a finger straight at his own chest. Me ema words just all lips still in the shaking
head days. And the bartender looked past Jim and gesture, first throwing a wet bar towel over his shoulder and then giving a flick of the wrist into the air like he was shooting some cats away from his newly made tuna ficial sandwich. Then pissy, he repeated, the Count's not here man. Jim turned around to see two of the Count's dealers standing directly behind him. He met them before,
met them with Pamela. Pamela was tighter with the Count than Jim preferred, but these days, with this growing taste for heroin, it was good to have the Count around. And the Count had the good stuff, this ship that was spreading like wildfire in Paris, and the Count's smack was rumored to be something like eight six pc pure. Once Jim had broken his own no junk rule, it was all downhill, and the Count's smack was the best high Jim could ever hope to feel. And the dealers
weren't looking for the Count. They were looking for Jim, Mr Mojoe Rising, the Lizard King. And they were star fuckers just like the Count, haunted places like the Rocket Roll Circus, just like the Count, looking just like Jim was looking to run into a stone or a beetle. They'd settled for an expat Doris Singer, and they dismissed the bartender and gave him a very precise and simple look with no words, communicated one thing. Mind your own
goddamn business. Jim didn't know the dealer's real names, but he knew what they were called on the street. Was the half Asian guy, based on the nickname, assumed Chinese, but maybe that was part of the joke that he was actually half Korean or something. And the pet Robert was the one with the Napoleon complex. It was all nicknames to these guys. The Count nation Le Petit Robert, they called Jim jimbo. Jim was eager to correct them. Jim beamed ear to hear he was happy to see them.
As a Pavlovian response, he knew what was next, what was coming, He knew in a few short moments, he would follow the Count's street team into the stall with the busted lock and the French graffiti and the bowels of the rocket roll circus and do a line so long and so fat, you fucking explode. But first he had to correct him on this whole nickname thing. Guys, gentlemen, great to see, Jim said, standing up and giving the dealers some appreciative pats on the arm. People don't call
me Jimbo, man, I'm Jim Just Jim. This Jimbo. And he turned to introduce Lean la petit Robert to Jimbo. But Jimbo wasn't there. The barstool next to jim was empty, no glass, no sign of any activity, no stubbed out galo and the glass ashtray, no crushed blue box. That's fucking weird. Jim I thought Jimbo had just been here, half cocked it about ready to fall out of his chair, but he was here. He shook his head again. He
was still confused. Obviously, maybe Jimbo bounced, or maybe he hit the head, or maybe he was up the skirt to some French chick in the back alley somewhere. Jim slammed back the rest of his Stella, put the pint glass on the bar. He yelled at the bartender, where the did he go? He pointed at Jimbo's empty bar, and the bartender furrowed his eyebrows annoyed, Ready to close up for the night and send all these drunk bar
flies and junkies out into the street. He threw his hands up and looked quizzically at jim who Jim threw a couple of bucks down on the bar and turned back to the dealers. Never mind, next time, he'd introduced him. Next time, just fucking call him jim though, okay, no one called him Jimbo. And just as he had suspected, the next thing he knew, he was following less and lippety Robert down the hallway to the bathroom. A light on the wall flickered, another was out completely. A couple
necked up against the wall. The place stunk of stale cigarettes and spilled pints of stella and other orders that you find after midnight, and a half lit, dank slice of urban cave life underneath the major metropolis in one in the bathroom was dark too. When they walked inside, it was empty, just Jim and the guys. His vision was blurry, His head was a tangle of beer and msg and dead people and ship. He shook it again hard. This time his head shook it again, thinking that he
would suddenly glean the location of Jimbo. The dealer stared at him like he was having a seizure, and they were just waiting for it to be over. Jim reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out some crumpled up bills. Had no idea how much money it was, only that it was enough. Le petit. Robert took his money and gave him a baggy of the count's finest smack. Jim secluded himself in the first stall in the bathroom,
the one with the busted lock. It was locked. That wasn't the issue, but once it was locked, it was near impossible to get it to unlock. Jim closed the door behind him and latched the door shut. No one was getting inside the stall with him. He heard the bathroom door shut as the dealers saw themselves out, and Jim dumped the pilot Heroine out on the back of the toilet and dragged another damp French bill from his pocket. He rolled the up and snorted the majority of howders
straight off the porcelain. He did it fast, hard, and the junk rocketed up as sinuses, past his eye sockets and hit his brain. His eyes watered, and he felt each part of his brain light up like it had been plugged in direct to a wall socket, and each region of his head came alive, and the floor started to vibrate. He could smell something burning from inside his ears. He sat down on the toilet and held one hand against the wall and the other against the stall door.
