Keeping the Flame Burning

The Doors were undoubtedly one of the most influential, controversial and popular bands to emerge from the ‘60s psychedelic-rock scene. Exciting and unsettling, the quartet’s poetic, dark, sensual music eloquently captured the complexities of its hometown, the City of Angels.

But after a brief elevator ride to the top, lead singer, poet and poster boy Jim Morrison reminded us of just how destructive the demons of self-indulgence can be. Sadly, the substance-abusing Lizard King was only 27 when he died amid mysterious circumstances in a Paris bathtub in 1971.

Was it drugs and booze? Suicide or even murder? No one knows for sure, and for many, that fascination with Morrison and the Doors lingers.

Published last June, keyboardist Ray Manzarek’s “Light My Fire: My Life With the Doors” keeps the flame burning. Currently on tour plugging the book, the affable, frequently funny Manzarek presented his music and spoken word program before a half-full crowd Saturday at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano.

In an informal atmosphere (“I will digress,” he warned) that included storytelling, “tickling the piano’ and a Q&A; session, Manzarek provided an insider’s glimpse into what made the Doors tick. Unfortunately, the other half of the equation--their implosion--got short shrift.

That’s not to say the 90-minute program didn’t have its nostalgic charms, particularly when Manzarek used numerous anecdotes to put a more personal face on the Doors, which also included guitarist Robbie Krieger and drummer John Densmore.

For instance, Manzarek, 64, spoke fondly about the time Morrison had written what became the first-ever Doors song, “Moonlight Drive.” He recalled how a then-shy Morrison had to be cajoled into singing it just to him one hot day on Venice Beach.

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Manzarek also shared his passion for the blues and jazz, citing the influences of Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins. He even reproduced the chords he lifted for “Wild Child” from Miles Davis’ 1959 gem, “Milestones.”

Why’d he do it?

He asserts: “Hey, if you’re gonna steal, you might as well steal from the best!”

He spoke just as enthusiastically about the birth of “Light My Fire.” Breaking down parts of the song while playing the piano, Manzarek demonstrated how it went from being a rough idea of Krieger’s to a full-blown band collaboration. Obviously proud, he spoke about the classic tune with the same kind of rush he surely felt when it peaked at No. 1 in the summer of 1967.

Manzarek played only a handful of songs, and all on the splendid-sounding baby grand. But each was impressively delivered, especially a romantic, rippling version of “The Crystal Ship” and a tender, concert-ending requiem for Morrison titled “Memorial.”

At times, Manzarek sounded hopelessly dated, using words such as “groovy,” “man,” “beatnik” and “cosmic” with astonishing regularity. But at the same time, he’s quite the intellectual, peppering his speech with references to Herman Hesse, Jack Kerouac, Friedrich Nietzsche, William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and Michael McClure.

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It sure would have been nice, though, if he used some of that brainpower to address the disturbing duality of Morrison and his alter-ego, the so-called Jimbo. Manzarek spoke almost exclusively about the Wild Child’s poetry and charisma, sidestepping the tough--but pertinent--questions about his unpredictable evil twin.

In his well-written book, Manzarek at least briefly touches on the subject, suggesting that Morrison was “victimized by leeches who seduced him, who added more euphoria to his euphoria.”

Still, if Manzarek’s job--as he maintains--was to see that Morrison’s art flourished, why did the self-destructive Jimbo wield such a powerful sword? And ultimately, how did the Doors prosper for so long with someone, as Manzarek puts it, “who’s suffering from a derangement of the senses”?

Strange days, indeed.

Ex-T.S.O.L. front man Joe Wood plays with the same kind of desperation and darkness that marks the Doors. In his raspy but highly emotive voice, the singer-songwriter-guitarist shared plenty of heartache in his opening, solo set, which roamed easily among folk, rock and the blues. Among the highlights were Robert Johnson’s wicked “Little Queen of Spades,” the sad but true story of Wood’s jailbird uncle, “Livin’ on Death Row,” and “26 Forever,” a chilling, anguish-filled song about a friend with AIDS.