Jim Morrison Episode 3: Jim Turns Obscene and Destructive, While Iggy Pop Sees the Future.

still gave a performance. Twelve more would be the number of weeks the doors would hold onto the coveted spot of house band at the Whiskey A Go Go on the Sunset Strip before Jim's hatred of authority and foul

mouth got them kicked out for good. Another one would be the number of Walt Disney affiliated studios he hosed down with a fire extinguisher buck naked, and three will be the number of years he'd have left to live after the man who would become Iggy Pop witnessed Jim give a beautifully destructive performance in Detroit on this our third episode of season two. Foul mouths, fire extinguishers, beautiful destruction, and Jim Morrison lost in another fantasy. I'm Jake Brennan

and this is Phil Tanzin. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. His ears were hot. He was enraged, he was shocked, and tan Zini did a shock easily. His ears were hot with the filth coming from the mouth of Jim Morrison. He wouldn't be surprised in the least if someone told him in that moment that smoke was literally coming from his ears. His nost was flared and a shutter surged through his body. Tan Zini stood up from a desk in the office at the back

of the whiskey a go go. Stood up so fast that he banged his knee in the desk drawer hard. The pain and his knee only added to the frustration he was feeling. He lost it fuck. He hopped on one foot, grabbed his knee with his hands and tried to rub the pain out. He had to move quickly in the atmosphere, and the whiskey was getting x rated real fast, and tan Zini had to bring the hammer down. He dragged Jim Morrison off the stage by his long hair. If he had to pull the plug on the equipment,

something anything to make it stop. He could hear Jim on stage, doubling down on his initial obscenities with cathartic shouts into the overloaded microphone. Kill Fuck, Killed Fuck. It was August and the doors were dragging out and especially loud climactic edition of the end. Robbie Kreeger played the repetitive Eastern guitar vamp over and over like he was in a trance, and Raymond's Eric made his vox organs squeal while his left hand held down the looped bassline.

John Densmore brought his jazz chops to the forefront with some well timed fills that exploded like bombs. The whole band was buzzing with tension and release, and then we get loud and unhinged Jim shrieking into the mic, and then tighten everything up and get quiet again. It was in those moments of quiet that Jim began to slowly

turn the song into theater, obscene theater. His unrehearsed ramble in front of a stunned crowd was a reductive take on that of his Rex, and his final lines were what made Tanzini leap from his chair like a bat out of hell, father, I want to kill you. Jim wrapped one of his black weather cloud legs around the microphone stand, rubbed his crotch against the long metal pole the way that he always did, the way that made the girls in the audience to loose their ship. It

wasn't jested, it wasn't coated. It was blatant. And this was why the girls and boys flocked the Whiskey in the summer of sixty six to see this aloof elegantly wasted rock god Wh's effortless sex all over the sunset strip. And he didn't disappoint. He never disappointed. But then things been weird. Father, I want to kill him. Jim regained a balance on the stage floor, leads into the microphone stand, and looked up toward the club's low ceiling. No one moved.

The Go Go dancer stopped moving in their suspended cage, The audience ground to halt, waitresses stopped serving drinks. All eyes were on Jim, eyes shut tight as he made this assault on the mic. Mother, I want to fuck you. All the night lost Tanzani knew that Jim was going to push him over the edge. Ever since they had hired the doors to be the Whiskey's houseman back in May. He wouldn't say how or when. He couldn't, but he knew it would happen. And Jim have been pushing his

butt for months now. He was arrogant, he was condescending. He racked up an absurd bar tab and he was searching for buttons to push, hell bent on butting the hand that fed his band. He found the button in Tancini. He pushed it and this was the moment, the button moment. It was happening right now. Another one of the Whiskey's owners, Elmer Valentine, could be a little softer with the bands,