He coughed blood he could taste it. Coughed again violently. This time he tasted a rubbery, massive blood in his mouth and spat it towards the floor. Had he not seen Jimbo when he came into the circus? Was he not at the bar waiting for him? Jimbo Wood said nothing to him tonight. He had said nothing to him when he first arrived in Paris and showed up at
Pamela's door. Come to think of it, Pamela had said nothing to Jimbo either, and jim thought it rude at the time, But it was almost like Jimbo wasn't even there. He coughed again more blood, and this time thought about the Billy Cook story. The Zodiac, thought about waking up on the doorstep of Eleanor Brow's place in l A, about snapping Papa tops with the Wizard at the door's rehearsal space. He caught more, and the blood came up again.
So did the memories stealing flowers from the flower children at the human being grabbing Janice Joplin's hair at the party. Right before he passed out, Jim had a distressing feeling, a feeling that he had put certain memories and certain recesses of his mind, his own personal rock and roll circus basement labyrinth and his bruize log noggin, and this fucking hardcore smack was shaking it all loose. They called him Jim, no doubt, But what if they called him
Jimbo too. Jim was fully under in some seventh level of sub circus hell. It was no longer in the bathroom stall of some dank, subterranean Paris rock club. He was long gone. And the second rip of Les Pete Robers junk rocketed straight up his nose, and then he rocketed straight downwards hell bent a sudden and sublime shift in his consciousness. It got darker, and the noxious odor of the Rock and Roll Circus bathroom stall curdled. He felt like he was submerged in liquid, thick, soupy liquid.
He could still breathe just fine. If he was told that he even flushed down the stall's toilet, he wouldn't have doubted it for a moment. His cough continued, and although the taste of blood in his throat was an irritating constant, it reassured him that his lungs weren't filling with that strange soupy water. He held on to the faintest memory of Jimbo, pieces he had just gotten a glimpse of while he snorted enthusiastically, the so called person who always appeared when jim was at his best and
hung around until he was at his worst. Well, he could no longer picture Jimbo's face in his mind's eye, what he sounded like, what he smelled like, the sorts of things he would say. The rocket hit a heroine had blown the whole concept of Jimbo straight out of Jim's ears. The bartender had looked at him moldly tonight when he was talking to Jimbo at the bar, almost as if he had been talking to an empty stool.
And then he flipped back further in his mind, which was soggy from the smack, and thought of all the times he went on a rocket spender and made a scene, made a fool of himself. Was him, only him, always him, always Jim, just Jim. Jimbo had no story. He was from nowhere. He lived somewhere but where. Jimbo was a crutch, something to hide bad behavior behind a mask of prickish entitlement. When Jim felt like being a prick, he knew that
he'd always known that Jimbo was nobody. Jim Morrison was somebody. Jimbo's weird obsession with Billy Cook and the Zodiac and the Wizard. Those were Jim's obsessions, deep seated obsessions of dark, twisted, fucked up America. He so wanted to put himself in
a dark, twisted, fucked up storyline of his own. Repressed as a child conservative household Florida bullshit, he rose above, tossed it off, left it behind, saw his repressed conservative upbringing in the face of an American public confused with who they were supposed to be, Craving instruction, direction, craving chaos to turn their little, insignificant worlds upside down. It was simple. Jim repeated the moment he rebelled against his norm,
against what was expected. His audience could do it too. He did it again and again. Instead of teaching the kids dance moves, he teached them the steps to move towards internal self diagnosed revolution. On stage at the Singer Bowl, Chicago, Phoenix, Miami, The Sullivan Show, he did it again and again and again and again and again. Killed the father, fucked the mother. He wasn't a killer, he was a liberator, an upset her.
