Post by Monsters of Rock on Mar 13, 2021 19:38:46 GMT 10
Finally, guitarist Robby Krieger and drummer John Densmore walked off the stage, “outraged and disgusted.”
A desperate Manzarek grabbed up a guitar and fingered a few blues chords, hoping to get something—anything—going. But “Morrison was too stoned to even sing the blues.”
Eventually the befuddled vocalist simply sat down on the riser. “I was totally shocked,” says Manzarek. “It was the first time he’d been that messed up on stage.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last. The brief remainder of Jim Morrison’s life would be filled with similar incidents—such as the show two days later at Williams College in Massachusetts, where before a hopelessly bewildered audience the singer staggered about in a daze and finally fell to the stage, sobbing.
It’s the Michigan fiasco, though, that really seems to stick out for Ray Manzarek—especially the memory of the angry, hulking line-backers with their coiffured dates. He’s grateful that the band was allowed to limp away unharmed.
“Jim put his arm over my shoulder, and I helped him off the stage, and that was the end of the evening, man.”
For the Doors, perhaps—but not for the Long Island Sound, who stepped in to become the heroes of the hour.
“The guys who were doing the dance came running up and asked us to play another set,” remembers Steve Welkom. “So, we jumped up and started playing and everybody started dancing and it was great. We won the whole crowd, and everybody was happy.”
Even so, many probably felt the same disappointment as Fred LaBour at not getting to see the Doors perform. “I remember thinking, ‘What a crummy show.’ Jim Morrison wasn’t much of an entertainer that night, unless you happen to like watching out-of-control drunks careen and stagger, wondering how far they’ll go.”
At least one person in the crowd thought differently, however—a U-M dropout named Jim Osterberg, who had recently started his own rock band. Like most others, Osterberg watched in astonishment as Morrison stumbled around the stage, making strange noises, swearing, and generally antagonizing the audience. Except instead of being annoyed by the singer’s behavior, Osterberg thought it was cool.
Inspired by what he had witnessed, the former member of the Ann Arbor High debate team adopted the nom de guerre of Iggy Pop, and with his band the Stooges went on to alter rock and roll history. His outrageous onstage antics and heedless, often belligerent attitude toward his fans—as well as his apparent lack of musical ability—helped encourage a generation of young rebels to pick up guitars and launch the punk rock phenomenon of the late ’70s.
“At the time [Iggy] was being reviled, around 1970, rock music revolved around virtuosity,” says Paul Trynka, former editor of Mojo magazine and author of the biography Iggy Pop: Open Up and Bleed. “Once his impact was felt, from 1977, rock music revolved around feelings, emotions—like boredom, frustration, incoherent rage, and the joy of loud, explosive rock and roll. Without Iggy there’d be no Sex Pistols, no Nirvana, no White Stripes.”
Which makes it even more fascinating to consider that if the impressionable young Jim Osterberg had stuck around a little while longer that night at the I-M building, the world might have been denied—for better or worse—the powerful influence of punk rock’s original psychopath. Because it seems that after almost everyone had left, the Doors returned to the stage, complete with an inexplicably sober Jim Morrison, and played an entire set of their material, flawlessly.
“It was unbelievable,” says Steve Welkom. “I sat there with my girlfriend, and we just couldn’t believe it. The Doors sounded phenomenal. But there was almost nobody there to appreciate it.”
Welkom understands the scepticism that often greets his telling of this story. “Fortunately, I have a corroborating witness—my girlfriend, who is now my wife.”
His recollections are also backed up by bandmate John Nemerovski, and by a letter published in the Michigan Daily a few days after the dance. (There was no review.)
“I’ve been in the music business my whole life,” says Welkom, marvelling at the memory of it all, “and that second set by the Doors was one of the top five shows I’ve ever seen.”
October 20th, 1967: University of Michigan, Michigan
A desperate Manzarek grabbed up a guitar and fingered a few blues chords, hoping to get something—anything—going. But “Morrison was too stoned to even sing the blues.”
Eventually the befuddled vocalist simply sat down on the riser. “I was totally shocked,” says Manzarek. “It was the first time he’d been that messed up on stage.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last. The brief remainder of Jim Morrison’s life would be filled with similar incidents—such as the show two days later at Williams College in Massachusetts, where before a hopelessly bewildered audience the singer staggered about in a daze and finally fell to the stage, sobbing.
It’s the Michigan fiasco, though, that really seems to stick out for Ray Manzarek—especially the memory of the angry, hulking line-backers with their coiffured dates. He’s grateful that the band was allowed to limp away unharmed.
“Jim put his arm over my shoulder, and I helped him off the stage, and that was the end of the evening, man.”
For the Doors, perhaps—but not for the Long Island Sound, who stepped in to become the heroes of the hour.
“The guys who were doing the dance came running up and asked us to play another set,” remembers Steve Welkom. “So, we jumped up and started playing and everybody started dancing and it was great. We won the whole crowd, and everybody was happy.”
Even so, many probably felt the same disappointment as Fred LaBour at not getting to see the Doors perform. “I remember thinking, ‘What a crummy show.’ Jim Morrison wasn’t much of an entertainer that night, unless you happen to like watching out-of-control drunks careen and stagger, wondering how far they’ll go.”
At least one person in the crowd thought differently, however—a U-M dropout named Jim Osterberg, who had recently started his own rock band. Like most others, Osterberg watched in astonishment as Morrison stumbled around the stage, making strange noises, swearing, and generally antagonizing the audience. Except instead of being annoyed by the singer’s behavior, Osterberg thought it was cool.
Inspired by what he had witnessed, the former member of the Ann Arbor High debate team adopted the nom de guerre of Iggy Pop, and with his band the Stooges went on to alter rock and roll history. His outrageous onstage antics and heedless, often belligerent attitude toward his fans—as well as his apparent lack of musical ability—helped encourage a generation of young rebels to pick up guitars and launch the punk rock phenomenon of the late ’70s.
“At the time [Iggy] was being reviled, around 1970, rock music revolved around virtuosity,” says Paul Trynka, former editor of Mojo magazine and author of the biography Iggy Pop: Open Up and Bleed. “Once his impact was felt, from 1977, rock music revolved around feelings, emotions—like boredom, frustration, incoherent rage, and the joy of loud, explosive rock and roll. Without Iggy there’d be no Sex Pistols, no Nirvana, no White Stripes.”
Which makes it even more fascinating to consider that if the impressionable young Jim Osterberg had stuck around a little while longer that night at the I-M building, the world might have been denied—for better or worse—the powerful influence of punk rock’s original psychopath. Because it seems that after almost everyone had left, the Doors returned to the stage, complete with an inexplicably sober Jim Morrison, and played an entire set of their material, flawlessly.
“It was unbelievable,” says Steve Welkom. “I sat there with my girlfriend, and we just couldn’t believe it. The Doors sounded phenomenal. But there was almost nobody there to appreciate it.”
Welkom understands the scepticism that often greets his telling of this story. “Fortunately, I have a corroborating witness—my girlfriend, who is now my wife.”
His recollections are also backed up by bandmate John Nemerovski, and by a letter published in the Michigan Daily a few days after the dance. (There was no review.)
“I’ve been in the music business my whole life,” says Welkom, marvelling at the memory of it all, “and that second set by the Doors was one of the top five shows I’ve ever seen.”
October 20th, 1967: University of Michigan, Michigan