even if his background suggested otherwise. Valentine was a former Chicago cop who made his way to l A after being indicted for extortion in Shy Town. His side hustle was running nightclubs for the mob. Was on their payroll into Valentine and other cops at the time. It was the way things were. It wasn't dirty, it just was what it was, a means to an end. Valentine was never convicted, but he got out of town, headed west and redefined himself as a club owner. And since he

had some experience under his belt. After running PJS in West Hollywood, Valentine took a trip to Europe and discovered Discothex. He brought the concept back to l A and make the Whiskey a go go the preeminent place for live rock music in the city, perhaps even in the entire country, and he never let those wise guy connections dry up. When the Whiskey opened, he signed Johnny Rivers to play

regularly for a year. Mr Secret Agent man himself. Bill Gazari, another l A club owner, claimed that Valentine's stole Rivers from his place and he wanted Johnny Rivers back. Valentine can go fund himself. Gazari put in a call to the infamous Chucky English, one of Sam Gi and Kanna's top men in Chicago, and Chucky English made the trip across the country to the Whiskey and laid it out real nice. Johnny Rivers goes back to Gazari's or Valentine

was a fucking dead man. Valentine remained calm. You got on the phone, rain back home to Chicago. Felix Saldericio a k A Milwaukee Phil a k A hit Man's hit man with at least fourteen confirm Mafia Kills, who's a close friend of Valentine's. Valentine needed him to come out to l A and do him this favor. Get this fucking Gazari funk off his back, and so he did, and so that was that it was settled. Johnny Rivers kept playing the whiskey. The whiskey didn't feel mobbed up.

It felt like the coolest room on the planet. The Whiskey cigarette Girl Patty Brockhurst was also its house DJ. Valentine wanted patrons to keep dancing between bands, and since there wasn't enough room on the floor for a DJ booth, a glass walled booth was mounted above the floor, where Patty would spin LPs and dancing or miniskirt. It was such a hit the Valentine hired some additional dancers to

join Patty. The crowd shook their asses NonStop following the direction of the women suspended from the dance cage above the whiskey. A Go Go turned the strip into the Promised Land, the scene to end all scenes. Raymond Zara called it Mecca. Even if it's glamorous, commercialized seen was the exact opposite of the Bohemian artist fantasy they had concocted on Venice Beach. The Whiskey attracted Hollywood elite Carrie Grant,

Jane Mansfield, Steve McQueen, Jack Parr. They all got their rocks off at eight and nine oh one Sunset Bull of her as the Whiskey Ago Goes house band. The Doors opened for Buffalo Springfield, the Birds Love Captain Beefheart, Frank Zappin and the mothers of invention the Turtles. When them came into town, their frontman Van Morrison went on a bender for days with Jim and they saying g L O R I A on stage together two brothers from other mothers, a duo of Morrison's for the ages

right there on the Sunset Strip. Earlier in that year, the Doors has secured a recurring gig at the London Fog. The club was a few doors down from the Whiskey, but not nearly as respected. At least they were Whiskey adjacent, They were in the orbit, and they were where the action was. But the doors had no draw and the fog wasn't consistent with payment. Serendipitously, Ronnie mellon the Whiskey's talent bookers saw the Doors at the fog on the night they were let go, She went back and told

Valentine they needed to be the Whiskey's houseman. Now, Tanzini was regretting the whole thing, regretting ever, allowing Jim Marrison to defile the stage, to rub his tight pants and the mic stand to how like a wounded animal, to play his music way too fucking loud, to say the kinds of things a normal person just wouldn't say on stage, You sick fuck. Tansini was screaming as he approached the stage, You say that six ship about your mother on my stage,

on my stage. Who the funk? Who the funk do you think you are to say that six ship on my stage? Then tan Zini fired the band and they were done. He was all out of patients, with Jim being all on a fox, the cush gig they had won over every other band in l A was taken away from them just like that, and it was all Jim's fault. The Doors knew there was a caveat that came with having Jim Morrison as their front man. This was the caveat, But Jim wasn't just a liability on

