by Mackey Macaluso
The air was crisp in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and the sea of change washed over me as I packed my dorm room full of the little things that displayed my personality to the world; if you strolled into my dorm you were likely to find music posters on the wall, books from the local store (that I intended to read but just hadn't got around to, yet), and my computer. These were the things that I chose to frequently bombard my guests with as they perused their surroundings.
I was just a freshman in college and I had grown up with a family that wasn't musically inclined to genres between the 60s to the 90s; we were more in tune with the growing cliche of "music" on the top 50 radio station.
I expected to change in college but I never expected to be knocked on my face by the haunting vocals of Mr. Mojo Risin'. My roommate was a local who had happened to grow up listening to the musical stylings of The Doors and he sent me on a whirlwind of exposure as he cranked "Light My Fire" through the speakers. "I've heard this one before but I never knew it was The Doors." I said.
I delved deeper into the plethora of music The Doors had released, endlessly searching for live footage on YouTube or documentaries. I had to hear more, I had to see them more, I had to know more. It's been a constant fascination since that first spin of "Light My Fire" and, though not a constant rotation as it was in college, I still find myself driving on a cold, winter night and queuing up The Doors self-titled album to hear those lyrics tip-toeing around my car. In the air, you can still feel the change and hope, beyond hope, that someday Jim, Ray, John, and Robby are pushing us further.