The Legend of a Blowjob
Factoids are facts that didn't exist until newspapers wrote about them.
Norman Mailer.
A necessary preface.
The story is based on a real event that happened to the band The Doors, so its members are portrayed under their real names. Anyone can verify the truthfulness of this story by looking at Wikipedia or the literary biographies of this legendary band. This episode is one of the key ones in Oliver Stone's film "The Doors".
My only addition as the author is that I took the uncensored version of this incident, which I came across about five or six years ago in a material
in one of the youth newspapers dedicated to the most provocative events of Big Rock Music, and tried to imagine how it could have been. The names of the girls and, accordingly, their images and dialogues are also authorial fiction (though I should note that their idea of Jim Morrison fully corresponds to the impressions shared by one of the women who knew him closely with Paul Hougen, one of the band's biographers).Los Angeles. August 21, 1966.
— Nancy! Na-an!
The door opened:
— Oh, Sally! Hi, sweetie.
— Hi. Listen, can you babysit my little one tonight?
— Yeah, no problem, of course. What's up? A date?
Sally waved her hand:
— Nah! My girlfriends invited me to the "Whisky". They say some band is playing there tonight. The vocalist is just amazing. A beau-u-uty! — She rolled her eyes dreamily.
Her neighbor smiled understandingly:
— Well, if it's the one I'm thinking of, then... Yeah, he's worth seeing. He acts strangely and dresses strangely, sure... And his songs are strange. But handsome is handsome. Your David is clearly no match... By the way, did you two have a fight? He hasn't been around for a while.
— Oh, forget him! — the girl replied with annoyance. — He's become so weird altogether. Disappears for weeks, doesn't call, doesn't invite me anywhere... Like today, for example: Sunday, evening, I'm bored, I've been waiting all day for him to invite me somewhere — and he doesn't call, doesn't come... With a normal guy, would I be going to a club with my girlfriends?..
— Yeah, — Nancy agreed. — You can't neglect such a beauty, that's true. He'll push his luck, your David... What time are you going?
— In a couple of hours, I guess. We need to get ready, get there...
— Keep in mind, you need to get seats in advance there. When that guy performs, you can't get through at the "Whisky". You could even leave earlier.
— Sh-shit! — Sally got upset. — But my girlfriends and I already agreed...
— It's okay, — Nancy consoled her. — Maybe it'll work out. Bring your little boy, and you go have fun.
— Thanks, Nan! — The girl pecked her young neighbor and skipped down the porch steps. Nancy shouted after her:
— And don't let David off easy!
***
Nancy was right. When the company, consisting of Sally, her girlfriends Dorothy and Patty, and their boyfriends, reached the intersection of North Clark Street and Sunset Boulevard, where the club was located, people were crowding on both sides of the entrance on the entire narrow sidewalk space between the parapet and the glowing, sign-adorned dark green mirrored wall. Carefree rhythmic music mixed with joyful, encouraging shouts flew out of the wide-open doors into the Californian summer evening. At the "Whisky a Go Go," musicians' performances alternated with dancing to records; now it was time for a live performance.
— What, are we late? — the girl asked, upset. Their company stopped about ten steps from the entrance.
One of the guys listened:
— Nah, that's "Love". They're performing with "The Doors" today. But they're finishing up — hear that, they're playing "My Little Red Book"? Arthur always sings it at the end.
— And "The Doors" have already been on, — a guy standing in front of them turned around. — They usually open for them.
— What — been on?... — Even in the rapidly approaching darkness, you could see how upset Sally was. — And that one was... what's his name...?
— Morrison? — the guy snorted. — Nah, I didn't hear him. Their keyboardist sang, Ray. And Jim... Maybe he went on another trip. — He giggled in a rather nasty way and exchanged understanding glances with the guys from Sally's company, but she didn't see that anymore. The bright, glittering evening she had already painted in her imagination suddenly turned into a black-and-white movie that even the glowing signs of the entire Sunset Strip district couldn't color. She no longer wanted the trendy club and its easy, absorbing atmosphere, nor her own company. Even the anger at David, which had pushed her to go to the "Whisky" tonight, had disappeared somewhere. A strange sadness gripped her heart. She had heard so much about this unusual guy and his band, she so wanted to see him... It didn't even occur to her that disappointment was possible — how can you be disappointed in a guy all the girls of West Hollywood are crazy about? And then suddenly...
