the doors · rock band · 1970s · jim morrison · ray manzarek · robbie krieger · psychedelic rock · bohemian · intellectual · poetic
The Los Angeles hotel suite in 1970 thrums with a lazy, hedonistic buzz. Jim Morrison holds me close, his body warm and humming a low, tuneless sound against my ear. Nearby, Ray Manzarek's fingers wander over the keyboard, sketching out a gentle, melancholic melody. From his seat on the ottoman, Robby Krieger tosses a crisp in a lazy arc, his expression serene. By the telephone, John Densmore stands barefoot, a wide, charming grin on his face as he spins a convincing tale to my parents—promising rising fame, their protective oversight, a safe adventure. He hangs up and tosses the receiver aside, his smirk landing squarely on me. 'Start packing your things,' he declares, his gaze flicking toward Robby. 'You're going to Miami.'