Suddenly there was a loud knocking sound, massive vibrations. The seventh level of sub circus hell shook with wild, abandoned, violent, insistent. The commotion was all around him, shaking, kicking, knocking, French voices, yelling, Etsiel Morton. The busted door was ripped open, and Jim was back in the bathroom stall still slumped on the toilet, he coughed again, this time a fit that grobbed hold
of him and wouldn't let go. He coughed louder, struggled, to get to his feet, and there were men outside the stall door, and they reached in for Jim, helped him out. They thought he was a gonner in their ship. He'd been in there for twenty minutes. The dealers who had let him inside had fled the scene long ago, and the men were glad to see that Jim was all right. But more importantly, the rock and roll circus was closing for the night. Jim did not have to
go home, but I couldn't stay here. Jim wasn't sure how he got back to the flat with Pamela that morning, or how long it took him to get there. He remembered the men in the bathroom and more men ushering him outside. The late night early morning air was still humid from the day before. He puked on a sidewalk, reached in his pocket for a cigarette, but realized he had left him at the bar somewhere at the flat.
Pamela didn't seem that surprised to see him. She obviously had taken her own fair share of snorts that evening and was equally out of it. She opened her eyes wide when Jim devolved into another coughing fit. He ran into the bathroom and puked to get it was a mess, full of John coughing of blood, having the kind of revelations one can only have while on a lonely bender
in a foreign country. He needed a bath. A bath would do him good, stabilize him, get him back to that warm, liquidy, floating feeling he had experienced earlier in the circus bathroom stall. He turned the bathroom fauceted on, and the water rushed out in the It was a pleasant drone, soothing. He watched the steam rise from the water as it slowly filled up the tub, his eyes lost in the swirls of heat, the steam easing into his chest and calming his cough. He took his clothes off,
climbed in the tub, shut off the faucet. Then there was no sound at all, just the sound of his own breathing, and that absence of sound, which in turn makes its own sound a ringing faint. At first, rising, he heard sounds in the absence of sound that weren't there, And then he felt the nausea crash over him, a big wave of it. His stomach wretched, and he sat up from his reclined position, yelled for Pamela, but nothing, and the wave hit him again, gaining intensity now, and
Jim yelled for Pamela again. She was in the bathroom a few moments later. It felt like an eternity to Jim, half asleep, fully dozed, walking zombie. Jim told her he was going to be sick again. He needed a bucket, a pot of pans, something he couldn't moved from the tub. Hen did her help now, and Pamela returned with a pot from the kitchen and Jim immediately threw up in it. She rinsed it out, handed it back to him. He
was sick again again. Pamela rinsed it out and then he felt better, he had gotten it out of his system. He'd stay in the tub a while longer, and Pamela went back out to the living room, back to the couch, back to her own oblivion. She woke up after the sun had risen that morning, July three. Didn't see Jim, who wasn't on the couch with her, wasn't in the bedroom. She could hear the rustle of traffic outside the city come to life once again after a long, hot summer night.
The radio had been left on all night She was just realizing this now. The Grateful Dead's version of Sonny Boy Williamson's Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl was playing, and the signal was full of static and hum. I'm gonna leave you, baby about the break of day. I count of the way you treat me. I gotta stay away. She walked back to the bathroom slowly, cautiously. She started to have
bad thoughts about what she'd find in there. The worst thoughts, the thoughts that she had from time to time when she couldn't find him, when he wasn't where he said he'd beat, didn't come home when he said he would, The thoughts that would pop up when the band couldn't find him, when his manager couldn't find him, when it seemed like Jim just up and left the world without letting a soul know. Pamela was used to those thoughts,
but that didn't make them any less difficult. It didn't make the journey down the hallway to the bathroom any less traumatic. She called out his name as she got closer. No response. She said his name again, this time louder, this time closer to the bathroom door, but nothing. She stepped into the bathroom and the thoughts were gone, and she screamed out loud, screamed the thoughts away. Jim's body was still on the tub, but Jim, Jim was not. Jim was long gone, and he took Jimbo with him.
We'll be right back after this word. We were Bill Siddons wanted to see the body. If there was no body, it was all just fantasy, make believe. He wanted to see Jim Morrison's lifeless body on a slab, on a table, on a bed, in a bathtub, anywhere. He just had to put his eyes on it, check that box, vet verified. Someone just taken to the goddamn body. So he knew that it was true, that the rumors were true, the Pamela's call was true, and then he'd go into Bill
Siddons crisis mood. He'd handle it, take care of the ship, the media, the authorities, the label of the family, the doors, the fans. He Bill Siddons, the ship out of this thing. But he needed visual identification. Bill hadn't seen Jim in months, had hardly heard from him in months. International long distance call rates were no joke. The doors had money, sure, but Bill was smart, thrifty. Only call if absolutely necessary.
