Post by mortsahlfan on Feb 13, 2021 18:51:46 GMT -5
Tim Hardin: Hobnobbin' With The Superstars
Tom Nolan
Rolling Stone
19 April 1969
(Morrison Excerpts)
LOS ANGELES – The Chateau Marmont is one of the nicest places and reasons to stay in Los Angles. It retains the charm of old Hollywood, and has a view of Sunset Blvd. that makes the city seem an adventure; Roman Polanski stays at the Chateau, and Marlene Dietrich and Elvis Presley, and Tim Hardin was staying there on his last trip to L.A., during which he rested and played a concert at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium.
One afternoon had been set aside for Mr. Hardin to meet the press, and as often happens upon such occasions there was no one present from any really important publication, moreover none of the half-dozen who showed up was actually planning a Tim Hardin story: but they came because they were invited – the woman editor of the teen magazine, the Free Press columnist, the freelance writers – and they sat around the pool watching hotel guests sunning and swimming. The underground columnist explained how he had once sold shares in himself and raised three hundred dollars. A large dog shagged by. "Timmy will be down in a minute," Diane, the girl from his public relations office, said, sitting down in a deck chair to clean out a toenail, deftly pulling up her bikini's shoulder strap with the other hand.
"Hey, my old friend," Tim said, for there at the door of his room was Jim Morrison and two of hisfriends, a sincere-looking blonde girl and a longhaired guy who hung close to Morrison's elbow. They all joined the troupe into the room. Morrison had just had his hair cut and seemed in a relaxed, even humorous mood. (This was some time before the hassle over his exposing himself in Miami). Tim went into another room to change, and Morrison sat down on a bar stool, fifteen inches higher than the rest of the people in the room.
Someone asked him about the Doors Fillmore East concert the month before where they had played for an hour after the scheduled finale.
"Oh, well, what happened was we just finished and nobody left, so we started fooling around. First of all we had all these bottles of champagne brought up on stage, and Ray poured a bottle over my head, ha ha, everybody thought that was pretty funny, poured the champagne on my head. So then I got Ray to start this blues number, with him singing, and he sings a couple of verses, and then he starts this thing, I knew he was gonna do this, he does it every time we let him sing, he starts this long speech, still playing the organ, about how everybody should straighten up, start wearing nice clothes, he's telling all these kids remember in high school, remember in grammar school, you were straight? We were all straight then, well we can do it again, we're all straight inside. And I said, 'Not me man!' Well as I live and breathe, John Carpenter – "
(John was entering the room, looking furtive and bored, and came over to where Morrison sat.)
"I got that Elvis Presley catalogue you sent me," Morrison said. He was referring to a pamphlet showing Elvis' albums RCA had printed up and sent out by the thousands, "What was your purpose in sending me that?"
"Oh, no purpose. I just had an extra one."
"He sends me this catalogue." Morrison explained to the rest of the room, "and he writes on it, 'Jim, Best Wishes, John Carpenter.' I thought you might be trying to tell me something. I looked through it on the plane, and a very interesting thing occurred to me – there are all those pictures of him over the years, all through his career, and they're all the same, they look like those busts of Caesar stamped on the Roman coins."
There was a lull, and then the underground columnist told everyone that he had found six girls that morning within an hour to pose nude for the Fugs' album cover. The Fugs had wanted dwarves too, but he hadn't known where to find any dwarves.
"There's a hotel on Santa Monica Boulevard." Morrison said. "The Harvey. That's were they all stay."
"Too bad Derek Taylor didn't hear about that." the teen magazine editor said, "He was interested in dwarves."
"Oh really?" Morrison said.
"Yes – fascinated. Had lots of pictures of them in his office. Dwarves. Cripples. That sort of thing."
"Well what kind of person would be interested in something like that?" Morrison said. "Isn't that a little strange? He must have been some kind of a weird guy or something." The woman from the teen magazine only smiled; and Morrison began a hushed conversation with the guy at his elbow. "You know, Jim, this grass – I've only had acid once, but I was getting acid flashes off it." Morrison listened solemnly, nodding.
