Whether you know Jim Morrison as someone your grandmother had a crush on when she was in high school or you’re an avid enjoyer of 60s rock and roll, The Doors are a band you probably grew up listening to or, at the very least, your dad did.
The Doors were formed in 1965 in Los Angeles, California, by keyboardist Ray Manzarek, guitarist Robby Krieger, drummer John Densmore, and, of course, magnetic frontman Jim Morrison. Manzarek and Morrison had gone to UCLA together, and after a chance encounter, Morrison decided to join Manzarek’s rather unremarkable band, Rick and The Ravens. After Manzarek’s brothers (Rick and, ironically enough, Jim) left the group and Densmore and Krieger joined, the band became known as The Doors, and music would never be the same.
The band quickly gained attention for their unique sound. It predominately featured rock, blues, and psychedelic influences, although elements of spoken word and raga rock are also scattered throughout their discography. Alongside Morrison’s poetic lyrics and rather provocative stage presence, this uniqueness would catapult them into the stratosphere.
In 1966, The Doors became the house band at the esteemed Whisky a Go Go. Here, Morrison would develop more of his poetic and improvisational tendencies, and also supported Van Morrison’s group Them, which resulted in The Doors’ rather famous rendition of “Gloria”. They would also get fired around four months after they were hired for Morrison’s rather… profanity-laden recollection of the Oedipus myth. Nevertheless, it was at the Whisky where they met Elektra Records president Jac Holzman, as well as producer Paul A. Rothchild. The two decided to sign the band, and history was forever changed.
Signing with Elektra meant that they were introduced to their longtime engineer, Bruce Botnick. Botnick, Rothchild, and The Doors worked together to create their self-titled debut album. Released in 1967, it featured the hit single “Light My Fire,” which catapulted them to international fame. The Doors’ music often explored themes of love, death, and existentialism, establishing them as a prominent voice in the countercultural movement of the 1960s. Their next two albums, Strange Days and Waiting for the Sun, further solidified their status, showcasing Morrison’s evolving lyrical complexity and the band’s innovative sound.
However, the late 1960s were marked by increasing turmoil. Morrison’s erratic behavior, fueled by substance abuse and a growing dissatisfaction with his image, began to affect the band’s dynamics. The 1969 album The Soft Parade faced mixed reviews, but most were negative. Morrison’s infamous “Miami Incident” also occurred in March of that year, which intensified scrutiny of his persona and the band’s reputation.
By the time the band entered the studio to record L.A. Woman in 1970, they faced a mixture of renewed creative energy and personal strife. With Rothchild departing in a fit of rage over “Love Her Madly”, the band opted to U-turn back to their blues roots. This period marked a pivotal transition for Morrison and The Doors, as they sought to redefine their sound and identity amid the pressures of fame and the changing musical landscape. L.A. Woman, released in April 1971, would be Morrison’s last album with The Doors before his untimely death in July of that year.
As one of the most iconic figures of 60s counterculture, Jim Morrison embodies the complexities of fame, artistry, and the never ending search for identity. With his alluring stage presence and poetic sensibilities, Morrison helped lead The Doors to commercial success. He did so, however, while in a harrowing battle with the burdens of celebrity. By late 1970, Morrison found himself at a crossroads, haunted by the repercussions of the “Miami Incident” and the weight of public expectation. The intertwining of Morrison’s literary ambitions and his tumultuous personal life would shape the sound and spirit of L.A. Woman.
Before The Doors went into the studio for what should have been their final album, their biggest concern was Jim Morrison’s reputation. Jim Morrison was always a figure above fame in the sense that he seemed to be over all of it as soon as it hit him. However, in late 1970, when L.A. Woman was a seed just beginning to germinate in The Doors’ minds, the cult of Jim Morrison was unavoidable, and there was nowhere to hide for its reluctant leader.
The biggest part of this inescapable fame and reputation problem was the so-called “Miami Incident”. On March 1, 1969, The Doors performed at Dinner Key Auditorium, a 14,000-person venue that had formerly been an aeroplane hangar. This concert would turn out to be a direct reflection of the rather tumultuous relationship that existed between rock, celebrity, and public morality in the 1960s and 70s.
Morrison had recently seen an immersive theatre group called “The Living Theater”. He constantly sought new ways to push the bounds of what it meant to be a rock musician and performer, and he saw the fourth wall breaks employed by members of “The Living Theater” as his newest vessel in this quest for innovation. Morrison sought to break down the barriers between performer and audience, incorporating elements of shock and spontaneity into his act. He was smart, and he knew how to use his sexuality to his advantage. According to Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek, who was (obviously) there, Morrison lifted his shirt (to which the crowd went wild) and asked if they wanted to see more. According to Manzarek, the crowd did want to see some more, but Morrison never actually pulled his penis out. Speaking to NPR in 1998, Manzarek said:
“They hallucinated. I swear, the guy never did it. He never whipped it out. It was one of those mass hallucinations. I don’t want to say the vision of Lourdes, because only Bernadette saw that, but it was one of those religious hallucinations, except it was Dionysus bringing forth, calling forth snakes” (NPR 2010).
This statement reflects not only the chaotic energy of the performance but also the cult-like reverence in which Morrison was held. Similar to how Syd Barret of Pink Floyd was hailed by some as a sort of psychedelic messiah, Morrison was seen by many a hippie as the second coming of Dionysus, the Greek god of pleasure and insanity (Hansen).
Despite the varying accounts of what actually transpired that night, the repercussions were severe. According to many of the attendees at the notorious Miami show, Morrison never actually exposed himself that night. This sentiment was later echoed by Florida’s clemency board, which exonerated him in 2010 due to insufficient evidence (NPR 2010). Nevertheless, on September 20th, 1970, after a month-long trial, Morrison was convicted of indecent exposure and profanity and sentenced to six months in prison.
Understandably, the whole ordeal took quite a toll on Morrison, Prone to the kind of existential depression that often afflicts deeply creative individuals, he found himself increasingly isolated and distressed. He managed to post bail (a cool $60,000), and his lawyers filed an appeal, but the whole ordeal made Morrison’s mental state exponentially worse. The very fame that once empowered him began to suffocate him.
The deaths of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin in September and October, respectively, only added fuel to the flames. It would be quite a while before the notorious “27 Club” was established, but Hendrix and Joplin were Morrison’s countercultural brothers in arms, and he took their deaths rather hard.
Adding to this emotional turmoil were the tragic deaths of fellow rock icons Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin in September and October 1970, respectively. These losses struck a personal chord for Morrison, who viewed Hendrix and Joplin as kindred spirits within the counterculture movement. Their untimely deaths intensified his feelings of isolation and despair, as he grappled with the idea that the lifestyle they shared could lead to a similar fate. This period marked a significant shift for Morrison. he was no longer Jim Morrison the singer, he was a symbol of the perilous nature of fame and the darker side of the 1960s.
