The Monk! Bought! Lunch!
Has anyone done more to bring shame to the idea of poetry than Jim Morrison? Well, other than Ray Manzarek reminding us for forty years that he had a poet in his band. A great poet, like a Baudelaire! A Rimbaud! His death bed mutterings supposedly "Jim....rhymed....good"
Now let's be clear, I hate The Doors. Exactly as much as you'd expect someone who used to wear a hand painted Jim Morrison Jean jacket to school to hate. But for a brief period they were the centre of the musical universe for me. A very brief blip in adolesence where I was possibly listening to one band more than The Beatles. And it was this pile of clowns.
Then, when I came out of the fog of whatever spell teenage hood had over me, I was only left with shameful memories of crooning to myself "The blue buussss, is calling usss". Beyond LA Woman, which seemed to finally tamp down on their more embarrassing indulgences, they never got played. I'd look at pictures and they just seemed like a band of three dorks following around a belligerent bully. Fawning over the nonsensical phrases that seemed to collect in his beard along with the hoagie crumbs and beer foam.
But I dreamed of them last night. At least I must have. Because I woke up and all I could think of was their album The Soft Parade. The most maligned album of a band that deserves lost of malignment. And so it only seemed appropriate to play it while I washed dishes and thought about what a pretentious twat I used to be.
And....its obviously spotty. The big closing number has all the funky charisma of game show music. Wishful Sinful is likely the nadir of their songwriting. Jim Morrison has never sounded more earnest about the mouthwash garble that foams off of his lips. And their are all sorts of unneccessary and stupid musical flourishes.
But there are buried treasures here. And by treasures, I mean pristine cat turds dug out of a litter box. There is something liberating about this clown car of a band crossing the rubicon into an area where you feel they can't possibly be taking themselves seriously (even though they very much are). But its all just dumb enough to make this clearly worst album in their catalogue at least nearly on par with the other silly records in their discography. The absurdity and extravagance makes it a compelling listen. Most of the songs have parts where they simply become preposterous, but only a few are a complete waste. Shaman's Blues, Easy Ride, Wild Child, the country fiddle break of Runnin Blue, Even the bloat of opener Tell All the People has a certain charm to it.
And I've always like Touch Me, even though I generally think that is one of the more loathed Doors hits That opening build is wonderful, at least until Drunky MacDougall comes warbling in.