Jim Morrison by Elliot Landy, Rat Subterranean News (1968)
THE DOORS invaded Fillmore East and the audience never knew what hit them.
Their attitude is hostile: their music is incredible. It pours into your head chord upon chord, thought upon thought, leaving traces of controlled mass hysteria throughout the audience. They are a very exciting group. Ray Manzareck on organ, John Densmore on drums, and Robbie Krieger on guitar are excellent musicians and Jim Morrison has a fine, drowsy voice, a great scream and some nice leather pants.
For 2 1/2 hours The Doors stomped on the heads of their audience…they told us we were uptight, told us to relax, told us they were going back west where they could walk on the beach, told us about S-E-X and reminded us about the straight person inside all of us. Most important of all, they told us the war is over…not just today’s wars but tomorrow’s wars too…and I believed them.
The film which accompanies Unknown Soldier is pretty weird—1/3 a Morrison ego trip, 1/3 a vomiting turn off and 1/3 excellent newsreel clips. If you want to put your emotions through some strange changes it’s worth seeing.
When the concert was officially over, The Doors said they wanted to stay around and play some more so, re-fortified with a magnum of champagne, The Doors drank, rapped and improvised for another hour.
Also at Fillmore East were Chrome Syrcus and Ars Nova…and a special attraction by the Joshua Light Show—a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
THAT’S ALL FOLKS!
Photos by Beth Bagby for Scanlan’s
Procol Harum at Anderson Theater, February, 1968
Third attraction on the bill was Procol Harum, English electric and blues. Their whining singer, Gary Brooker, spent the set relating his melodic neuroses and lost loves to the audience while technology did funny things to the walls and electric organs and pianos scraped our innards. Beneath the rock, old English ballads drifted in and out and blended with faint sounds of Gregorian chants. “Passing from the street, to heaven to hell,” sang Brooker while the musicians slipped from a simple erotic love melody into a jungle tantrum of drums and bass notes—then back to the street and the gentleness of the earlier chords.
Procol specialized in the terrifying, however. Their sounds grew in intensity during their last couple of numbers, bearing down on the ears, rising, wiping out thought, driving harder and harder while the light show shattered the eyes and the voices drained away in the thunder of some sort of aboriginal festival of spirit cleansing. It was quite groovy. The audience was cemeterally fixated.—Randy Furst, Rat Subterranean News