stage in front of an audience. He didn't even need an audience. He slipped deeper into that fantasy world, felt himself more invincible as the months went on and the band game notoriety. His act wasn't merely attention seeking. He was all in, so far in that it was almost second nature when he took off all of his clothes and lit up the recording studio with a loaded fire extinguisher. Paul Rothschild stepped outside the New Jersey State Prison for the first time in nine months and felt that early

morning July sun smack him in the face. It was hot and muggy, felt like summer, smelled like Trenton. He didn't take the moment for granted. That Jersey sun could smack the every loving ship out of him all day. If he wanted to, he'd soak it up the maximum security behemoth dwarf Frothchild, where he stood waiting for the gates to ceremoniously open, his balding head a little more bald than when he was first put in the cell nine months earlier. Holy shit, he thought nine months he

grow a human being in nine months. He had done his time with murderers. These racketeers and psychopaths, as well as those who like himself, were there because of some petty bullshit. Rothschild was there for a couple of joints if you could believe that he couldn't marijuana possession. In the mid sixties, the police had raging, hard honest to bus people smoking grass, fringe folk, hippies, rock and rollers.

So the squares put him inside the Trent and Fortress and did their best to make him feel like a different person, a normalized person, a reformed person. The nine months Rothchild spent inside were full of monotony. There was no music, no work, and certainly no grass. But he couldn't stamp the music out of Paul Rothschild. Rothschild was Electro wreck and senior staff producer. He was hired by

Electra president Jack Holdsman in sixty three. He had produced records by folk He's like Phil Oaks and Tom Rush. In sixty four he discovered the Paul Butterfield Blues Band. When he was sent to jail in November nine, Holsman

kept him on the payroll. It was only nine months and Electra would be waiting for him when he got out and now there he was the one Electra and Holsman were waiting for, standing there under the hot July sun, receding hairline, dramatic mutton chops on his cheeks, beads around his neck, sandals on his feet, unless cigarette behind his ear, real fucking far from reformed. But how would he do this? How would he acclaim back into reality? Who would he

work with? Who would want to work with him? A producer with a rap sheet, Jack Holsman of the Perfect group that summer, Arthur Lee of Love, Electra's first rock group and a quintessential example of the mid sixties psychedelic folk rock scene in l A, brought Holzman to the whiskey. He had to see this band. The singer was wild, unpredictable, a nique. The band really cooked. It took Holsman to

repeat visit, but he got turned on. And the doors have been dicked around by Columbia Records, signed and then sat on with little enthusiasm by the label's brass. They had been picked up and dropped with a little fanfare, and they needed a place to go. Polsman needed another exciting rock band and continue to diversify, which was roster, the Doors are gonna blow people's minds, or as l a critic Jean young Blood said, the Beatles and the

Stones are for blowing your mind. The Doors are for afterwards, and your mind is already gone. The Doors welcomed Rothschild with open arms, a record producer fresh out of the joint for smoking dope. Yes, that was the only icebreaker the band needed, and they were all in. Rothschild and the Doors checked into Sunset Sound Recorders in Hollywood, a studio that Disney's director of Recording, two D. Camarada, had

built in the late fifties at Walt Disney's request. Used at first to record music for vintage Disney films, it would become a legendary spot where the Beach Boys would make pets sounds. The Stones would finish exile on Main Street. Janis Chopping would record Pearl and Prince would track Purple Rain.

In six days, the Doors were done. They tracked Light by Fire, Break On Through to the Other Side, Soul Kitchen, Backdoor Man, the End, along with the other six songs that would make up their groundbreaking self titled debut album. The band was picking up steam. Their sound was new and hungry. They put the drama of the Whiskey behind them, but Jim wasn't done with all the drama yet. There was other drama to find and exploit. He wasn't done with the theater yet either, and there were still words.

