Bridgeport, CONN. TELEGRA- AUGUST 2, 1968
The four-man rock group, the Doors, authors of today’s number one tune “Hello I Love You,” performed before 5,000 in Kennedy Stadium last night, singing, among other, the song that earned them their initial popularity, “Light My Fire.”
Preceded by the five-man Graffiti, a credible, although somewhat eclectic group recording with ABC, the Doors, led by the sinister, baby-faced Jim Morrison, shouted and shrieked their numbers in the Bridgeport’s portable band shell, behind an arsenal of amplifiers.
Having produced three best-selling albums on the Elektra label, the Doors, who derive their name from Blake’s “Doors of Perception,” sing original songs, that owe their style to last year’s West Coast acid rock.
Audience Is Young
The audience was young, with a predominance of the long-haired, scruffy variety, which made a colorful show for a summer’s evening.
Jim Morrison, spiritual leader of the group, attired from head to toe in leather, caresses the mike and sings his poetry, much of which is vaguely mystical, some of which is love song, and more of which is his special brand of revolutionary, anti-police, anti-older generation rock, in varibly couched in the sensuality Morrison seems to exude.
Morrison’s charisma has become something of a legend in the world of popular music. Life magazine reported this spring of a riot in New Haven provoked by his whirlpool of frenzy; his sincerity, apparently, is not in doubt. What can be stated is that his conviction, or his showmanship is exemplary.
In his role as poet, Morrison chants, sometimes metaphorically, often directly, of man’s misadventures. In “When the Music’s Over,” he sings,
“What have they don’t to the earth, what have they don’t to our fair sister-
“Ravished her, plundered, ripped her and bit her,
“Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn.”
Which continues, attaining a hysterical electric crescendo:
“We want the world and we want it…now.”
The Doors clearly are speaking to their peers, and their language is not communicable to any others. Their music is harsh, and with the exception of the almost rollicking organ, too aggressive. But then Morrison slinks across the stage, eyes shut, dazed, and croons huskily, off-key into the mike. The effect is startling. The audience, instead of screaming as in the early Beatle days is silent, focuses on Morrison, and listens to what he says.
Morrison performs with an economy of motion which lends his every act a strange significance. The effect is eerie; he, Morrison, is evil, and the world behind his closed eyelids is enticing, yet borbidding. The Morrison mystique speaks as eloquently to his audience as he seems to threaten the police lining the stadium.