Jim’s lawyers decided to take his case to trial rather than accept a plea deal because they saw the charges as a violation of his free speech. This was the era of events like Ken Kesey’s Acid Tests and The Rolling Stones’ Redlands bust, as well as the era of the Chicago Seven and the May ‘68 riots in Paris. All around the world, the rioting, strung-out hippie youth were at the forefront of people’s minds.
The Miami Incident became a pivotal moment in Morrison’s life and in the legacy of the Doors. Frankly, it didn’t matter if it happened or not. The mere suggestion of blatant sexuality was enough to have American law enforcement up in arms. It highlighted the intersection of artistic expression and social politics, as well as encapsulating the fragile balance between Morrison’s desire for authenticity and the overwhelming expectations placed upon him by the general public.
Jim was no longer the drop-dead gorgeous “Young Lion” he was when he burst onto the scene in 1967. He had grown a beard and was starting to put on a little weight. This would have been perfectly unremarkable had he not been pigeonholed as a mere sex symbol since “Light My Fire” first came on the radio. After the resounding (critical) failure of The Soft Parade, Morrison and, more broadly, The Doors lost their icon status.
By the time the L.A. Woman sessions rolled around, their reputation had been somewhat re-established with the successes of Morrison Hotel and Absolutely Live. Nevertheless, it wasn’t what it once was, and Jim was still depressed. He was rather irked by the way the press and public viewed him, feeling like the public was blaming him for the loss of the “sex icon” status that he never wanted in the first place.
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Jim Morrison enjoyed being a musician, yet he regarded himself as a poet first and foremost. His passion for poetry was a driving force in his life, shaping both his lyrics and his overall artistic vision. In 1968, Morrison signed a deal with Simon & Schuster. This marked a significant step in his ambition to establish himself in the literary world. Despite this formal recognition, however, he felt perpetually sidelined as a poet. The two collections he published, The Lords and the New Creatures and An American Prayer, reflected his deep literary aspirations but didn’t come to fruition in his lifetime. The Lords and the New Creatures was published three months after his death, and An American Prayer wasn’t released until 1978.
Morrison’s frustration stemmed from the stark contrast between his burgeoning musical fame and his literary ambitions. While music offered visibility and a wide audience, it also confined him to a particular persona, that of the aforementioned “Young Lion”. This was a role he both embraced and resisted; Morrison reveled in the thrill of performance yet felt suffocated by the expectations that came with it. Public perception of Morrison as a sex symbol and wild child overshadowed his desire to be remembered as James Douglas Morrison, the multifaceted poet and singer.
While music allows for profound expression, it often lacks the same gravitas associated with literary achievement. This harsh reality left Morrison yearning for validation in the literary world, as he sought to bridge the gap between his musical and poetic aspirations. He envisioned a legacy where he would be acknowledged for his poetry, both musical and not.
In the years following his death, Morrison’s status has evolved. He is increasingly recognized not just as a rock icon, but as a literary figure in his own right. Today, he is often regarded as the poet laureate of blues rock, akin to how Patti Smith and John Cooper Clarke are celebrated in punk.
While his music achieved immediate commercial success, his writing didn’t. This, combined with the legal and social strife at the end of the 60s, put Morrison in the mood to sing the blues. As their contract with Elektra Records required that they put out at least one more album under the label, a blues album was the perfect choice. In their early days at the Whisky through their first album, The Doors were a definitive blues band. When the band started to gain traction and Morrison was pushed into a sort of acid-shaman status by the press, they leaned into the role they were assumed to occupy. The influence of Morrison’s became more blatant. Despite this, the blues never went anywhere, they were just simmering below the surface. L.A. Woman was a return to form for the band from Venice.
Given that it had been more than five years since the sessions for their first album, not everything remained the same. Longtime Doors producer Paul A. Rothchild left the project early on in the session. Not only had he been getting increasingly frustrated with The Doors’ rather… offbeat way of doing things, he had also just produced Janis Joplin’s solo album Pearl. Rothchild had a wonderful time working with Joplin, and for him, The Doors being back in the studio was like returning to a dead-end job after the best weekend of your life, nevermind the fact that Rothchild was, like most of the music industry, reeling from Joplin’s sudden death. The Doors were also generally more downbeat than Joplin, and the change in environment proved to be a bit too much for Rothchild. When he left the project, Rothchild recommended that The Doors self-produce in conjunction with longtime engineer Bruce Botnick. This could quite possibly be the best piece of advice the band ever received.
Botnick had been engineering for the band since their debut album came out in early 1967. He was an accomplished engineer, having worked on a few Lonnie Mack albums as well as assistant engineering The Rolling Stones’ Let It Bleed. L.A. Woman was his first real project as a producer, however. This didn’t change the quality of the music, as he was co-producing with the band, and knew them like the back of his hand. If anything, having a producer with less experience gave The Doors the push they needed to reignite their spark, both creatively and with each other.
After Rothchild departed, the band had no choice but to work together. Their contract with Elektra stipulated that they produce six studio albums, and this was their sixth, as Absolutely Live and 13 didn’t count. In the studio, there was a sense of urgency and necessity. The album simply had to be done, and it had to be good. The Elektra contract being up created a sense of uncertainty among the band. Both Morrison’s writing career and his film career were really starting to take off, and he seemed to be going in a different direction. It wasn’t that he resented being a musician, but Morrison was simply growing up, both intellectually and artistically. It was a matter of circumstances and transitionary periods in their lives that caused The Doors to be in this state, and it was conducive to what many say is the greatest album of their career.
The entirety of L.A. Woman has a sort of magical quality to it that makes the album stick with you from the first time you hear it ‘til the moment you die. There are so many incredible qualities of it, from the record’s rich history to the production techniques, to the unfathomable events that preceded it, but the real magic of the record lies in the meat of it: the songs.
The Changeling:
L.A. Woman opens with “The Changeling”, a gritty, powerful song about exactly what you’d think from the title. As explained previously, in late 1970, when. L.A. Woman was being written and recorded, Morrison in particular was undergoing a period of intense change. The trials and tribulations (no pun intended) of life were hitting him hard, and he felt as if he had no other option but to leave. The line “But I never been so broke that I couldn’t leave town” is mostly figurative, but it’s also a blatant foreshadowing of the last few months of Morrison’s life.
In March 1971, Morrison left L.A. for Paris. Around a month later, L.A. Woman was released, to immediate success. In some ways, The Doors as the public knew them were back. After the moderate successes of the band’s two previous releases and the smash hit that was this album, Jim Morrison and, by association, The Doors, were no longer seen as hedonists who maybe had a few good songs to their name. Once again, they were a rock and roll force to be reckoned with. Morrison had the platform he needed to go far in his artistic pursuits, musically, poetically, and whatever else. He had the world at his fingertips. Instead of grabbing life by the horns, he left it in a Paris bathtub on 3 July 1971.
