The Doors: Live in New York

The Doors: Live In New York

So I'm 13, and I'm slouching through Harvard Square on my way to get Pink Floyd boots at the used record store. I'm just starting to grow my hair long-- which never really worked out-- and I'm wearing a grey t-shirt sporting the hundred-yard-stare of Jim Morrison of the Doors. From across the street, a guy three times my age shouts: "Fuck! Yeah! The Doors!" And for that moment, we are brothers.

*The Kids in the Hall'*s Bruce McCulloch argued that Doors fans are born, not made. But he ducks the question of why we're not making them anymore. Today, one of the first standard-bearers of rock is less hip than Journey. Let's review the case against the band: First we have Morrison himself, who's been blown into a caricature by his super-sexual persona, his wifty poetry, and his early death in a Paris bathtub. The music sounds like a weird cross between shit-kicking blues-rock and brain-spraining acid-jams, and it's easier to get your avant-garage fix from the Velvet Underground, your rock shaman verse from Patti Smith (or not at all), or your psychedelic extravagance from countless Nuggets bands. As dead 1960s rockers go, Jimi's legacy has left Janis and Jim in the dust. It may be a strange way to put it, but the problem with the Doors is that they were not efficient.

Let's say that's where you are with this band. So here's how this set might change your mind.

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Retrieved on 06 January 2019 from

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