Jim sent the occasional postcard. In one to his lawyer, Max Fink, he wrote the women are great and the food is gorgeous, and another to Bob green Is accountant. He asked for credit cards for himself and Pamela, and also for an extra three large for the mounting bills that came. Was living a charmed life and giving zero ships.
Bill knew that Jim was taking some extended r and R in Paris, and Bill had instructed everyone to keep their distance, let him learn some new words, meet some new people, or you know what, meet no one who cares. Just let the guy disappear. Bill and the label would work. L a woman on the home front, continue to repair the still fragile image of the doors post Miami, and when Jim was ready to come home, ready to get back in the saddle and make music again, they'd be
waiting again. Bill was smart. He knew deep down that that would never happen. Jim was never coming home. Jim wasn't going to prison, he wasn't making any more records of the doors. He was an indefinite hiatus from the world. He had even used that word when he spoke to Bill about his status and Paris indefinitely. He had remade himself into an expas he was long gone. Then the calls came. The phone started ringing. That Saturday, July. Three calls came in French. Calls came in English. Calls came
in English with a French accent. And the calls were frantic, confused, concerned, heightened panics. Jim Morrison was dead. Bill had taken these calls before. It was a weekly game. He played back when the doors were at their height. Jim and drank himself to death over the weekend. Jim drove the Blue Lady into a telephone pole. Over the weekend. Jim got into a brawl with a Wilson brother. Over the weekend. The calls kept coming, the phone kept ringing. They all
repeated the same thing, Jim Morrison is dead. Bill get he confirmed this for us. Bill felt sick. His stomach dropped to somewhere around his knees, Sweat beaded around his collar, at his wrists, slid down his temples, and off his chin. He took each phone call with a stainless steel bowl on the desk next to him, in case he had to throw up on the fly, and then more calls came in that Jim Morris wasn't dead, he was just hospitalized.
He was very tired, he was resting, he had another bott of that coughing fit where he'd spit up blood and would feel woozy. And the news started running conflicting stories. Jim was in a hospital, Jim was in a sanitarium. The phone rang again, and this time it rang louder than all the other times, urgent, insistent, like a pair of hands was on the other side of the phone where it sat on the desk and shook it violently.
Bill picked up the receiver. It was Pamela. Her voice was quiet, weak, broken up by the cross atlantic connection. She sounded like she had been transported somewhere, somewhere she'd never been before, and she was finding her footing. She told Bill that the rumors were true. Jim was dead. Bill needed to be on the next plane to Paris. It was days before Bill could get there. Every day
was a new panic attack. The phone continued to ring, newspapers, TV stations, managers from other bands, venues, family, and the new rumors started up. Jim died of a heroin overdose in the rock and roll circus, Jim choked on his own vomit, just like Jimmy. A jealous mistress killed him with witchcraft. He was murdered to discredit the counterculture movement. Coke alcohol, heart attack suicide, killed by Count Smackula and his vicious dealers. He wasn't really dead at all. He
had just figured out how to disappear completely. That old evil spirit got a Greyhound bus and ride Pamela agree to build the door to were flat. When he finally made it, Bill needed to see the body, needed closure for personal reasons, and needed confirmation for professional matters. Pamela collapsed into Bill's arms, let it loose, like she had been holding back at day luser tears for days now,
which she had. She waited on Bill's shoulder, and Bill confronted her and repeated his request the body, pam where's the body? I need to see Jim, that's the problem. Pamela told him there is no body. There is no Jim the funk? Do you mean there is no Jim couldn't believe it. He had traveled all the way from Los Angeles to Paris, well over five thousand miles. At Pamela's request to see after his friend an employer, because Jim Morrison was dead. Jim Morrison was very much, very dead,
and now there's nobody. Pamela was scatter brained. She had flushed the rest of her heroin stash and burned a handful of Jim's letters before authorities got to the flat on Saturday. But when they did, she was too paranoid to panic, too firmly in the twin grip of shock and trauma to think clearly. There have been a paramedic that morning, a coroner, and Jim had been declared dead.
