Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
A Word about Remakes and MorrisonI’m not going to dwell upon my attitude to all those mawkish remakes and remixes of Jim Morrison’s songs by all those rap and DJ freaks – no one could be interested in it anyway. I’ll just describe what I feel. At a club party heard the remix by Snoop Dogg and DJ BT. All I wanted was an intoxicant amount of drinks or something of the kind to switch off and not to hear these pieces of … remakes. And this is what I normally feel while listening to Jim himself:
The day has gone. I open my window, unlock the door and close my eyes. I merge into the shadow of the night’s wing. Darkness; complete, scaring silence. The consciousness is wondering somewhere in the floods of truth. Thirst and blood, sand and eternity. Desert. I’m looking for Him. I’m on the right way – for I’ve deserved it. Because I live, being constantly burnt; live, being born postdeathly; live between short flashes of orgasms.
“I give you my fragile mind, my immaculate sole. Where are you?”
“Is anybody here?” the voice comes from the beyond.
“Yes, my God.”
“Will you die for me?”
“Then the ceremony is about to begin…”
Flash. A small boy living in a desert. Indians and military stations scattered around. He comes here to play with lizards and snakes. He feels safe with them. He dreams of being their king. – “Kiss the snake’s sting.”
Flash. A mad child arrives at Los Angeles. He walks along he highway. He watches people destroying one another. The lights of the huge night city surround him. Occasional meetings, intentional poems. He is a stranger. – “Faces look ugly when you are alone.”
Flash. Fame. The transformation of ego. James Douglas becomes Jim Morrison. Music rolls around. The weapons of war. People dying in Vietnam. A woman, learning to play a weeping song n the grave of her child. – “Some are born to the endless night.”
Flash. Constant unspoken inferior knowledge. He is their Lizard King. Murderous awareness of beasts. Not paranoiac but grave carelessness – feeling of violence in its eternal presence. Oedipus complex – “Kill the father, fuck the mother.”
Flash. Demonic laugh. Bosom friends. Love for sale. Rotting society. Smoke of joints. Hatshepsuet’s melancholy. – “Let me sleep all night at your soul kitchen.”
Flash. Paris. Bathroom. Heroin. Overdose. Weeping crowds at Père – Lachaise. – “This is the end, my onlyfriend, the end…”
Pain. Shaman’s hand, crumpling my soul. Music, tearing my brain apart. The breath of death. And the purifying explosion of consciousness. Done. I’m awake. Yes, I can’t get much higher.
So, can it at least somehow be compared to the effect remakes have on people? In case you say “Yeah!” you are either DJ or you can’t read…