Sally didn't even realize she was being pulled somewhere and only came to her senses when Patty almost shouted in her face:
— Come on, faster! Let's go, let's go! What, did you fall asleep?
The girl took a couple of steps and bumped into the back of a man who grumbled something. Then Patty literally dragged her forward, pushing through the dense rows. Disgruntled voices sounded around them, someone even swore, someone told the cheeky girls to get lost, but Patty paid no attention to anything and, like a tugboat, made her way through, dragging her bewildered friend behind her. Sally tried to free herself, but nothing worked; she tried to call out to her — same result; she turned her head, trying to find the others, but saw no one. Meanwhile, they were already at the entrance, where the bouncer, instead of cutting them off with "No room," smiled and stepped aside, letting the girls get inside. As soon as Sally and Patty entered, he resumed his place.
— We were already thinking of starting without you, — a mocking voice of one of their boyfriends sounded over her ear. — Sally, what were you daydreaming about?
The girl looked around in confusion. Patty... Dorothy... the guys... someone else... Everyone was smiling, joking around, despite the jostling... No, this wasn't a prank: they were inside the club. But how?..
— How did we get in here? — she asked in bewilderment, trying to shout over the roar of the live music.
Her question was met with an explosion of laughter. Then they explained to her that one of the guys happened to know someone here, who, in turn, knew a bouncer, who let them in. "Otherwise — 'no room'," — the acquaintance mimicked the bouncer's intonation, causing another burst of laughter. Then Sally learned that he also offered to take them right to the stage. The girl looked around the hall distrustfully: the club was packed, so even swapping places with a neighbor seemed something unreal. But their new acquaintance was apparently some kind of Hollywood magician, because within a few minutes the whole company was near the stage, so close to the performers that you could touch Arthur Lee, who was finishing his song.
— I don't get it, — Sally said when the song ended and the musicians were leaving the stage to approving whistles and applause, — what are we going to do here? "The Doors" already performed. Jim wasn't there. And we came for him, right? And I don't want to dance...
— Baby, — their new acquaintance, who introduced himself as Chuck, addressed her cheerfully, — didn't they tell you that "The Doors" split their performance into two parts?
Her heart jumped and pounded loudly:
— What, really?
— Of course. — This nice guy Chuck, it turned out, knew everything in the world. — They went to get Morrison now. He'll still perform. And during the break — dancing.
— I don't want to dance, — the girl said stubbornly and looked around again. — And how can you dance here? So many people... And to what? To Johnny Rivers, or what?
— What Rivers, sweetie? "The Byrds" are playing, can't you hear? — Chuck cheerfully pointed to the opposite corner from the stage, where, under the platform for the girl DJs, on a specially designated area, several couples were already spinning to the music of "The Byrds". Sally looked there, then raised her head, and her gaze rested on the large cages suspended near the platform, in which, also in time with the song, young dancers, no older than her, with high hairdos that completely exposed their snow-white foreheads, in white knee-length dresses with fringe and white high-heeled shoes, were gracefully swaying. Several more such cages were placed around the perimeter of the hall. This was the club's signature "gimmick" — those very go-go dancers, who were paid $150 for 4 hours of performance and whom all the girls of Sunset Strip secretly dreamed of becoming. No one understood how they managed to dance to "Mr. Tambourine Man", a completely non-danceable song even in the crystalline "Byrds" performance with Roger McGuinn's twelve-string guitar, but they were trained for this by Joan Sennes — one of the best choreographers in Los Angeles, who herself loved to relax here. It was a special Hollywood chic — to be able to have fun and entertain under any conditions. Even to Bob Dylan songs.
Meanwhile, Chuck took a small transparent bag from his pocket and, smiling blissfully, handed it to the girl:
— Baby, want some?
Sally looked suspiciously at the bag, then at the guy:
— What is it?
— This? — he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. — This is "cartoons," sweetie. Cool "cartoons," fun... It's a blast to dance on them. Want some? On me, take it.
— Are you completely crazy? What if they see you with this? — She nodded at the bag.
Chuck chuckled softly:
— Don't freak out, baby. Who needs who here? Everyone's having fun as they can. And you'll have fun like an adult. Well, taking it?
