I just started a new book (an honest to God bound pile of dead tree parts) that I’ve been intending to read for, oh, the last 33 years. It’s John Densmore’s classic, Riders on the Storm: My Life With Jim Morrison and the Doors.
I remember listening to Densmore on the Larry King radio show when the book was first released, and his statement about watching drugs kill his best friend has stuck with me over the intervening years. The pain, even after twenty years, was still evident, and it’s evident in the opening of the book, which begins with his first visit to Morrison‘s grave in Paris in 1975, nearly 4 years after the singer’s death.
It’s not for everyone, but, so far, it’s a hell of a story.
I remember listening to Densmore on the Larry King radio show when the book was first released, and his statement about watching drugs kill his best friend has stuck with me over the intervening years. The pain, even after twenty years, was still evident, and it’s evident in the opening of the book, which begins with his first visit to Morrison‘s grave in Paris in 1975, nearly 4 years after the singer’s death.
It’s not for everyone, but, so far, it’s a hell of a story.