This album "Morrison Hotel" by The Doors is released in 1970. After their experimental work "The Soft Parade" was not as well-received as anticipated, the group went back to basics and back to their roots. On this album, there is a slight steer toward blues, which would be fully explored by the band on their next album, L.A. Woman.
1970 wasn't exactly a year of peace and love. The Vietnam War raged, Nixon hunkered in the White House, and a general sense of disillusionment hung heavy in the air. The Doors, those psychedelic shaman kings of the late 60s, could have easily spiraled into self-indulgence or bloated excess. Instead, they did what any self-respecting rock band should do: they stripped it back, got dirty, and unleashed 'Morrison Hotel.'
The Canadian pressing of this sucker, with its fiery red label and gatefold cover, is a collector's dream, sure. But forget all that for a second. What matters is the *sound* that explodes from the grooves. After the orchestrated meanderings of 'The Soft Parade,' The Doors slam back with a raw, blues-infused punch to the gut.
This isn't some contrived return to roots; it's a natural evolution. Morrison's voice is rawer, his lyrics more cryptic and confrontational, a stark contrast to the poetic musings of their earlier work. Krieger's guitar licks snake and sting with newfound venom. Manzarek's keyboards churn out boozy saloon riffs and gospel-tinged swells, showcasing his versatility as a musician. And Densmore, as always, anchors it all with a primal drumbeat that could raise the dead.
This is bar band music for the damned. 'Roadhouse Blues' kicks things off with a swaggering stomp, a harmonica wail (courtesy of John Sebastian, a notable guest appearance), and Morrison howling like a whiskey-soaked werewolf. It's a call to arms for the freaks and the outsiders, a middle finger to the squares and the suits, a sentiment that resonated deeply with the counterculture of the time.
But 'Morrison Hotel' isn't just about boozy rebellion. There's a darkness lurking beneath the surface, a sense of impending doom that mirrored the anxieties of the era. 'Peace Frog' is a psychedelic swamp of paranoia and apocalyptic imagery. 'The Spy' is a sinister, jazz-inflected descent into madness. And 'Waiting for the Sun' is a mournful ballad of lost love and fading hope, a stark departure from the band's usual bombast.
The production, helmed by the Doors' longtime collaborator Paul A. Rothchild at Elektra Sound Recorders, is raw and unvarnished. There's no studio trickery, no overdubs. It's just four guys in a room, playing their hearts out, a testament to their musical chemistry and raw talent.
Of course, controversy followed The Doors like a bad trip. The album's title itself was a jab at the establishment, a reference to a seedy downtown LA hotel frequented by the band. And the song 'Queen of the Highway' raised eyebrows with its allusions to drugs and sexual escapades, further solidifying their reputation as rock 'n' roll rebels.
But that's what The Doors were all about: pushing boundaries, challenging norms, and embracing the dark side of the American dream. 'Morrison Hotel' is a testament to their enduring power, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there's always room for a little rock 'n' roll rebellion.
So crank up the volume, crack open a beer, and let The Doors take you on a wild ride through the underbelly of American culture. This is music that's meant to be felt, not just heard. It's a bluesy, boozy, psychedelic riot, and it's still as relevant today as it was back in 1970.
