Boom, Boom, Out Go the Lights

My friend the movie deal-making guy invited me to see The Doors at the Pacific Amphitheatre in lovely Costa Mesa, California, a few weeks back. Actually, they aren't allowed to call themselves the Doors, or even The Doors of the 21st Century, despite featuring two living, breathing members of the venerable L.A. band. Keyboard player Ray Manzarek and guitarist Robby Krieger have resorted to calling themselves Riders On the Storm, thanks to legal foot-stomping of ex-Doors drummer John Densmore, who wisely has washed his hands of this entire pathetic mess. My friend wanted to go because his drum teacher currently pounds the skins with the Riders. I figured it might be fun in a car-crash sort of way, so I went. Besides, I once dropped 'shrooms at an Allman Brothers gig at the Pacific and I was feeling nostalgic.

First thing I had to do, though, was talk my friend off the Ticketmaster ledge. "For $115 we could sit in the first five rows." He wasn't high when he said this. He was dead serious. I explained that someone's huge ego demanded they play the 8,500 seater, when they should have been playing the El Rey. I told him we could probably get tix in front for twenty bucks from scalpers outside the venue. And we would have, but we didn't bother negotiating and paid forty bucks for good-enough seats. After all, who really needs to see 200-year-old guys up close. So I could count wrinkles?

There were so many fucked up things about this experience I almost don't know where to begin. (I won't even discuss Krieger's uber-cheesy blue L.A. Dodger logo t-shirt. That was so raawk, Grandpa). But the night started on a high note. Movie-Deal Guy had mentioned that Paul Rodgers (without Free, without Bad Company, without The Firm, without Queen, but with, of course, muscle shirt) was the headliner. He thought someone was opening but didn't remember his name.

Much to my infinite glee, we walked down to our nice orchestra seats just in time to hear Pat Travers chugging his warhorse, "Boom, Boom, Out Go the Lights." Travers was a sort of poor-man's George Thorogood, and he was huge in the eyes of my Valley stoner buds at Monroe High School, circa 1980. In fact, the Pat Travers Band gig at the Santa Monica Civic in 1980 was a goldmine for my pals, who ripped off at least a dozen car stereos during the event. One of these sweet AM-FM cassette decks made their way into my beloved, stock-as-a-rock, six-cylinder 1968 Camaro -- at a cost of only twenty bucks to me. Such a deal.

According to his website, Travers is only 52, but he looked about 20 years older up there on the stage in broad daylight. I'm surprised he didn't melt into a puddle on the stage. The thousand or so geezers in the crowd passionately rocked their fists and waved their ponytails at the appropriate moments. (Luckily, there were no "show us your tits" moments. That would have sent me over the edge.) At that moment I felt glad to be alive, and glad to be the second youngest person in the audience (movie-deal guy is two years younger than me). But also strangely glad to see Pat Travers, though I'm bummed that we missed hearing his other classic, "Snortin' Whisky, Drinkin' Cocaine."

I have no issue with nostalgia-package shows. I appreciate the desire to re-live a time in life when everything had yet to unfold. I certainly rush to the Greek every summer when the Go-Go's play and I never fail to get weepy even after seeing the band play the same songs more than 30 times in 30 years.

What's weird is that Manzarek and Krieger persist in this sonic charade. It was odd enough when they were joined by former Cult singer Ian Astbury, but at least that kind of made sense. Astbury was certainly influenced in many ways by Jim Morrison. But when Astbury bailed to rejoin the Cult, wouldn't it have been a fine time for the surviving Doors to go off quietly into their sunset? After all, they did get something of a victory trot, albeit without their meal ticket.

But when I saw then in Costa Mesa, I surmised that they must either be broke or in possession of monstrous egos. Why else would they continue to graze on the remains of Mr. Mojo Risin', this time with The Guy Who Sang in Fuel. Talk about diminishing returns. Who's next? Taylor Hanson? (Don't get me wrong. I think Taylor Hanson is The Bomb)

I started to think about the motivation of the Fuel Guy. He must assume that he's finished as anything viable in the music business if he's signed on to do Jim Morrison karaoke. And he was totally acting. Leather pants, slithering around, yelping appropriately. The Old Doors even forced Fuel Guy to do "Peace Frog" and some weird pretentious poetry shit from American Prayer. I guess since they no longer have a legitimate frontman, they're doing the "edgier" stuff to show the world that they're all about the music (and not, as I suspect, all about the ego and/or the cash).

To their credit, if I closed my eyes during instrumental passages, I began to groove on the playing. Damn if it actually sounded like something resembling the Doors. Then my eyes opened -- or Fuel Guy opened his mouth -- and everything went all to hell. It may have been those tight shots of Manzarek's ancient fingers flashing on the giant video screens. It was worse when Manzarek opened his mouth. Clearly basking in the affection of the stoned half-filled amphitheater, Manzarek admonished a singalong during the instro jam of "Break On Through." It went something like this: "George Bush gotta get high... Dick Cheney gotta get high." I'm sure he was genuine, but I just felt all creepy hearing this from a 150-year-old guy with spectacles and a sweater. And to think I thought he was cool when he produced X.

Movie Guy, my companion, made a very good point while all this was transpiring. As witnesses to the victory trots of these geezer bands, we're waving good-bye to rock and roll as we know it. The Stones won't go forever (no, really, they won't), and all these folks we know and love are well past Denny's senior discount age, so they're gonna have to give up the ghost eventually. When will it actually end? I dunno, after U2 and REM hang it up, who will be left? What bands are there with a legacy, and a catalog, that people will pay to see? Maybe I'm being My-Gen-centric ( a la the Boomers before me), but I feel like I'm watching rock's Bataan Death March. Are we gonna pay top dollar for The Killers reunion in 2040?

At least I can tell my grandkids that I heard Pat Travers sing "Boom Boom, Out Go the Lights" before it was too late.