Patricia Kennealy-Morrison, who Jim married in a Celtic Pagan ceremony (although the two didn’t spend much time together after that) was quoted as saying:
“People weren’t really willing to let him grow- they wanted him to be this icon forever” (Crisafulli 126)
The bones for “The Changeling” were written a few years earlier, and seem to be a direct response to Jim’s arrest. By the time “The Changeling” was updated and recorded, Jim Morrison was something of a shattered porcelain doll held together with scotch tape. Nevertheless, the song is full of vibrant, renewed energy. For L.A. Woman, The Doors employed Jerry Scheff on bass, who played with Elvis’ backing band at the time. Scheff gelled with the band incredibly well, but his chemistry with Krieger is front and center here. Krieger’s tone almost sounds like the horn section of a James Brown tune, but he and Scheff play off of one another like they’ve been playing together all their lives. Densmore and Scheff’s groove propels the song along like an old, reliable station wagon, fuelled by Krieger’s Gibson SG (Equipboard.com). On the bridge parts of the song, his wah pedal is especially prominent, allowing his guitar to simultaneously evoke the sounds of a brass band and the Hammond organ that Manzarek plays.
As for the Lizard King himself, Morrison approaches this song with exhilarating energy, a stark contrast to the lyrics that foreshadowed his untimely death. Chuck Crisafulli, author of When The Music’s Over, describes Morrison’s vocals on this album as a “powerful rock’n’roll instrument,” and I can’t help but agree. With the exception of “Roadhouse Blues”, “The Changeling” feels like the first time in a long while that we get to see Morrison exhibit his vocal chops in all their screaming glory.
“The Changeling” serves as both a reflection of Morrison’s esoteric turbulence and a roaring statement of rebirth for The Doors as a whole. Despite the many struggles that were weighing on Morrison’s psyche, the song crackles with vibrant energy, showing a side of the frontman we hadn’t heard in years. His commanding vocals, full of raw intensity, contrast sharply with the darker, more introspective themes in the lyrics. The band’s renewed chemistry propels the track forward with a groove that feels both urgent and liberated. “The Changeling” encapsulates the duality of The Doors’ trajectory: artists on the verge of monumental stardom, yet doomed to slip away.
Love Her Madly:
Directly after “The Changeling” on the album is “Love Her Madly”, a song whose reception perfectly encapsulates Robby Krieger’s role in The Doors. In the midst of all of Morrison’s, for lack of a better word, madness, Krieger worked some of his songwriting magic on a tune that would put The Doors back on the pop charts. Whether you believe in magic or not, “Love Her Madly” climbed the pop charts all the way to #11. The band took this as an immense achievement, especially given their reviews over the past two years.
L.A. Woman as a whole was a return to form for the band, but it’s “Love Her Madly” in particular that cements this. While Morrison was a rock and roll poet and the unwitting yet unarguable face of the band, it was Krieger who was their hitmaker, writing songs like “Light my Fire” and “Love Me Two Times”. Both were wonderful songwriters, but Morrison penned the more introspective, experimental, and mystical tracks. Krieger was a calmer presence in the studio (in general, really) and his songs reflect that; they’re calmer and not as risky. This made them more commercially successful, but it’d be incorrect to argue that they’re better songs overall.
Paul Rothchild hated “Love Her Madly”, saying it sounded like “cocktail music” (Crisafulli 127). This scathing review is often misattributed as being about “Riders on the Storm”, but Rothchild confirmed in a 1981 interview with BAM that Krieger’s contribution to the album was his last straw. In the same interview, Rothchild can be quoted as saying:
“That’s the song that drove me out of the studio. That it sold a million copies means nothing to me.”
Rothchild’s tastes aside, “Love Her Madly” does have quite an interesting hook. Like the bulk of Krieger’s compositions, it’s about a pair of lovers. However, in this song, the perspective shifts a bit. The lyrics aren’t a conversation between lovers, rather, they’re Robby giving advice to a friend or peer as the friend’s relationship is falling apart. Rather than commiserating with the friend about the end of the relationship, offering a bit of anger, or really any other emotion. He takes to the situation like a complete pacifist, exhibiting a total “whatever, man” outlook on things. It’s the spirit of the 60s, really, the whole emotional pacifism, “just brush it off” sort of thing. It does make for a rather strange love song, though.
That’s just the nature of a Doors “pop” song. There’s no Doors tune that’s going to be trivial and casual, I simply don’t believe they’re capable of it. “Love Her Madly”, may be a Top 20 single, but it still has that psychedelic-bluesy feel to it that The Doors are so known for.
Brushing the song off as a mere commercial success does it a massive disservice. The Doors can’t be shoved into one genre. Calling “Love Her Madly” acid rock is about as close as you’ll get, but the term implies a sort of niche that the track transcends. The term “blues rock” is also quite close, but the song still has psychedelic elements to it. The subtle tension that the blend of drum and guitar at the beginning creates a sort of covert sense of altered reality. It’s subtle enough to fly under the radar for the most part, but just loud enough to subvert one’s sense of what popular music should look like.
While “Love Her Madly” is more consumable than most of Morrison’s compositions for the band (“The End” and “When The Music’s Over” are a few that come to mind), The Doors’ unique sense of space and texture in their music gives even their poppiest songs a certain mystical, psychedelic edge.
In conclusion, Krieger’s greatest contribution to L.A Woman subverts 60s pop by blending a passive approach to love and strife with a minimalist, bluesy arrangement, modal harmony, and a laid-back, psychedelic groove.
Been Down So Long:
Up next on L.A. Woman is “Been Down So Long”, a hard, gritty track that demonstrates both Morrison’s prowess as a bluesman and the expanses of his literary mind. The phrase “been down so long” is rather popular in the world of blues, but the title is borrowed from A 1966 novel called Been Down So Long it Looks Like Up to Me. Speaking to Jeff Weiss of L.A. Weekly in 2012, Manzarek said of the theme of the song:
“[Morrison] took the title of a Richard Fariña novel. It’s another retrospectively prophetic song. He was tired and worn out. He needed to be in a quieter, calmer place” (Weiss).
Fariña’s novel tells the story of Gnossos Pappadopoulis, a Beatnik 60s college student who navigates a chaotic world of hedonism, existential confusion, and disillusionment. Through Gnossos’s disjointed, episodic journey, Fariña attempts to capture the disillusionment of a generation caught between the hope of social change and the sheer depression that preceded them. The novel is both a critique of the counterculture and a reflection on the elusive nature of happiness and fulfillment.
I didn’t like the novel too much; it felt like a forced rewrite of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, but with more pro-hippie themes. Morrison, however, loved it; the novel was on his unofficial list of books that he’d recommend to friends when asked. “Been Down So Long” (the song) bears little resemblance to Fariña’s novel thematically; the book is more of a symbol of Morrison’s general mental state at the time. The two also share another eerie similarity: both died shortly after some of their strongest work was released. In Fariña’s case, it was only two days after the release of Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me, and in Morrison’s case, it was less than three months after the release of L.A. Woman.
