The book was first published in 1980 and its authors are respectively a rock writer and a personal friend of Morrison’s, so its credentials are pretty good. It demanded a commitment to live, and die, with great style and even greater sadness to wake each morning with the fever raging and know it would never be extinguished except by death, yet to be convinced that this suffering carried a unique reward. To be a poet entailed more than writing poems. I decided it was time to learn a little more. And then, a few weeks ago, someone gave this biography to our village fete book stall. When I went to Paris with my parents back in 2004, before I’d really heard of the Doors, we went to Père Lachaise but, while Mum sought out Jim Morrison’s grave, I homed in on Oscar Wilde’s. But I never paid much attention to the band themselves. And the music wasn’t half bad either, with its weird lyrics and dreamy rhythms: in fact, the album swiftly became one of my favourites. Being an impressionable young thing at the time (oh, it was all of three years ago), I was struck by the face on the cover: the brooding stare from under lowered lids and the tumbled mass of dark hair. The Doors’s debut album was among the first CDs sent by my uncle in my correspondence course on classic rock.
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