So, man – tell me all about it. Is it all it’s cracked up to be, parked on a cloud with your notebook and a pen? Does that get too boring, and if it does, do you hang out with your buddies, Janis, Jimi, Keith, Jon and that outrageous Texan called Dimebag? A word of advice, Jim – watch out for Lane. The man has issues. Issues, man, I’m telling you. Kurt, I think, you could relate to. If he has any head left by now, that is.
I think about the jam sessions you guys must have, and jealous is NOT the word. One day, Dionysus. But not any time soon. I have stuff to do, man. Loads of – stuff. Pestering the blogosphere is just one of them.
I wonder if you ever think about the havoc you wrought and the wrecks you left in your wake when you left. Dude, it hasn’t ever been quite the same since, and I was a baby when it happened. They don’t make gods quite like they used to, although you have a few contenders down here, you know, the guys who thought you were such an inspiration they riffled through your image wardrobe and stole what they could find; your outrage, your irony and your diabolical way with words.
Oh, yeah. Your ability to get up in front of a mike on a stage and just – slay ’em. Because you did. You and your bandmates took out all that fluffy-bunny love-peace-and-understanding navel lint and shot it – on stage and on albums – to the sky.
“Embrace the dark!” You nearly said. “Follow it to where it leads you!” And so we, they – hell, everybody! did, and some still do, and gotta say it, even without those Mayan prophecies, the world is still a darker – and more interesting place.
Because you showed us the way that music, the music that isn’t just another kind of background noise, but the vibrations that take you up and out and away from yourself, can transform you, can redeem you, can change your mind, your outlook and your soul – for ever. And nothing at all will ever be quite the same, be quite so innocent, quite so carefree again. And it’s cool, man, really. Not all of us were like you – born old souls, with the shadow of a god perched on his shoulder. Some of us are just plain garden-variety human, pathetic in our limitations, humble in our aspirations.
But we have music, and we have words and we have your words. At least, we have that.
Thanks, man, Appreciate it. You have no idea how much.
So happy fucking birthday, JIm Morrison. I look out on a dismal December sky, and for reasons I’m not sure I understand, I think of you and all those other long-gone guys and remember some lines from a poet you must know. He shared your predilection for divine madness, or diabolical inspiration. He would have dug you, I think. Or vice versa. And like you, he left this world too soon.
“WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.”
Eat cake. Have fun. Happy Birthday.