“Been Down So Long” appears to be highly influenced by Furry Lewis’ 1927 track “I Will Turn Your Money Green”. Lewis was one of the only 20s bluesmen to receive a good deal of media coverage in the 60s and 70s, and Morrison was highly interested in the blues as it was.
This interest is abundantly clear in the song. Structurally, it’s a gritty, but typical, bone-rattling blues number. The first verse is a statement of a general blue sentiment in Morrison’s life. He’s been feeling low for so long that it’s become his new normal; he doesn’t know how to experience happiness. The second verse is also something you see quite frequently in blues lyrics: a statement to some sort of warden for freedom. This is also a direct reflection of Morrison’s life, given his multiple arrests and prison sentence. The third plea is also common in Morrison’s lyrics but a bit more raunchy. The verse starts with the lyrics “Baby, baby, baby/ Won’t you get down on your knees,” it’s a blatant plea for oral sex. After that, there’s a reprise of that bluesy sentiment we heard at the beginning, and the song is over.
Musically, the song is both a return to 1967-era Doors techniques and an innovative blend of new ideas, much like L.A. Woman as a whole. The majority of the album was cut live with few overdubs, which provided the band with the intimate atmosphere they needed to remember who they truly were. Employing session guitarist Marc Benno was a great decision on the band’s part for a multitude of reasons, but on this track in particular the interplay between Benno and Krieger infuses the song with a vibrancy you’d think would detract from the bluesiness of it all, but it doesn’t. Scheff’s staccato bass line grabs the listener by the hips and forces them to listen to what the other members have to say (or play). It’s punchy, it’s direct, it has the sort of in-your-face feel to it that makes the fact that punks like Iggy Pop drew influence from The Doors make perfect sense.
One of the surprising facts about “Been Down So Long” being a Doors track is that there isn’t a keyboard to be found on the whole four-and-a-half-ish minutes of the thing (depending on what version you’re listening to). This doesn’t necessarily mean that Manzarek was absent from the recording of this song, though. There seems to be an additional rhythm guitar around the third verse, although this remains unconfirmed.
Cars Hiss By My Window:
Fourth on the tracklist is “Cars Hiss By My Window”, another predominately blues tune in a similar style to “Been Down So Long”. The song was developed out of material from some of Morrison’s old Venice notebooks, where a great deal of his poetry was born. A few other songs on L.A. Woman originated from these notebooks, most notably, “The Changeling”, “L’America”, and “The Wasp”.
Like so much of this album, “Cars Hiss By My Window” feels like a homecoming for the band. While most of the album is a return to the blues, this song feels different. Don’t get me wrong, “Cars Hiss By My Window” is, definitively, a blues song. It has a different feel to it, however. The song feels like the tail end of a night of heavy drinking; disorienting yet serene in a way, like you’re still physically affected but your brain is returning to normal. It feels warm and intimate, like the comfort of a good whiskey with a good group of friends. “One doesn’t often get the sense that The Doors were the kind of band given to back-porch jams, but that is exactly the feel of ‘Cars Hiss By My Window,’” writes Chuck Crisafulli of the song’s atmosphere. The intimacy of the track is a direct reflection of the camaraderie and unity the band managed to reclaim on L.A. Woman.
This song, especially when compared to its predecessor on the album, echoes Friedrich Nietzsche’s Apollonian and Dionysian theories of art (Chaliakopoulos). These describe two fundamental artistic drives in human nature; the Apollonian represents order, reason, and rationality, and the Dionysian embodying chaos, passion, and instinct, focusing on unity, ecstasy, and the dissolution of boundaries. Nietzsche argues that great art arises from the tension and balance between these two forces, where the Apollonian provides form and the Dionysian infuses life and depth.
Morrison walked this line quite well, but the majority of his compositions skew more Dionysian. There are a few notable exceptions, “Indian Summer”, “End Of The Night”, and “Hyacinth House” being a few of them. “Cars Hiss By My Window” is a perfect example of a predominately Apollonian song with a Dionysian edge. In psychedelia, Apollonian music is spacey, blissed-out, more of the flower power, free love themes we see in a lot of the more mainstream psychedelic pop of the era. In contrast, Dionysian psychedelia is edgier, swampier, more like a bad trip or a fall into the den of the Lizard King.
Although Morrison had read quite a bit of Nietzsche, this categorisation was almost definitely unintentional on The Doors’ part; Nietzsche’s theories are more so useful for placing music in a broader cultural context.
Crisafully was completely right when he said that “Cars Hiss By My Window” felt like a porch jam. Krieger and Benno sound sleepy and a bit lazy- not in a negative way, per se, just in the sense that they sound like they’re a bit stoned playing the tail end of a late-night jam session and they’re ready to go to bed. Densmore’s use of the brush technique on the drums and Scheff’s muddy-sounding bass give the song the swampy, perhaps-a-bit-Dionysian undertone that it needs to give it just a bit of classic Doors edge.
While Morrison’s singing may be more relaxed on this track (with the exception of his faux harmonica solo a little past three minutes in), his lyrics are full of that good-old Jim Morrison enigmatic doom. He’s got a girl, yeah, but she’s “out of reach,”. By the end of the track, the girl is about to kill him in a darkened room.
To sum it all up, “Cars Hiss By My Window” embodies a uniquely “Doors” blend of the Apollonian and the Dionysian, capturing both the order and intimacy of a band of friends while infusing it with the raw chaos that defines much of Morrison’s work. The song’s laid-back atmosphere reflects the band’s reclaimed unity on L.A. Woman, yet its lyrical darkness and swampy undertones maintain the haunting edge of the band. Through this track, the band successfully balances the serene and the disorienting, creating an oasis in the tension between order and chaos.
L.A Woman:
There have been quite a few songs written about the city Morrison famously refers to as the “City of Night”, but few capture the city’s deep, nuanced complexities quite like “L.A. Woman”.
It’s rather fitting that the album is named after the song; many critics call “L.A. Woman” the strongest track on the album and I wouldn’t disagree. It’s also perfectly placed as the last track on Side A. The song is a roaring, unforgettable goodbye to Morrison’s adoptive hometown, but it’s also a bridge to a new beginning. The mentions of the “City of Light”, or Paris, refer quite clearly to the city that Morrison left Los Angeles for. Furthermore, the fact that Morrison chooses to essentially bookend the song with the same verse about “just [getting] into town an hour ago,” points to some sort of rebirth.
Speaking of bookends, the song also gave The Doors their second-ever (and last) billboard on the Sunset Strip. As Densmore explains in his 1991 autobiography, the first billboard faced toward the sunrise, and the last faced west, towards the setting sun.
As much as “L.A. Woman” seems to chronicle Morrison’s life as a newcomer in L.A to… newcomer in Paris, the song doesn’t seem to be addressed to a single person, Morrison, the mythical L.A woman, or otherwise. Rather, it appears to be something of a goodbye letter to the city itself. This “L.A. Woman” is the city; her hair is its hills, and she seems to bring nothing but motel, money, murder, and madness. The L.A. Woman isn’t real, but an image of her does exist on the inner sleeve of the record: a young woman crucified on a telephone pole.