He hadn't said things, he hadn't done people, he hadn't shocked. He wasn't done with the fantasy. The doors were trying to record the end when Jim, stoned and ranting, decided to rip the television cord out of the wall and smash it to ship. He hurled it towards Rothschild in the control room of the studio, but the boxing TV was stopped by the large wall of sound proof glass separating the control room in the studio. Jim was shocked the glass didn't break. It was a letdown anti climb

actic a. Rothschild cut the session short. Jim obviously needed to sleep this one off. Rothschild put him in a car and had someone drive him home, but Jim didn't make it home. Jim wasn't done, had to finish what he started. He bailed out of the car as it was rolling down Sunset Boulevard, just like he had bailed to kiss the fourteen year old that time on Hawthorn. He ran down sunset, moaning and groaning so loud that he fitted perfectly with the human wildlife crawling around at

this late hour on the streets. When he made it back the sunset side, everyone was gone. And then he saw smoke coming from the building's windows. Jesus, he thought they kick him out of the studio, and then the place catches on fire. He climbed the gate and found his way into the empty building. He could tell the fire it was coming from the studio room they have been recording in. He had to do something. He was

sweating and panting from all the running. He was already hot, and he just got hotter and hotter the closer he got to the studio room. With the fire inside, his heart beat wildly and his arms shook with unchecked adrenaline. It was time to go full wild child. It was time to get real faro and Jim took his clothes off, took them all off. He felt free, loose, unfettered, fucking invincible. He burst into the room and used his clothes to try to smother the flames. Threw his shirt down on

some fire. It's smoldered, threw his jeans down on some fire and they seemed to do the trick, but there was too much fire, too much smoke. He didn't have that many clothes, and frustrated, he threw ash trees around the room, up ended the table if it wasn't bolted down to get tossed, and then he grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and let it ripped spray down

the whole room. The crackling of the flames and the white noise surge of the fire extinguisher filled his ears with a beautiful cacophony foam from the fireston which recovered everything, the control board, the tapes, John Densmore's drums, and Robbie Creaker's guitar, and not an inch of the room was missed. Jim was thorough. He was both a hero and a wild force of destruction. He could have his cake, and

he did too. As the fire extinguishers sputtered its last final blasts of white foam, Jim collapsed in her chair, exhausted, fulfilled. He had finished when he started. Later that night, Rothchild found Jim nearly passed out in that chair, and the entire room covered in chemical foam. It was like a marshmallow crime scene. He shook. Jim awake was babbling about a fire fire. Rothchild was confused and angry. There was

no fire. It was just a studio room entirely covered in goo and a bunch of random ship thrown around and smashed. Damn Jim Rothchild said, it took a real beautiful thing, fucked it up good. Jim, still naked and out of his mind, smiled At times like these, the devilish encouragement and hostility of his friend Jimbo bounced around in his head. Even when Jimbo wasn't standing right next to him, Jimbo was always there, always commenting, always provoking.

Even if Jim was naked and alone in a recording studio, it wasn't really ever alone. And yeah, Rothchild was right. He did fuck it up. He sucked it up real good. But it was a private act of insanity. It's shocked Rothchild, a guy who had recently spent time in the big House and didn't shock easily. But Jim needed a bigger audience, a bigger stage, passing insanity along to the masses, and they were thirsty for it anyway. Twenty tho unsuspecting hippies in a public park was a good place to start.

We'll be right back after this word. We were Jim Morrison and Jimbo made the scene. Jim tagged along behind Jimbo. Jima looked out onto the crowd of twenty people gathered in Golden Gate parkin thought, fuck these flower children. Fucked this grassroots activism, and fucked these wild eyed, deluded losers. President Kennedy was still dead, and after Watts, Cleveland had rioted, oh Mad rioted, and there were almost two U S

soldiers in Vietnam. The world was a ball of confusion, and these starry eyed, optimistic fools thought that holding hands in the middle of San Francisco would make things better. At least the folks and Watts knew what was up. Fuck sh it up, make it stint, make the establishment feel the pain the human being. Even the name was stupid. Life was chaos, disorder, life was fucked up. Life wasn't tidy and lovey dovey, and where was the fun and

