Forum / Greil Marcus On L.A. Woman
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Chris OkumJun 27, 04:39amIt has the textures of ordinary life, and everything about it is slightly off, because the epic is what it's reaching for, but without giving itself away, without makeup, cool clothes, photo shoots, or any other trappings of Hollywood glamour. Robby Krieger's guitar is in the front of the music, thin and loose, intricate and casual, serious and quick as thought. Jim Morrison is in the back of the sound, as if trailing the band on the street, shouting that he's got this song for them, a new-type song for a dime, it'd be perfect, and you can see the Morrison who's singing, a man who in 1970 did look like a bum, huge and tangled beard, a gut hanging over his belt, his clothes stained. The voice is full of cracks and burrs, and an inspiring, crazy exuberance, a delight in being on the streets, in the sun, at night under neon, Blade Runner starring Charles Bukowski instead of Harrison Ford - this bum doesn't shuffle down the street, he runs, stops, twirls, runs back the way he came. Maybe the city doesn't want to see him, but he's in love with the city and that's the story he has to tell. He's not blind. "Motel money, murder madness," he muses to himself, he can see the fear the Manson gang left in the eyes of the people he passes even though they avert their eyes from his, but he's not afraid, and he knows he's not the killer they're afraid of. The whole song is chase in pieces, the guitarist tracing half circles in the air, the singer dancing in circles around him, the guitarist not seeing him, the singer not caring.
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whatwouldbukowskidoJun 27, 06:49pm -
whatwouldbukowskidoJun 27, 07:34pm
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