Morrison, ever the bookworm, borrowed the phrase “City of Night” from a 1963 novel by author John Rechy. Although the two works are thematically completely different, as Rechy’s novel is about a group of gay hustlers, Morrison seemed to take a good bit of inspiration from Rechy, who uses the phrase “lost angels” to describe the characters in his novel.
The song loosely follows a verse/chorus format, structured as:
-Intro
-Verse
-Chorus
-Verse
-Extended Bridge
-Verse
-Chorus
-Outro
Perhaps the most captivating section of the song lies in the middle, with the extended bridge. This is the famed “Mr Mojo Risin” section, where Morrison manages to turn an anagram for his name into an infamous innuendo. Later, in typical Morrison fashion, he joked about using the phrase as an identifier if he ever chose to disappear into Africa like his literary hero Arthur Rimbaud.
In conclusion, “L.A. Woman” is a bittersweet farewell to Los Angeles and a bridge to a new, Parisian chapter. The song’s layered lyrics, hypnotic structure, and iconic “Mr. Mojo Risin’” bridge create a powerful blend of personal reflection and mythic imagery. By invoking the “City of Night” and blending personal, literary, and cultural references, Morrison crafts a farewell that is equal parts goodbye and rebirth, making the track a fitting, unforgettable conclusion to Side A of the album and a lasting, pivotal moment in The Doors’ discography.
L’America
Robby Krieger’s haunting, dripping guitar kicks off Side B of L.A. Woman. “L’America” is trippy in all senses of the word, originally intended for the soundtrack of Zabriskie Point. Director Michaelangelo Antonioni had just done Blow Up, a 1966 film that follows a London fashion photographer, who unknowingly captures a potential murder in a series of photos. As he enlarges the images, he becomes obsessed with uncovering the truth, but the more he investigates, the more unclear and surreal the situation becomes. The film explores themes of reality and ambiguity, and the mystery still isn’t resolved by the end of the film.
The surrealist nature of Antonioni’s work made The Doors a perfect fit for the soundtrack to his next film, 1970’s Zabriskie Point, a film that follows a disillusioned L.A. college student who wanders through a desert mostly aimlessly after escaping a violent protest at his school. All signs point to a Doors feature brought right at home on the soundtrack, but Antonioni wasn’t a huge fan when he heard a run-through at the Doors Workshop (their practice space), and declined to use it in the film. This wasn’t a huge upset for the band as the film was a box-office bomb and critically panned upon its release, but it’s since grown a cult-like following among film and psychedelia enthusiasts. I quite like the film, but it does have that child-of-the-60s sort of forced profundity to it.
“L’America” is a rather fascinating tune, even if it is a bit out of place on L.A. Woman. While the rest of the album is a blues project with a touch of paisley to it, “L’America” is pure Dionysian psychedelia with a few bluesy free-for-alls mixed in. The song doesn’t quite stick out like a sore thumb, but it sounds like it belongs on Waiting for the Sun or The Celebration of the Lizard rather than L.A. Woman. This uniqueness makes sense though, given that the song was practically finished a year and a half before L.A. Woman was released. The song was also strange in the studio; it was the result of a fair few studio sessions as opposed to being cut live in three or four takes.
Bill Siddons, the band’s manager, said of the taxing studio sessions “I remember walking on when they were doing ‘L’America’ and they were on something like take 33. I think that squeezed all the emotion out of the song” (Crisafulli 132). Siddons’ statement is rather general, but he does have somewhat of a point. There is quite a bit of emotion on the track, but it’s not the guttural, raw blues that we’re used to seeing on the rest of L.A. Woman. The song feels more like acid-induced mania rather than a liquored depression.
According to Morrison, the title is an abbreviation of Latin America, as the song is meant to reflect a rather odd trip south of the border. He also engages in some remarkably cheeky wordplay with the lines “Change the weather, change your luck/ And then he’ll teach you how to… find yourself”.
The song abandons any sort of standard blues progression, instead going for the dark and winding, psychedelic nightmare vibe that it holds. Krieger’s tone gives his playing a sound not unlike molten wax dripping onto a burning wooden cross, and his Scheff-backed, descent-into-madness riff creates a doomy atmosphere that would have made it perfect for a Zabriskie Point-esque film. What makes Antonioni’s rejection of the song rather ironic is the fact that it was a film, 1979’s Apocalypse Now, that would reignite public interest in The Doors after their death.
Hyacinth House:
“Hyacinth House”, which directly succeeds “L’America” is another semi-anomaly on the band’s so-called blues album. Morrison was an undeniably beautiful person and an incredibly talented poet and singer, but there isn’t a lot of his work that one would call beautiful. It’s often raw, sensual, liquored, gritty, and hypnotic, but beauty isn’t often used to describe his compositions. However, “Hyacinth House” is an all-around beautiful song, a flowing, somber ballad that’s still quintessentially Jim Morrison.
Morrison’s lyrics are once again packed with layers and layers of meaning. The physical “Hyacinth House” is most likely The Continental Hyatt House (as it was then known), a Sunset-Strip hotel infamous for hosting touring rock bands and all the rock n’ roll debauchery they got up to once they stepped off stage. The song’s lyrics also directly reflect the Greek myth of Hyacinthus. It’s rather fitting that a bookworm and “second coming of Dionysius” would write a song about Greek mythology.
The myth of Hyacinthus centers around a beautiful young prince of Sparta, beloved by both Apollo and Zephyrus, the god of spring and the west wind. One day, while playing a game of discus with Apollo, the god of sunlight, music, and poetry (amongst other things) mistakenly struck Hyacinthus in the head, which killed the young prince. In his grief, Apollo transformed Hyacinthus’ blood into a flower (the hyacinth) to immortalize his beauty and sorrow. The myth reflects themes of love, loss, and the transformative power of grief (Theoi.com).
In Morrison’s interpretation of the myth, the grief is not for another person, but for the beautiful Young Lion he once was. I’m not one to subscribe to the idea that beauty fades with age, but Morrison was no longer regarded by the general public as a beautiful young rock icon, but a haggard, shaggy man. As aforementioned, Morrison was rather uncomfortable with all of this fame and assigned sex-icon status, but in many ways, he had grown used to it. Having that designation ripped away once he gained some weight and grew a beard (and got arrested) was a stark change that he struggled to make sense of. So, in typical Morrison fashion, the Lizard King turned to song.
The only line in the song that doesn’t subscribe to these explanations is the line “I know the bathroom is clear”. It probably has a more cryptic meaning, knowing Morrison, but there is a more literal one: the bathroom at the Doors Workshop was often used as an echo chamber that Morrison would rehearse in before takes.