just floating along in ignorant bliss. Anyways, it was always more fun to make a mess of things. And this is what Jimbo thought while he made his way through the throngs of smiling San Franciscan's, pausing to take in Timothy Learry's speech from the stage and the one time Harvard professor and LSD prophet recently touring college campuses to

spread the good word of the acid. Ture rang fourth with the mantra that the whole movement would adopt the movement that was taking form here and now in Golden Gate Park, turn on, tune in, and drop out, drop out. Jimbo fixated on those final words. He plucked them from Leary's entire sentence and kept on repeating them out loud, quietly at first, and then louder. It was his own mantra. Now he spun around in the public park and the cozy jan whevery sunshine, yelling drop out, and all the

smiling faces. Jimbo plucked the flower from behind the ear of a teenage girl with long blonde hair. He squeezed it in his palm into The petals had been ripped off and the stem was crumpled, and then he let it droop and fall into the ground. The girl looked on in horror. He snatched a joint from the fingers of short haired flower chap some young kid who was in the early stages of letting it all hang out. Jimbo snatched the joint and just ate it. Stuck the

lip roach in his mouth and started to chew. He smiled while his cheeks moved up and down, and then blew residual smoke right back into the kid's face. Fuck him, he thought. He grabbed girls dresses and pulled them sky high to get a peep, deliberately bumped his rugged shoulder into the shoulders of passing kids with rose colored glasses

and gob smacked faces. Fun Pretzel book, he would really dig his shoulder into, set them reeling, flailing backward, and then follow up with a bloated, drunk confrontation, what the fucking your problem? Jim Morrison trailed Jimbo, stoned and drunk as usual, chuckling at Jimbo's hijags, but also affording himself the luxury of keeping his distance. Louis plenty going on in January, but on this particular Saturday, San Francisco was

certainly where it was at the human being. A prelude to that year's Summer of Love was builled as a gathering of the tribes, and truly it was hippy. Kids walked side by side with business men in suits. Everyone was encouraged to breathe a little deeper and take things a little slower, peacefully, protests the war, love one another, smile upon another, look at the world in a different way.

Come together. Rainbow colored posters for the mass event asked people to bring flowers, insects, feathers and candles, to bring animals, symbols, chimes, and flutes. Organizers expected about a thousand people to show up at Golden Gate Parks polo fields, but guestimates put

the actual number of attendees between money and thirty. Thus, other posters promised all SF rock groups, which translated to a who's who of San Francisco rock and roll circa early nineteen The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Sir Douglas, Quintent, the Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Big brotherren holding company. Big Brother eddiet to release a debut record yet, but they were making waves in the scene, largely due to their

lead vocalists, Janis Joplin. It was also the first major counterculture gathering that used the local Hell's Angels chapter for security, seeing as there was no police presence, and they passed out drinks from the back of a station wagon, helped lost kids find their free flowing parents, and for the most part, stayed out of trouble, and there was a

general sense of unease at the Angel's presence. After all, they had attacked anti war protesters the year before and carried with them in overall air of menace the Jimbo found delightfully ironic. A couple of hits of acid from Alan Ginsburg and kem Kesi, though, kept them on their best behavior for the moment. You know what I see when I look out at this crowd, Jimbo asked Jim, draping his arm around jim shoulders and pulling him in close.

