Blood on the streets in the town of New Haven
Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice
Blood in my love in the terrible summer
Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.
Blood screams the pain as they chop off her fingers
Blood'll be born in the birth of a nation
Blood is the rose of mysterious union
There's blood in the streets, it's up to my ankles
Blood in the streets, it's up to my knee
Blood in the streets in the town of Chicago
Blood on the rise, it's following me
I finally started to see the point of The Doors during 1987, having studiously ignored them for two or three years while one of my school friends vainly tried to get me interested in them. They were muddy, sixties, retro, American. I liked modern, European, difficult, angsty. Then a college friend played me Peace Frog and I began to realise that there was more to this Jim Morrison guy than met the eye.
Once I was played Morrison's posthumous, jazzy, spoken-word album An American Prayer, I was hooked. On paper I found a lot of his poetry rather pretentious and over-wrought, but the voice transformed it completely and the music blended seamlessly with it into something infinitely greater than the sum of its parts. Fifteen years later, it's still one of those albums that I can't dip into - I have to play the whole thing.
Currently enjoying The Doors' fifth studio album, the egotistically titled Morrison Hotel, played very loud in the car. It's probably my favourite album of theirs, though L.A Woman would come a close second. It's a perfect soundtrack to a sunny June morning, ideal for drowning out the sound of your strategic telecom partner crashing to the ground around you...
Posted by Hg on Wednesday 26 June 2002 at 22:13.
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