I have a bunch of friends that hate The Doors. On one hand, I simply do not understand but on the other, if you’re really big on the contemporary, sensitive and overly modest indie rock man style, I can see there would be more than a little resistance to the shirtless leather panted swagger of Morrison and co with their drugged up poetry and out of control sexual confidence. If you count yourself among these haters, you should definitely avoid The Doors in Concert. If you think he’s got the bluster of an high school senior talking the pants of every girl he meets on record, you should listen to him ask “wrap your legs around my neck” followed by “it’s getting hard” live. As full of high school hormones the innuendo is, god help me, it still works on me like gang busters.
As an adult, I might be snide about the equivalent sexual pop stars of kids today. The silly antics and puffed up machismo or bravado, but the same things make me tingle with delight here. It helps that the music is genuinely dynamic, exciting, and classic and never more so than when the band is performing at their best. And they’re at their best in phenomenal, angry versions of the epic When the Music’s Over – perhaps my favorite Doors song (it makes me want to scream along “We want the world and we want it now!”) as well as the equally epic The End and the jangly Roadhouse Blues.
There’s so much youthful exuberance and this is exactly the kind of album that makes me feel like I really missed out by not living through the sixties then wonder how everybody’s parents turned out so square and republican regardless.