The Doors are like certain Twilight Zone episodes or The Shawshank Redemption:
Really deep and profound — if you’re 12 years old.
Jim Morrison’s lyrics — sorry, I mean “poetry” — are, well, let this guy say it:
Jim Morrison wrote a lot of poetry, and most of it was (…) pretentious, regrettable, faux-intellectual diarrhea. Reading Jim Morrison the poet is like watching a shirtless SAE pledge strumming James Blunt on his old acoustic in the university commons during spring break: totally insufferable, uninspiring, and distasteful.
By the way: the dude who wrote that is a fan of The Doors.
I can almost understand old hippies staying fond of The Doors for nostalgic reasons.
What I can’t comprehend are the teenagers and college students who love their overblown, empty-calorie noise.
Jim Morrison’s “Romantic” affectations were simply a flimsy cover for his interpersonal obnoxiousness.
He got away with a lot of rude, obscene garbage because he presented himself an an “artiste.”
And then he died, which, as the old joke goes, was a great career move, because you can see from his mug shot that he was doomed to get really fat in short order.
Who the hell calls himself “the Lizard King,” anyhow?
Especially since all his songs and “poems” about snakes sound like they were written by a guy who’d never actually seen one.
Again, I cede the floor to David Stubbs:
He was congratulated for shedding a beam of black light on the sunshine Sixties scene. However, his doggerel visions of what might lie beyond if we were to be really intense enough to break through and find out, was just as drivel-addled as any Aquarian age nonsense, a lyrical world of crystal ships and snakes and reptile kingdoms and snakes and ancient lakes and girls of low morals and snakes – basically, the banal lexicon of the tattoo parlour brought to life.
Oliver Stone is one of their biggest fans.
What more do I need to say?