I see a whole lot of people who aren't happy, who want something else, and they don't want to be told what to do by Sea Hall and the President and the fucking pigs Man. They sure sh it ain't gonna get what they want by holding hands and Golden

Gate fucking park. Me and Jimbo snared it up a real big lugi and spat it out into the ground, tugged at his crotch and looked around at the hippie dream gathering steam in the wide expanse of the polo fields, and saw it bursting a loud, resounding pop. Revolution was not this immaculate. This won't last, Jim. I see these crowds rising up, getting angry. We'll get tired trying to give piece a chance, and they'll just be dying to

go crazy. And they'll want someone to show them how, to tell them that it's okay, to tell them that they don't have to listen to their parents or the cops. Fun the parents, fuck the coughs, fox society. All these motherfucker's wanted self expression. They want to be left alone and allowed to do whatever they want whenever they want. The Hell's Angels they're like wolves and then wolves and sheep's clothing. Brother, you know what the fund do they

get out of this. They're gonna flash through true colors too. People will say those Hell's Angels went crazy, when you know, you know that the Hell's Angels are just gonna do what the Hell's Angels do. Fucking ship. Oh. The crowd around them started to back away. A large empty circle was formed in the grass as people pushed each other back, and the sound of anticipatory conversation increased. Jim thought it had something to do with Jimbo. At first. Was he

being too loud? Was he now scaring off large groups of calm pe seekers. He noticed that the crowd now going and I was looking to the sky. Little white tablets rained down on the mall. Obviously these white lightning, recently made illegal in the state of California. Acid tabs

were falling from the sky like mona from heaven. Jim smacked Jimbo on the chest, the universal sign in the sort of situation for shut the funk up pointed upwards a parachute who was making his descent from the deep blue sky above a plane tailing off in the distance as its engine sputtered and gurgled, and the parachuter tossed white lightning calves here and there, the hands from the crowd reaching out, reaching out and grabbing the promise of

another trip, and they squealed with joy in this wild westfield full of love and compassion and altered states of mind. Jimbo was unimpressed, though, as Jim could tell by the one syllable grunt he made under his breath. And then he turned to gym and said, turn on true man. Jim Osterberg knew a fellow drop out when he saw one and this guy on stage at the University of Michigan's intramuro Sports building. This guy was a colossal scene

shifting pants shifting drop out. He hit the stage late, stumbled around like a buffoon, grabbed the microphone, and mumbled a litany of offcolor remarks and curse words. The kind of ship you didn't say in public, the kind of ship you definitely didn't say at the University's homecoming concert. In his untucked white dress shirt and dark leather pants, he can barely stand upright. Jim witnessed Jim and thought, takes one to no one. For Jim Osterberg, Jim Morrison

was an inspiration. The rest of the audience didn't share Jim Osterberg's excitement. The rest of the audience was pissed. It felt screwed over, and they paid three dollars for this train wreck. And the students in the audience expected better things from performers at the University of Michigan's homecoming show. Performers like The Righteous Brothers, Dion Warwick, the Four Tops, the Beach Boys, consummate performers who knew how to deliver a show. Give him a bang for three bucks. The

Doors should have been that band. All signs pointed to that band, a band that would wild them, a band that was grabbing hold of some corner of the country zeitgeist. At the moment in the fall of the Doors were on top of the world. They released their self titled debut album that year, Lecture bought them a huge billboard in the sunset Strip, the first of its kind for

a rocket roll band. The first single from the record, Break On Through to the Other Side, didn't live up to its title, but it's follow up made up for lost time. Light My Fire spent twenty three weeks on the Billboard charts, peaking at number one or three of those weeks. Light My Fire, cut down from its seven minute album length to a barely three minute radio version, was everywhere. During the summer of sixty seven, Jim Morrison threw down his hit single money for a custom black

leather suit, walk that lock and skin tight pants. It's hard to overstate just how revolutionary Light My Fire was when it appeared on the pop charts for weeks before Light My Fire debut. The number one slot on the Billboard Charts was held by songs like Whitney by The Association, Grooving by the Young Rascals, and Happy Together by The Turtles.

Bubblegum pop ruled the airwaves, and Light My Fire was an invitation to explore something well off the beaten path of pop conformity, not to mention the gateway to an album version that was more than twice the single's length. The Door's debut altered the public's perception towards what a number one song could be. They followed up quickly in the early fall with Strange Days, which was immediately a hit.