— I don't do that stuff, — the girl declared, unsuccessfully trying to add firmness to her voice, which didn't escape Chuck's attention.
This nice guy Chuck not only knew everything in the world — he was also so charming and persuasive. And he knew exactly how to persuade... The girl hesitantly reached out her hand, and the bag, instantly ceasing to be suspicious, migrated into her palm.
— And how do you take this? — she asked quietly.
— Unwrap it first, — the guy advised.
The girl unwrapped it. Before her was a small perforated piece of paper, outwardly completely unremarkable, except that it had a brightly drawn, crude picture. Only upon touching it did Sally feel moisture and realized the paper was soaked in something.
— And now just put it on your tongue, — the guy smiled. — And — nothing else. Welcome to the trip, baby...
***
Ray Manzarek knocked on the old door and was surprised to find it unlocked. The guy waited a bit, then called softly, "Jim! Jiiim!". No answer. After standing for a minute, Ray opened the door and, walking down a short corridor, entered a semi-dark room.
Jim Morrison was sitting in front of the window with his back to the door but didn't even turn around at the knock. Ray stopped in the doorway, then came closer. On the table in front of Morrison were scattered capsules and micro-tablets, and finely cut sheets of "blotter" lay about. All of this was LSD — in all its splendor and variety. Jim himself showed no reaction to anyone's presence in the room. In general, Ray should have expected all this, so he wasn't even surprised.
— Jim! — Manzarek finally said decisively, adjusted his glasses, and shook Morrison by the shoulder. — Can you hear me? Jim!
He finally turned his head. Two gazes — probing and detached — crossed and delved into each other. Ray often couldn't tell when Jim was pretending and when he was sincere; this was one of those cases. He saw his friend was under the influence of a strong dose, but someone else in his place would have acted like this... But this one — just sits there. Stares.
Finally, Jim unglued his lips:
— Are you alone? — An unexpectedly hoarse voice, slightly drawing out the words, sounded as if from afar.
— Who else did you want to see? — Against his will, Ray started speaking louder, though he knew Morrison could hear him perfectly. — Robby? John? Actually, you really shouldn't see him right now...
— What, is he really angry? — Jim responded.
Ray shivered:
— That's an understatement... Do you like provoking him?
Manzarek wanted to say that being in a band led by a not always sane and unpredictable vocalist was bad for a professional jazz drummer, but bit his tongue in time. Even with a normal Jim, such a joke could end in a quarrel; with an inadequate Jim, the keyboardist didn't even dare predict the consequences of such a phrase.
— Jim, — he began speaking with outward calm. — You remember we have a performance today, right? That we're opening for "Love"?
— So what? — he smiled. — You played, didn't you? You sang well, right? Is Lee happy?
— Yeah, we played, of course. Where else could we go? But everyone was waiting for you. They come for you, you understand that? Not for the band "The Doors". We're all — nothing to them.
— So that's why John's boiling over?
— Jim, are you kidding? — Ray felt himself starting to get worked up. — We barely begged for another fifteen minutes after "Love". Good thing Lee doesn't know about it. — Ray wasn't exaggerating at all: "Love" was already a popular, established band that had recorded both a single and a full album, while "The Doors," despite all their existing reputation and buzz, were just starting out, and a situation where newcomers performed not before but after the headliners was extraordinary, if not unacceptable. — The audience demands Morrison. What, do you want us to get kicked out of the "Whisky" again? Because we will. And they won't take us back. Even your fans won't help. And who will take us anywhere then? And for $135 a week at that... And what will the people from "Elektra" say? Does Holzman come here for nothing? Can you think about anything at all, huh? — The last phrase from Manzarek already had nervous notes in his voice, making Jim peer at the keyboardist in surprise.
— Ray, do you want to know what I can think about? — he suddenly said quietly and seriously. — I'm thinking that we are a band. And the fact that I, one of you, wasn't there today shouldn't change anything. I'm not that Jim Morrison everyone wants to see, understand me? I just sing in the band "The Doors". And we are one whole. But you can sing too. And you do sing.
Manzarek frowned disapprovingly:
— Jim, what's with this sophistry? Who in Elvis's band can replace the King? How can McCartney replace Lennon? You want to philosophize? I think it's not the time. Just tell me you got stoned and completely forgot everything