As for the instrumentation of the song, Krieger and Manzarek’s guitar and keyboard sounds, respectively, are unusually but not uncharacteristically pretty, just like Morrison’s lyrics. The instrumentation in The Doors’ “Hyacinth House” creates a haunting, introspective atmosphere that complements the song’s melancholic lyrics. Manzarek’s swirling electric organ creates a dreamy atmosphere, while Krieger’s reverb-laden guitar adds a subtle, reflective quality to the piece. John Densmore’s drumming is light and restrained, emphasising the somber mood of the song while being careful to not overpower the arrangement. Manzarek’s Piano Bass makes another appearance here, providing a deep, resonant foundation and grounding the track’s melancholy feeling. Overall, the sparse instrumentation aptly captures the introspective, otherworldly feel of the song, cementing the themes of change and longing that Morrison is singing about.
Crawling King Snake:
The Doors’ version of “Crawling King Snake” takes the foundational elements of John Lee Hooker’s blues standard and injects it with the band’s signature “paisley blues” sound.
Krieger’s guitar work is central to the track, with a relatively simple, bluesy riff that creates a hypnotic, repetitive groove, with the slightly distorted tone adding a raw, gritty edge. Jerry Scheff returns on bass, and his bassline anchors the song with a deep, pulsing foundation that reflects the track’s dark, brooding mood. Densmore’s drumming is crucial to the track, but he maintains a certain subtlety, playing a steady, laid-back beat that complements the blues rhythm while still allowing Morrison and Krieger to shine. Manzarek also contributes on the electric organ, filling in the spaces with an ambiance that adds texture and an eerie, ethereal quality to the track. The overall instrumentation is, like many other tracks on this album, sparse but perfectly arranged, with each instrument playing off the others to build tension and create a fluid, hypnotic movement. This minimalist approach feels true to the blues and enhances the song’s moody atmosphere, giving it a sort of gradual build as it progresses. The Doors, in general, blend the blues with their own psychedelic-isms, creating a distinctive, immersive sound that perfectly complements the themes of power, sensuality, and dark desire present in “Crawling King Snake”.
Seeing as Morrison intended L.A. Woman to be a “blues album”, the choice to cover an actual blues standard was a natural one. This wasn’t a new move for the band, as they had covered “Back Door Man”, a song written by blues legend Willie Dixon and popularised by Howlin’ Wolf. Covering a blues standard just made sense; in many ways, it was a return to their roots.
The WASP:
“The WASP (Texas Radio & The Big Beat)”, is a straight Jim Morrison poem later set to music, not unlike the whole of the band’s 1978 release An American Prayer. Morrison liked to incorporate his own poetry and spoken word into his performances, and “The WASP” was often used as a lead-in to “Love Me Two Times”, released on Strange Days in 1967. “The WASP” is another song developed from Morrison’s Venice notebooks, which held rough drafts of a lot of Morrison’s poetry, written before and around when The Doors were just beginning to bloom.
The instrumentalists created a perfect backing for Morrison’s lyrics. Densore’s drums provide a laid-back, hypnotic pulse. Coupled with Manzarek’s Hammond Organ, the two create a hypnotic, bewitching vibe. Manzarek also crafted the bassline on this tune, which is played on his signature Fender Rhodes Piano Bass. It’s got a mobile, marching feel to it that makes it feel like a sea shanty or automotive work song. Krieger’s guitar is subtle but valuable, contributing reverb-heavy riffs that weave around the organ’s melodies and add to the hypnotism of it all. Overall, the arrangement is sparse but rich. There’s a sort of controlled minimalism to it all that fosters a feeling of tension and surrealism that listeners have come to expect from the band.
The instrumentation creates an incredibly well-fitting atmosphere for a song about the radio. If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine a young Morrison in the back of his father’s station wagon, entranced by the music that he’s hearing on the car radio. That’s exactly what Morrison sought to achieve with this song- radios were a rare constant in his army brat childhood. Being the son of Navy Admiral George S. Morrison meant a whole lot of moving, primarily between California, Florida, and New Mexico. Powerful radio signals from Texas and Mexico could reach as far as Illinois and a young Morrison found comfort and a sense of home in the music on the radio. Go figure.
Like so many other artists in the 1960s, the radio was Morrison’s bridge to music cultures he never would have been exposed to otherwise as a white, middle-class kid from Melbourne, Florida. FM radio exposed Morrison to music from different countries, to blues stations, R&B, strange, offbeat rock n’ roll, and to just about anything else that could reach wherever he was living at the time. Morrison was exposed to Elvis and The Beatles like practically everyone else in his demographic, but also to artists the Top 40 could never have dreamed of.
Despite not being commercially released until the band’s last (good) album, the poem was one of the first to become a physical piece of The Doors’ legacy; it was even included in their souvenir book from their tour in 1968. The version of the piece featured on L.A. Woman wasn’t the end of its legacy, though. Portions of “The Wasp” would go on to be featured in the “Stoned Immaculate” section of “An American Prayer”.
“The WASP (Texas Radio & The Big Beat)” stands as a powerful example of Morrison’s ability to blend poetry with music, creating a piece that echoes the themes of alienation and discovery that permeate his work. Rooted in his early poetry, the song reflects Morrison’s thematic fascination with his transient childhood. The band’s instrumental arrangement perfectly complements Morrison’s evocative lyrics, enhancing the sense of surrealism and tension. More broadly, the song captures the essence of the countercultural relationship with media, identity, and self-expression in the 1960s. “The WASP” not only encapsulates Morrison’s artistic vision; the minimalist instrumentation provides a backbone that ensures its lasting impact, making it a timeless deep cut in The Doors’ legacy.
Riders on the Storm:
Closing out L.A. Woman is “Riders on the Storm”, a track that sticks with you from the moment your ears are graced with it for the first time. It’s probably the fact that it’s The Doors’ last song on their last album with the incomparable, infamous Jim Morrison, but there’s a distinct sense of eerie mysticism present in the song.
The song is a crucial piece of evidence for those who believe that Morrison had been plotting his escape to Paris (and subsequent demise) for a long while. On the 2021, 50th anniversary remaster of the album, Morrison can be heard at the beginning of “Riders on the Storm” in conversation with Densmore and the rest of his band, talking about how they’re on take ten and ways of getting some “real thunder” in the song. One line from Morrison sticks out as if he wrote it in neon lights: “This is take ten. It’ll never be take ten again.”
Now I’m not of the belief that Morrison’s death was some sort of poetic suicide, or orchestrated by the CIA, or any of the other wild conspiracy theories that have cropped up over the years. As much as I love Morrison and The Doors (I have a tattoo of Morrison’s signature on my ribs), I don’t think regarding him as some sort of demigod and trying to find arbitrary meaning in his death does his legacy any good. The unfortunate reality of the circumstances of his death is that autopsies were not required by French law at the time, so we’ll never properly know how he died. At the end of the day, Jim Morrison was a tragic, beautiful soul who had a longtime drinking problem and had begun wading into heroin-infested waters. Nevertheless, Morrison did have a flair for the eerie and dramatic, and a statement lamenting the passage of time is quite on brand for him.