Meanwhile Morrison and friends had split somewhere – a typical Morrison exit: you looked up and he was gone.
Tom Nolan
Rolling Stone
19 April 1969
(Morrison Excerpts)
LOS ANGELES – The Chateau Marmont is one of the nicest places and reasons to stay in Los Angles. It retains the charm of old Hollywood, and has a view of Sunset Blvd. that makes the city seem an adventure; Roman Polanski stays at the Chateau, and Marlene Dietrich and Elvis Presley, and Tim Hardin was staying there on his last trip to L.A., during which he rested and played a concert at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium.
One afternoon had been set aside for Mr. Hardin to meet the press, and as often happens upon such occasions there was no one present from any really important publication, moreover none of the half-dozen who showed up was actually planning a Tim Hardin story: but they came because they were invited – the woman editor of the teen magazine, the Free Press columnist, the freelance writers – and they sat around the pool watching hotel guests sunning and swimming. The underground columnist explained how he had once sold shares in himself and raised three hundred dollars. A large dog shagged by. "Timmy will be down in a minute," Diane, the girl from his public relations office, said, sitting down in a deck chair to clean out a toenail, deftly pulling up her bikini's shoulder strap with the other hand.
"Hey, my old friend," Tim said, for there at the door of his room was Jim Morrison and two of hisfriends, a sincere-looking blonde girl and a longhaired guy who hung close to Morrison's elbow. They all joined the troupe into the room. Morrison had just had his hair cut and seemed in a relaxed, even humorous mood. (This was some time before the hassle over his exposing himself in Miami). Tim went into another room to change, and Morrison sat down on a bar stool, fifteen inches higher than the rest of the people in the room.
Someone asked him about the Doors Fillmore East concert the month before where they had played for an hour after the scheduled finale.
"Oh, well, what happened was we just finished and nobody left, so we started fooling around. First of all we had all these bottles of champagne brought up on stage, and Ray poured a bottle over my head, ha ha, everybody thought that was pretty funny, poured the champagne on my head. So then I got Ray to start this blues number, with him singing, and he sings a couple of verses, and then he starts this thing, I knew he was gonna do this, he does it every time we let him sing, he starts this long speech, still playing the organ, about how everybody should straighten up, start wearing nice clothes, he's telling all these kids remember in high school, remember in grammar school, you were straight? We were all straight then, well we can do it again, we're all straight inside. And I said, 'Not me man!' Well as I live and breathe, John Carpenter – "
(John was entering the room, looking furtive and bored, and came over to where Morrison sat.)
"I got that Elvis Presley catalogue you sent me," Morrison said. He was referring to a pamphlet showing Elvis' albums RCA had printed up and sent out by the thousands, "What was your purpose in sending me that?"
"Oh, no purpose. I just had an extra one."
"He sends me this catalogue." Morrison explained to the rest of the room, "and he writes on it, 'Jim, Best Wishes, John Carpenter.' I thought you might be trying to tell me something. I looked through it on the plane, and a very interesting thing occurred to me – there are all those pictures of him over the years, all through his career, and they're all the same, they look like those busts of Caesar stamped on the Roman coins."
There was a lull, and then the underground columnist told everyone that he had found six girls that morning within an hour to pose nude for the Fugs' album cover. The Fugs had wanted dwarves too, but he hadn't known where to find any dwarves.
"There's a hotel on Santa Monica Boulevard." Morrison said. "The Harvey. That's were they all stay."
"Too bad Derek Taylor didn't hear about that." the teen magazine editor said, "He was interested in dwarves."
"Oh really?" Morrison said.
"Yes – fascinated. Had lots of pictures of them in his office. Dwarves. Cripples. That sort of thing."
"Well what kind of person would be interested in something like that?" Morrison said. "Isn't that a little strange? He must have been some kind of a weird guy or something." The woman from the teen magazine only smiled; and Morrison began a hushed conversation with the guy at his elbow. "You know, Jim, this grass – I've only had acid once, but I was getting acid flashes off it." Morrison listened solemnly, nodding.
Meanwhile Morrison and friends had split somewhere – a typical Morrison exit: you looked up and he was gone.