They said natural causes, most likely a heart attack. Because there was no suspicion of foul play, no autopsy was performed. French law, they put Jim in a coffin then and there, put him in a coffin, sealed it up. It was French tradition, do it quick. They told Pamela that's the way it was done, to just seal him up then and there and she could be with him in the flat.
She signed the death certificate that they brought her, and she didn't think to ask questions or asked for more information, or asked to make a phone call, because she just did not time to think. She wasn't thinking. The first lucid things she had done since Jim died was to call Bill. She had no one in Paris, no one
really who could help. They were a handful of friends and then people on the fringes, like the Count, but the Count had disappeared suddenly, and the friends they had there were more like drinking buddies and friends, dinner friends maybe, but not real friends, not the Bill Siddons type who would know what to do. Bill stood in the flat with Pamela. The coffin was there, but I was sealed, was already a done deal. That wasn't going to be the one to open it. Probably a million tablooms would
be breaking so. Unable to confirm that it was really Jim's body inside, and unable to speak to the attending doctor or get a second opinion, Bill just stood in the flat with pam and the coffin stood waiting. It was a lot Paris hot summer. A man who never identified himself to Pamela since he didn't speak English, she assumed he was from the more brought dry ice by the apartment a few times, but time was not on their side. They needed to get the body in the ground.
Bill would see the that that was a Bill size job. Pamela couldn't stop thinking about the night before, about Jim, the coffin, the vomiting, the bath he drew. They haunted her for years, followed her, clung to her, wouldn't let her go. Jim left everything to Pamela in his world, but his his state was a mess of lawsuits. Multiple women came forward with eternity claims that the remaining members
of the Doors wanted a fair share of royalties. Pamela got a little bit of money from the estate as the legal battles wore on, but it wasn't enough to live on, especially give him. The heroine habit she continued to harbor more than the lack of money, though. It was the memory of Jim, the memory of that morning in the bathroom. She couldn't let it go. Her heroin habit got worse. She described herself as Jim's wife. Despite everything that had happened, she was expecting Jim to return.
He'd show up one day. It would have all been a sick joke. People would whisper conspiracy theories in her ear, friends, strangers, even people in the doors in her circle. They tell her that it wasn't even Jim's body and the coffin, and she was scared to death that they were right, that Gym was somewhere, had been somewhere all along, waiting for her. But while she waited, she had nowhere else
to turn to, no one else to turn to. She went deeper in, give in to the addiction, gave into the darkness, and three years after Jim died in Pamela was dead of a heroin overdose. She was seven. The doors weren't at Jim Morrison's funeral, neither were his family or his friends. The ceremony of Pelich Cemetery at Division six was attended by Pamela, Bill Siddons, two of Jim's friends in Paris, photographer Alan Rene and French new wave
filmmaker Agnes Varda, and jim secretary Robin Werde. The cemetery was also the final resting place of fellow Leo Tell guests Oscar Wild, as well as Edith Piaf and Frederick Chopin. It was a Wednesday, July see it was like a funeral for someone that no one really knew, and Bill thought of the unknown soldier, because he still wasn't one pcent positive that the ceremony they staged was for the person who was in the box or not. How could he ever be sure? When he got back to the States.