Did-he-or-was-he aside, “Riders on the Storm” is an incredible song, even if you take away all of the attractive mysticism behind it. It’s songs like this that make the fact that The Doors never employed an electric bass player as a full-fledged member so shocking. Scheff’s bassline creates what Crisafulli refers to as a “pulsing drone” (Crisafulli 135). This then creates the tension in the track that the band is so known for. As magnetic as Morrison and his bandmates are together, it’s difficult to imagine L.A. Woman without Jerry Scheff.
There are also added sound effects on the track; which some may say goes against the “return to form” of it all, but that’s not entirely true. It was a relatively new concept at the time, but tracks like “Five To One” and “Horse Latitudes” (the lead-in to “Moonlight Drive” on Strange Days) from earlier in their repertoire also used the same technique. It provides the ability to control what the listener is hearing more closely, which made sense for the band as they were co-producing. Furthermore, Manzarek’s jazzy electric piano creates an intimate, lounge sort of feel that suits the piece quite well. That’s why Rothchild’s “cocktail music” comment about “Love Her Madly” is often attributed to “Riders on the Storm”. You can almost imagine The Doors as a lounge band at an upscale nightclub here, with Morrison crooning to you after you’re a few drinks deep and your face is starting to flush. What a strange place that would be. Morrison’s vocals on the song are wistful and supernatural, almost like that of an oracle delivering some bad news. I suppose, in a way, he is.
As uniquely Doors as “Riders on the Storm” is, the title and hook are actually pulled from a different poet- Hart Crane. Crane was known for his modernist poetry that sought to capture the complexity and energy of the American experience. Born in Ohio in 1899, Crane was deeply influenced by the imagery of the sea, urban life, and American mythology. His most famous work is “The Bridge”, a long poem that explores themes of American identity, history, and transcendence, using the Brooklyn Bridge as a symbol of connection and modernity. Crane’s poetry is known for its dense, lyrical language and vivid imagery. He struggled immensely throughout his life, namely with familial tensions and his homosexuality, ultimately committing suicide at age 32. Crane isn’t quite a household name à la Eliot and Whitman, but he’s known by many a bookworm as being highly significant to the modernist movement and to 20th-century American poetry as a whole (Crane 43-103).
It’s unclear if Morrison was attracted to Crane’s status as a poet who died young or just liked his material, but Morrison elected to borrow the phrase “riders on the storm” from Crane’s Praise For An Urn, where he refers to advice from a deceased friend as “inheritances- delicate riders on the storm” (Crisafulli 135). Many common themes from both Crane’s poetry and Morrison’s work are present in “Riders on the Storm”. The song echoes themes of love (in this case, Morrison professing his love to longtime partner Pamela Courson), death, and fate, which are all abundant in these last seven minutes and fourteen seconds we get with Morrison, at least until An American Prayer.
There are a fair few similarities between “Riders On The Storm” and a poem on An American Prayer called “The Hitchhiker”, actually. When the poem was set to music for the 1978 album, the remaining Doors decided to add ghostly whispers of “riders on the storm…” at the end of many lines, cementing the connection between the two pieces. Both works (“The Hitchhiker” in particular) are also quite thematically similar to HWY: An American Pastoral, Morrison’s indie film about a serial killer who lures his victims by posing as an innocent hitchhiker.
“Riders On The Storm” was truly a last hurrah for The Doors, in all senses of the word. The song was released as a single in June 1971 and climbed its way to #14 on the Billboard charts. Coupled with the success of “Love Her Madly”, The Doors were back, but not for long. A mere three weeks later, Jim Morrison died in his partner’s apartment in Paris, and the band would never recover.
The Doors really are in a league of their own, and L.A. Woman represents that. The album is an expert blend of blues and psychedelia, of prose and poetry, lyrics and literature. The band had a real knack for blending history with the here and now and creating something acutely, distinctly Doors. Far beyond the rich history and impressive, intelligent lyrics of L.A. Woman is the technique behind the construction of the whole thing. I sound like I’m beating a dead horse at this point, but the album really was a blend of the old and the new; an amazingly innovative return to form. This is perhaps most evident in the production techniques on the album.
As aforementioned, due to a fallout with longtime producer Paul A. Rothchild, the band self-produced the record in conjunction with engineer Bruce Botnick. Botnick is renowned for both his skills as an audio engineer and producer and is perhaps best known for his work on L.A. Woman. His role in shaping some of the essence of the record was pivotal; he was not only the engineer and producer but also (arguably) in capturing the raw energy and spontaneity of the sessions. Credit for the sonic shift of L.A. Woman goes primarily to Botnick above any other single person. His innovative techniques in the studio, particularly his use of natural reverb and live, on-the-fly mixing, helped define the album’s gritty, sprawling, yet intimate feel. His work on L.A. Woman remains a significant contribution to music history, instrumental in preserving the band’s legacy and their unfiltered approach to what we call rock and roll.
Although, by Botnick’s own admission, his experiences with the band were varied, he continues to work on their posthumous releases. As Botnick is alive and more impartial than the actual members of the band can be, he’s become somewhat of a primary source for Doors history. Speaking on fellow engineer/producer Andrew Scheps’ podcast Andrew Scheps Talks To Awesome People, Botnick shares “There was so much that Jim had to say about the direction and about the way that things needed to be” (Scheps, 2:05-2:10). Although Botnick is talking about Morrison Hotel here rather than L.A. Woman, we get a sense of Morrison’s headspace from his recollections. Morrison cared deeply about the output and success of his work. He even called Densmore from across the Atlantic, about a month before he died, to ask how the album was doing (Crisafulli 123). He wasn’t abandoning music for the literary arts, he was simply shifting gears a bit.
Botnick was also a perfect fit for The Doors, personality-wise. Where the band had that wild, enigmatic, artist side to them, Botnick was calm and collected. He knew how to have fun, but he also knew how to get shit done in the studio. This led to their choice to (primarily) record live, and also led to their most intimate, “together” atmosphere yet. In 21st-century interviews, it’s evident- Botnick doesn’t subscribe to the cult of celebrity that plagued Morrison. He genuinely seems to be there because he enjoys the music, something Morrison surely appreciated.
Botnick’s production of L.A. Woman is notable for many reasons, perhaps the most important of which is its raw, live-in-studio approach. This was a departure from the more heavily overdubbed and complex arrangements of the band’s earlier albums, and seemed to fare well with listeners. Rather than relying on the studio to layer multiple tracks or manipulate the sound in post-production, the band and producer Bruce Botnick opted to capture the immediacy and energy of the group playing together in the same room. This approach gave the album a more organic, spontaneous feel, especially on tracks like “L.A. Woman” and “Cars Hiss By My Window,” where the musicians’ interactions are clearly audible. The decision to minimize editing and overdubs created a more natural, unpolished sound. This, in turn, emphasized the emotional rawness and immediacy of the performances, marking a shift toward simplicity and authenticity in their sound. L.A. Woman was the here and now, but it was also a window to the “back then”.
