Thanks Vince for clearing the air for one last time. Just for a short detour regarding New Orleans, here is Ray's recollections taken from his autobiography where this Stephen Davis fella must have taken his instances. Clearly it is Ray who made the other big part up about the events and also interesting to see his tone as he recollects the night and what happened afterward, how he lowers the impact of the happenings and the band's approach to all that...
[quote="Ray Manzarek, in his autobiography, "Light My Fire - My Life With The Doors," p.341-343"]"That fateful last concert in New Orleans, where the bayou and the voodoo conjoined to snuff out Jim's spirit. It just left him. Halfway through the set his energy, his vital force, his chi, just left him. It became a vapor. An exhalation of the stomach that rose out through the top of his head. Off into the ether. Perhaps to join Pan and the satyr. Perhaps to dissipate into the universe. I remember that concert like it was yesterday. A packed warehouse on the docks. Low, dark, and ancient. Slave vibes, juju vibes, Marie Laveau and Dr. John walking on gilded splinters. It was musty with 150 years of cargos coming and going on the Mississippi. I didn't like it. It was Van Gogh's Night Cafe. It was not a place to make music. It was a place to plan a crime, buy drugs, or commit a murder. Halfway through a lackluster set, Jim suddenly left the stage. I could feel it. I usually played with my head down and my eye closed. Concentrating on my left-hand bass, right-hand organ. John's beat, Robby's chords and fills, and Jim's words. I knew where everybody was at every moment. I could feel them. Their presence. Their essence. And at a most inappropriate place, in the middle of a song, in the middle of a short solo, Jim left the stage. Now in the middle of "Light My Fire" Jim would frequently leave the stage to get a beer as Robby and I soloed for upwards of ten minutes or more. But this was not "Light My Fire" and Jim was gone. I could feel him leave. And I looked up and I was shocked. He was standing at the microphone! He hadn't left the stage. Only his essence had. And it was streaming up from his stomach and out through the crown chakra. Out into the voodoo that night. Spreading itself over the assembled mulitude. Disappearing into the sweat and heat and dust and rafters of the ancient edifice in the New World city of New Orleans on the bayou. And then Jim began to sing again. But without any commitment to the words. Without passion. Without energy. He was spent. Exhausted. He badly needed rest. He needed to rediscover himself. And he needed time away from his drinking buddies. He needed time away from those ne'er-do-wells on the Morrison dole. He needed to be a poet again. A quiet, contemplative poet.
John and Robby saw it, too. And they saw Jim lose it at the end of the set. They saw him pick up the mic stand with his heavy weighted base and begin to smash the stand into the old plank flooring of the stage. Over and over and over. Smashing the stage to pieces. Smashing his life to pieces in blind rage. A fury had overtaken him and he couldn't stop. He splintered the wood and shattered his soul. Vince finally came out from behind the amps and put his hand on Jim's shoulder. He immediately stopped. His rage dissipated with Vince's comforting touch. He put his arm around Vince's shoulder and just stood there, at the mic, looking out at the audience as we finished the final chorus of "The End." We would never play that song with Jim Morrison ever again. When we got back to Los Angeles, Robby, John and I had a short meeting and unanimously agreed to stop performing in public; Jim wasn't up to it anymore. It was too much of a strain on him. We couldn't risk his health, both physical and psychological. We told him and he was happy with the decision.
"Listen, man. Why don't we not tour for a while and just concentrate on writing," I said. "What do you say?"
"Sounds good to me," he responded. "I don't feel like touring anyway."
"We thought we could just stay in L.A. and rehearse," Robby said. "You know, work on songs together."
"Cool," Jim said. "We gotta get ready for our last album, you know."
A silence hit the room. The dark green thing stuck it's tentacles into my stomach and stirred my gastric juices in a nasty, evil way. Robby went pale. The air was sucked out of John's lungs. Last album? Robby finally spoke.
"What do you mean?....Aren't we.....aren't we gonna work together anymore?"
Jim looked perplexed. "What are you talking about? Of course we're going to work together." He took a laconic pull off his Tecate. "I meant our contract with Elektra. It's over after this record."
The air rushed back into John's diaphragm. "We're free!" he jubilantly exclaimed. The green thing released its stranglehold on my duodenum.
"Seven records," I said smiling. "And this one is the last. We can do anything we want after this." I was so relieved.
"I thought you meant you were gonna....work with....someone else," Robby said.
Jim laughed, "Like who?"
"I don't know, like anyone."
"Why would I want to work with someone else?" Jim asked. "Who can play better than you guys?"
"Well, we know that," John said laughing. "We just wondered if you did."
"Shit, John, I'm not the 'the little moron.' I know what I've got here," said Jim.
"You'd better goddamn it," I said.
"I do wanna do a poetry album, though. But I'll get to that....when I get to that," said Jim. And he took another pull on his beer.
"Well, we got a lot of work to do right now," I said.
"Yeah, we got our last album to make," Robby joked.
"You got a title, Jim?" John asked.
Jim pondered, bobbing his head laconically. "Yeah....I think so." He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "I think....maybe...L.A. Woman."
"Cool!," said John.
"I like it," I said.
"Kind of an ode to Los Angeles....and a woman, at the same time," Jim said.
"And Los Angeles as a woman," Robby added. "Wait till you hear it. We just started fooling around with it."
"Shit, let's try it now!" enthused John.
"Hey, anybody got some place to be?" I asked.
Everybody shook their heads no.
"Well, let's get busy," I said.
"Yeah, we got an album to make!" said Jim, smiling. "Let's not be standing around and jawing idly. Hell, times a-wastin'!"[/quote]
"Because when the crowds finally begin to accept you
you become the suspect of your artistry" Buk