Light My FireFrom Manzarek, Ray. Light My Fire:
The Doors and the Dead are playing together at some outdoor festival–type gig. The Dead are the headliners (it's early '67). They have a fucking wall of amplifiers. It's like the wall in Fritz Lang's Destiny. It dwarfs any human standing in front of it. And drum sets, two of them. And guitars everywhere.
And…a Vox Continental Organ! Just like mine. Set up stage right. Just where I set up.
They have a sound check in the afternoon and it takes forever. They noodle, they fool around, they play out of tune, they try to tune up…but fail…and finally play a song. Vocals are out of harmony, guitars are tuned to some arcane, eccentric mode that each musician has kept as his own private secret, not telling the fellow next to him what the mode is, and the rhythm section is at cross purposes with each other, laying down what seems to be two separate and distinct rock beats that have no relation to each other.
In other words, it's a typical Grateful Dead song/jam.
They finish and, to them, everything seems fine. The musicians begin to leave the stage and the roadies lovingly gather up all the guitars. Everything else has to stay exactly where it is. The drums are not allowed to be moved. Pig Pen's organ must not be moved. Fritz Lang's wall of Destiny is impossible to move.
For our sound check - and performance - John's drums will have to be set up on the floor, in front of the existing pair of drum risers. No riser for John. The Dead have taken both of them. John's pissed, as well he should be.
I take the opportunity to run up to Pig Pen. I don't know whether to call him "Pig" or "Mr. Pen." Mister sounds a bit formal between long-hairs and "Pig" sounds like an insult. I opted for the all-purpose, ubiquitous "man."
"Hey, man," I say, bounding onto the stage before he retreats into the womblike miasma of Dead sycophants. "I'm the keyboard player with the Doors."
"So?…"
He's slow and unenthusiastic. I extend my hand but he doesn't take it. Actually, he doesn't even really see it. His pace is slow. I try to be jolly. "I play a Vox Continental just like yours."
"It can't be moved," he says.
"I know that." I smile, hoping to somehow communicate with this fellow musician. "What I want to ask is…instead of bringing my organ onstage and placing it in front of yours…I simply use yours."
"You wanna what?" He is slow.
"I want to use your Vox. I play the exact same thing. I'll just set my piano bass on top of your organ and it'll all be simple and easy. Nothing has to be moved."
His head starts to shake back and forth. He isn't liking the idea. But he is understanding the idea. I'm thankful for that. I press on.
"If I have to bring my organ up, I'll have to set it up right in front of yours. I play on the same side of the stage, just like you."
"So…?"
"Then there'll be two Vox organs on stage. One in front of the other. It'll look ridiculous. People will think, ‘Why are there two identical organs onstage? Why doesn't the guy from the Doors play the one that's already there? Why did he have to bring up a duplicate organ?' You see, man, it's absurd."
Wrong word.
Pig Pen didn't like that word. His face scrunched up. Absurd was not a word that was used in the Grateful Dead camp. Too revealing. Too pointed. Even too inner-directed.
The Doors, at least Jim and Ray, used the word freely. After all, isn't the post–World War II second half of the twentieth century totally absurd? Do we have to add to the absurdity? Isn't the whole point of psychedelics to break down the walls of absurdity and reestablish a divine intuition amongst the human species on this good earth?
Well, of course it is.
And the Grateful Dead is supposed to be psychedelic, but here I am having an absurd conversation with a person called Pig Pen. Man!
"Nobody uses the Grateful Dead's equipment," he finally said.
It was like the Dead party line and he had it well memorized.
"I'm not asking to use the Dead's equipment. I know these amps are all custom built for you guys. We'll use our own amps. And we'll use our own drums."
"Damn right you will," Pig grunted. He was getting testy.
"I know every drummer has his own setup. But the Vox organ…it's generic."
"What…?"
"They're all the same! Yours is just like mine. They're identical. It would be so clean and easy if I didn't have to bring mine up." I gave him my best back-slapping smile of camaraderie.
"What do ya say, man? Come on, can I use your organ?"
He paused for a couple of beats. Nice dramatic moment, I thought. Then the hammer… "No way, Jack. I told you, no one uses the Grateful Dead's equipment."
And he turned and lumbered off, into the miasma.
I gave his retreating back a peace sign and muttered to myself…"Share and share alike, ehh, brother?"
Then more loudly to his rear end girth…"Peace and love, man."
He didn't even hear me. He was lost in his own little world. His very secure little world.