Krieger’s guitar work on L.A. Woman is both prominent and innovative, contributing to the album’s distinctive sound. One of the more notable, but less talked about aspects of the album is the introduction of Marc Benno, which adds layers and texture to the tracks without overshadowing the central groove. This allowed Krieger to experiment more, one example being his use of slide guitar on “L.A. Woman.” This style of playing was a departure from his more complex guitar work on earlier albums like Strange Days and Waiting For The Sun, and its simplicity helped to ground the album in that muddy, bluesy sound they wanted. Krieger’s tone throughout the album is often earthy and direct, further enhancing the sense of authenticity and live energy.
Manzarek’s role in the production of the album is more subtle than previous albums, but just as essential to the overall sound. While L.A. Woman is less reliant on the dense organ and keyboard textures that characterized earlier albums, his contributions are still integral to the overall mood of the songs. The electric piano on “L.A. Woman,” creates a warm, resonant tone that complements Morrison’s vocals, as well as the song’s laid-back groove. Manzarek’s Hammond organ is front and center on “The WASP”, but his keyboard work on the rest of the album is, in general, more restrained and sparse compared to the elaborate arrangements of earlier Doors albums, especially The Soft Parade. This minimalist approach helps create space within the tracks, allowing the other instruments to breathe. This also makes the album feel more open and uncluttered, adding to the intimate simplicity that Botnick and the band worked so hard to cultivate. The harmonic simplicity of Manzarek’s keyboard parts supports the groove-driven nature of the album, and his playing is in perfect harmony with the overall stripped-down production style.
Morrison’s vocal performance on L.A. Woman is another one of the album’s standout features. His delivery is both restrained and explosively emotional, and the production emphasizes the nuances of his voice much more prominently than on previous albums. Morrison’s vocals are often drenched in reverb and ever-so-subtle echo effects, which create a sense of space and depth, which in turn enhances the atmospheric quality of the songs. This production choice helps to convey the mysterious and introspective mood that permeates much of the album. On tracks like “Riders on the Storm,” the echo effects on Morrison’s voice contribute to the haunting, surreal vibe, giving it a supernatural quality that complements the song’s dark, cinematic feel. His vocal performance throughout L.A. Woman reflects a shift from the more theatrical, wild delivery of earlier works to a more controlled expression that doesn’t skimp on the intensity factor.
The production of L.A. Woman is marked by distinctive choices that enhance the atmosphere and mood of each track. Perhaps the most memorable is “Riders on the Storm,” which opens with rain and thunder sound effects that immediately set a haunting, cinematic tone. This track is probably the most innovative in terms of production. Sure, groups like Pink Floyd were experimenting with a cacophony of different sound effects, but The Doors managed to add the perfect amount for what they were trying to create. You get the sense that you’re listening to something big and important, but it’s important in the sense that it sticks in your brain like bitter nostalgia. These ambient sounds, combined with Morrison’s reverb-drenched vocals, create an eerie, dreamlike quality that fits the song’s introspective and dark themes.
In a similar, innovative fashion, “The WASP” uses tape delay and echo effects on Morrison’s vocals to create a dramatic, expansive sound. The heavy percussion and Manzarek’s throbbing organ build a hypnotic rhythm that complements Morrison’s swinging lyrics, adding to the track’s larger-than-life feel. The echo effects and slight distortion give the song a raw, almost tribal energy.
On “L.A. Woman”, the production emphasizes a gritty, almost rootsy rock sound. The iconic guitar riff cuts through the mix with a tactile, live feel (I wonder why!), while Morrison’s commanding yet intimate vocal delivery is enhanced with subtle reverb, giving the song a spacious quality. Scheff and Densmore’s steady rhythm section, with its smooth yet firm grooves, adds a crucial momentum, driving the track forward from its open, laid-back vibe.
Across the album, these production choices- whether atmospheric, technical, or pertaining to the arrangements- help each song feel unique while maintaining a cohesive sense of mood and space. The result is an album that feels both immediate and wistfully cinematic, with each track being carefully crafted to support its emotional and sonic themes.
In my never-ending quest to get to the bottom of L.A. Woman, it became clear that the album represents both the culmination of The Doors’ musical evolution and a profound reflection of their artistic identity at a critical point in their career. L.A. Woman marked a return to the band’s roots, blending the raw energy of the blues with the complexity of psychedelia. Through its unique fusion of genres, the album serves as a bridge between the hippie music of the 1960s and the hard rock of the 1970s. It does so while simultaneously showcasing a band deeply influenced by the changing cultural and musical landscape of the world around them, through the lens of none other than the city of Los Angeles.
Through the song-by-song analysis, I was able to identify a marked shift toward a more straightforward, sexy, bluesy sound, a notable contrast to the band’s previous albums (especially the middle two). Tracks like “Cars Hiss By My Window” and “Been Down So Long” reflect a band embracing a more stripped-down, blues-oriented approach, yet they retain the genius, poetic lyricism that defined The Doors’ music. Morrison’s lyric poetry, often cryptic and visceral, evokes a sense of personal introspection and existential exploration, one that’s become more and more eerie the more we uncover about the last days of Jim Morrison. The rest of the band’s performance offers a sonic depth that complements the raw emotional power of the lyrics. This is spearheaded by the three full-fledged members of the band; Krieger’s distinctive guitar work, Manzarek’s atmospheric keyboard textures, and Densmore’s propulsive drumming all play a vital role in the makeup of the album. But Jerry Scheff and Marc Benno are instrumental to the success of the album, as well.
The production techniques on L.A. Woman further highlight the band’s streamlined yet unpolished approach to recording. The album was famously produced with a focus on capturing the energy one feels when seeing The Doors live, and the bulk of the album was cut live in just a few takes. This raw, unrefined sound contributes to the album’s timeless quality, allowing listeners over fifty years later to experience the band’s chemistry and spontaneity in ways otherwise would have been lost on us children of the twenty-first century. Additionally, the integration of Morrison’s literary influences, particularly Hart Crane and Richard Fariña, shows the band’s continued evolution and their willingness to experiment within the unforgiving field of rock and roll.
L.A. Woman is a deeply introspective and multifaceted album, offering a complex portrait of a band at the crossroads of their career. It encapsulates the spirit of the time, reflecting both the optimism and bleak disillusionment of the late 60s and early 70s. More than just the swan song of The Doors as a band, it is a testament to their ability to evolve musically while maintaining the elements that make their sound unique. The album not only stands as one of the band’s finest achievements but also as an enduring cornerstone in the history of rock. The album’s themes- identity, freedom, love, and the duality of light and darkness- continue to resonate, ensuring L.A. Woman remains a seminal and enduring work within the canon of rock and roll.
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