Raymond z Eric shared his skepticism. How would any of them ever know? That it had all happened so fast? Pamela didn't know what to do when the French authorities gave it barely a moment's notice and suddenly had to get the body in the ground before a word had time to spread, before the body and the coffin had tied to rot the body, none of them who knew
Jim had actually seen. Jim was buried before most of the world knew what had actually happened, that he was actually dead and gone five months before his birth day, and the grave side soon became its own rock and roll circus. Long after the Ceed Underground Club closed shop. It became mecca for fans from all over the world, Fans who brought flowers, bottles of boos, drawings, candles, potted plants,
makeshift crosses, seashells, poems, lyrics. People would travel to visit Jim's grave and make a day of it, and afternoon and evening, they let up cigarettes and waxed poetic about this world and the next about art and poetry and music. They take a hit from a joint, leaned back and that heads resting on the bellies of others, contemplating the sky, contemplating death, contemplating life. At first, the grave wasn't properly marked,
and so the fans did the marking themselves. Jim's family and the other members of the Doors had a hard time properly grieving grave side because it was a constant zoo. The cult of Jim Morrison wasn't going anywhere. In fact, it was coalescing here grave side. Some like John Densmore, didn't visit the grave side for years for other reasons. John, like the others the band, hated seeing Jimbo dragged Jim down a cliche inevitable path to self sabotage. Jim was
a beautiful thing and Jimbo ruined it. Three years after Jim's death, John was finally able to travel to Pere la Chaise to pay his respects. On the tenth anniversary of Jim staff and actual headstone was finally installed. The headstone and an accompanying bust of Jim were created by Mlada mcculkin, a Croatian artist and fan of the doors. The zoo that passed through the cemetery scrowled on the bust and black marker and in paint, defiling it with
names and dates and messages. Pieces of the bust were broken off when it was stolen in mccullin's once generous homage was a decimated shadow of its original self. In December of nine, Jim's family had the trashy grave site cleaned up and a brand new headstone installed with the bronze plaque. Jim's mother and father stood in front of the grave site for a few moments. It was the first time they had been near their sun in years. And then on July twenty, anniversary or Jim's death, the
cemetery gates caught fire at midnight. Thousands descended upon the pair of shades, ready to honor the memory of Jim Morrison with the thing he had both subtly and over he tried to get his audiences to do over the years right. Jimmy tried to take them there years ago, egged them on to throw chairs and yell at cops and upend the status quo in general. They got close to full blown ma'am on a few occasions, and now, twenty years after he had left them, they would finally
give him the chaos he craved. Cars were flipped over, fights broke out, bruises, blood destruction. The riot squad was called in and the tear gas flew, and the cops clashed with the fans. The giant wooden doors at the entrance of the cemetery went up in flames. This blood in the streets, it's up to my ankles. Even in death, Jim inspired and uprising the eternal upsetter, And even in death, the authorities stepped in before Jim's revolution went too far.
They beat back the rioters, sent them home and courting off the area around Jim's gravestone. In two thousands sixteen, a councilman from Jim's hometown in Florida made a bid to relocate Jim's grave from Paris to the Sunshine State. The French and the Doors management both had a good laugh over that one. Jim shrine wasn't going anywhere Florida Man. The Door's original lineup only released six studio albums in the span of four short years. Despite the brevity of
their output, their legacy has grown to mythic proportions. In the nineteen eighties, the Doors catalog was flying off record store shelves, aided in part by Electra's decision to drop the list price on half of their LPs. The Doors sold more albums after Jim Morrison's death than they ever did when he was alive. Francis Ford Coppola's nineteen seventy nine film Apocalypse Now may have had something to do
with the rise and popularity. It's You, So the End is iconic and became a model for rock music and movies about the Vietnam War. Despite the graveside shrine and the post mortem record sales, the rumors persist, as rumors do, that he faked his own death. That Jim Morrison hopped up Playe in Paris early on that morning of July three and was never seen again. That there's nothing but sand in his coffin, That he's living as a poet on the streets of New York City, That he opened
a ranch in Oregon. Jim Morrison, the poet, the artist was he real? Jim Marrison, the drunk, the oh was he real. Jim Marris and the revolutionary, the upstart, the challenger of norms? What about him? Was he real? And Jim Morrison, the dilettante, the tenderfoot, the poser? How about him? What was fantasy and what was the truth? With Jim Morrison, sometimes the genius moments were a masquerade. At other times
they were super real. Sometimes he played the role of the fool, and it was tough to say in those moments that the joke was on him or us, or if it was a joke at all, or books his life for perhaps even his death. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is the seven Club, all right. The twenty seven Club is scored and co written by myself, Jake Brennan. Zeth Blundy is the lead writer and editor on the show.
Matt Bowden mixes the show. Additional music and score elements by Ryan Spreaker in Henrynetta and The Seven Club is produced by myself for Double Elvis and partnership with I Heart Radio. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on the twenty seven Club series page.
And The seven Club is released weekly every Thursday. Season one features twelve episodes on Jimmie Hendricks, which are all available for you to binge right now wherever you get in podcasts, and if you like what you hear, please be sure to subscribe to the twenty seven Club on Apple podcast to I Heart Radio Apple wherever you get goes.
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And as always, you can find me blabbing about other crazy rock stars and my other shows Disgrace, Lam and Blood on the tracks and you can talk to me per usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgrace Land Rock ROLLA. What's up your ear is