Book : Riders On The Storm My Life With Jim Morrison And Th

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“This book is thereal story.”-Robby Krieger“[John] Densmores is the first Doors biography that feels like it was written for the right reasons, and it is easily the most informed account of the Doors brief but brilliant life as a group. . . . Densmore is a fluent, articulate writer who both comprehends the Doors unearthly power and is on familiar terms with their antecdedents in literature, theater, and myth.”-Rolling Stone“Well-written and touching . . . tells it all and tells it honestly.”-The New York Times Book Review“John DensmoresRiders of the Storm is as good an account of the history of the Doors as has been printed to date.”-USA Today“Riders on the Storm is very enjoyable, especially its homespun and self-experienced insights. John Densmore is a survivor and a seeker.”-Oliver Stone From Publishers Weekly Doors drummer Densmore, who had a love-hate relationship with lead singer Morrison, sympathetically chronicles the self-destructive Lizard Kings rise and fall. Densmores detailed account . . . is often narrated in a glib style but remains indispensable for fans of one of rock musics most flamboyant and controversial groups, said PW . Photos.Copyright 1991 Reed Business Information, Inc. Review The first Doors biography that feels like it was written for the right reasons, and it is easily the most informed account of the Doors brief but brilliant life as a group. --The New York Times Book Review From the Back Cover The first Doors biography that feels like it was written for the right reasons, and it is easily the most informed account of the Doors brief but brilliant life as a group. --The New York Times Book Review About the Author John Densmore was the drummer of the rock band The Doors. He is also an author, playwright, dancer, and actor. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. BREAK ON THROUGH Paris, 1975 It smelled like rain. I had hoped it would storm. Then we wouldn’t have had to see his grave. My heartbeat was increasing. I looked over at Robby, Danny, and Herve in the car as we approached the cemetery. They all seemed to be nervously anticipating what was to come. The high thick walls looked ominous, as if they protected something ancient and mysterious inside. As we rounded the entrance, a Chaplin-like gendarme waddled up to us and asked where we were headed. “Do you know where Jim Morrison’s grave is?” I asked with trepidation. “Ah, mais oui,” he answered in a thick accent. “Monsieur Morrison’s grave is up that cobblestone lane. The graffiti will guide you there. It was removed recently, but as you will see, plenty more has been added. So don’t contribute, d’accord?” “D’accord.” Let’s get this over with, I mumbled to myself as we walked past his guardhouse. The lane got steeper and steeper as we ascended past moss-covered gravestones. A cold, damp mist began to surround us. Several mangy cats scurried across our path into dark holes that were graves. Besides many famous European corpses, Pere Lachaise Cemetery is home to hundreds of stray felines. Strange that a good ole boy from Florida is there. Jim would’ve liked the company, though. Have to wonder if he didn’t plan it that way. The massive, baroque markers along the cemetery road led the way to Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Edith Piaf, and Chopin. And then the graffiti: “Morrison-this way,” carved into a tombstone probably over a hundred years old; then, painted crudely over one old ornate marker after another: “Acid Rules,” “This Is Not The End,” “Jim Was a Junkie.” As the desecration got more and more outrageous, I sensed that the gravesite was getting nearer. “Over here,” Herve, the French journalist, said wearily. He was standing behind some large granite crypts. We shuffled along the side of the lane, then began to climb over several tumbledown stones to a small rectangle of cement i
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