Its singles People Are Strange and Love Me Two Times would do well even if they weren't generation defining songs

like Light My Fire. Crawdaddy magazine called the live show beautiful and frightening and said that the doors in concert were the best of the West has to offer, and just like the epic, the end closed out the debut record, Strange Days featured an equally long coda when the music's over that the band would transform into dramatic, dynamic, improvisational rock and roll a live when they were firing on all cylinders moved aside, and they could swim to the moon,

climbed through the tide, penetrate the evening. But the city sleeps to hide and they were ascending. But in ann Arbor, Michigan, they got caught on a wrong When the band first appeared on stage following the local opening group, the Long Island Sound, Jim wasn't even there. Ray, Robbie, and John picked up their instruments and began to vamp on Soul Kitchen.

Once the audience realized that they were just going to play without their front man, Ray's twittering organ line repeating over and over again, the booze started and this was gonna be disastrous. They needed Jim, no matter what stad he was in. Ray knew he was stone drunk. Back stage, he had been nursing a whiskey bottle all day, not all afternoon, all day morning, noon night. The band stopped playing and exited at the stage. They came back minutes

later with Jim. They started up Soul Kitchen again, this time with their frontman front the center. Jim tripped on his own feet, fell over, pulled himself up on the microphone stand, tripped again through his wild mane of hair backwards. He was beyond wasted, and that's when he started cursing into the mic. He pulled it close against his lips, completely missing the insistent heartbeat rhythm of Soul Kitchen and

rambling on. He thought about Jimbo rambling to him and channeled it, just let it come through him, rambling man and the mic was tied against his lips, and his words were muffled, stunted, slurred, go down, Soul Kitchen. Kids in the audience were shocked, not that they didn't say fun themselves, but bands on stage did not say. Jim picked up the brief from the stage, a beer can, a pencil, a crumpled up piece of paper from his pocket, and chucked it at the audience, whatever he could get

his hands on, whatever wasn't tied down. Jim shouted his face, not directly in front of the mic, but close enough that a handful of the audience were able to hear his taunts, and they started to get upset. Jim was drunk, he was late, he was insulting the audience, and now he was daring the audience to what to challenge him, to rush the stage, to take him on the cops stepped in before things got out of hand and usher Jim and the band off stage, and the Long Island

Sound stepped in the soften the blow and began playing again. Backstage, Jim breathed heavy, and the heavy breathing of a man who was feeling the tug of war between whiskey and LSD in his system, The heavy breathing of a man who drunk or not had the crowd in the palm of his hand and set them reeling. He had control to Jim oster for his theater. It was expression. It was something new, big, dumb and confrontational, alive and definitely wasn't Elvis Presley, and it wasn't the fucking Beatles. It

was the future. Jim aster Burke took what he had seen back to his bandmates and the Psychedelic Stooges. He had a vision he'd ride the Jim Morrison character to the extreme, to the next level, transcendentally dumb, insightfully idiotic, artfully primitive. The Psychedelic Stooges changed their name to simply the Stooges, and Jim Osterburg started calling himself Aky Pop. Jim Marrison meanwhile had put Anne Arbor on the map

as yet another location for his crowd bating antics. It wasn't the complete insanity he imagined, the kinds of fantasy. Jimbo helped him a vision that would come soon enough. The next step would involve authority cops. Soon enough, when the tour rolled into New Haven, Connecticut, Jim would ratchet up that spectacle, and it would take him weeks to get the taste of the mace off of his tongue. I'm Jake Brennan and this is seven Club all right.

The twenty seven Club is scored and co written by myself, Jake Brennan. Zef Blundie is the lead writer and editor around the show. Matt Bowden mixes the show. Additional music and score elements by Ryan's Breaker and Henry Linnetta. The twenty seven Club is produced by myself for Double Elvis and partnership with iHeart Radio. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on the twenty seven Club series page. The twenty seven Club is released weekly

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