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The Long and Winding Road

When I walk through the stage door of the Roseland Ballroom in New York, I hear an unmistakable riff--the long electric piano solo that spirals up and down until it can't go higher or become more intense and then it resolves as Jim Morrison comes in to sing: 'The time to hesitate is through . . .'

'Light My Fire' by the Doors was the number one song in America in 1967. But onstage at Roseland almost forty years later are Ray Manzarek, the original keyboard player, Robby Krieger, the original guitarist, and between them, replacing Jim Morrison, is Ian Astbury, a singer in his thirties who looks so much like Morrison that the image of the three suggests The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ray and Robby are in their sixties, with silver hair and deeply lined faces, but Jim doesn't seem to have aged--he looks frozen at twenty-seven, the age he was when he died.

The Doors of the Twenty-first Century, as they call themselves tonight, are doing a sound check for a concert celebrating fifty years of rock 'n' roll. Ray stands at the electric piano, wearing a black Issey Miyake shirt with pleats over gray pants. His hair is slicked back, and he's rail thin from lifting weights, swimming, and yoga. 'I feel juicy,' Ray says into the microphone, testing the level. 'I feel juicy now. I got filth running through my blood, Robby. It's gonna be a dirrrrr-ty night.' It's also going to be a loud night, and I make a note to come back later with earplugs and my glasses.

The Doors created and released albums for only four years, 1967 to 1971, but they've been embraced by succeeding generations, and my son has the lyrics to a Doors song on his blog. After Jim's death, Ray kept making music on his own and wrote two books, none of which connected with a mass audience, but that was all right. He hadn't played a Doors song in thirty years when in 2002 the Harley-Davidson company asked the Doors if they would re-form the group to perform at an L.A. concert celebrating Harley's hundredth anniversary. 'Robby and I said, 'Let's do it!' ' Ray recalls, but John Densmore, the third living Door, said his ears were too badly damaged to play drums. Their manager brought in another drummer and, to sing, Ian Astbury of the Cult.

Playing for thousands of inflamed Harley-Davidson riders at the California Speedway was 'so much fun,' Ray says, that they went on the road as the Doors of the Twenty-first Century, until a lawsuit forced them to drop the Doors name and perform as Riders on the Storm.

Backstage at Roseland, I ask Ray how he deals with the fact that his most well-loved work was done more than thirty years ago. He waves his hand, dismissive. I tell him I have the same issue on a smaller scale. 'My first book was a bestseller--it was number two in the country and made into a miniseries. I've written five books since then and hundreds of articles and screenplays, but none has had that impact. I used to feel upset because people would meet me and say--'

'I know what they tell you,' Ray says. 'You were big once upon a time, and you don't have it anymore. Well, thank you very much, really nice of you to point that out. Have you ever had a success? No, you haven't. I see, you . . . LOSER!' He shrugs. 'What can we do with this society? We're vicious that way.'

'How do you handle it?'

'You don't. You get pissed off and say, Fuck you. Fuck you! You got the nerve to say that stuff to my fucking face, you fucker?'

He imitates the guy confronting him: ' 'Well, Ray, you know, a lot of people have said you're just doing it for the money.'

'Like who? Is he there with you? Put him on the phone, let me talk to that asshole.

'...