With this line, Val Kilmer’s slithery performance in Oliver Stone‘s The Doors comes to a close. No doubt that Jim Morrison was one of rock’s most intriguing front men, yet by the end of his short life, he was a tubby, poor man’s Burroughs with a penchant for whiskey, women and Mexican food.

The Doors were the antithesis of the 1960s preoccupation with love and good vibes. Although based in sunny California, Jimbo and the boys dealt in the dark, macabre and hypnotic — unconventional themes for the time.

The surviving Doors never turn down an opportunity to wax nostalgic about their long dead singer, presenting him as everything from a 20th-Century shaman to a resurrection of Dionysus. Morrison was certainly aware of how his image shaped the band. His canny and often cryptic use of media created a lasting icon. Morrsion’s peackocking visage has leered from dorm room walls for generations, and continues to serve as a visual touchstone for the sexy, rebellious side of rock.

Ride the snake, kids. Ride the snake.

And here we are, 39 years since Morrison’s bloated body was found in a Paris bathtub. People around the world still celebrate the life of a man who claimed that the souls of Native American auto fatalities leapt into his body when he was a child. Well, Morrison’s own soul has apparently leapt into another vessel: a taco shop on West Hollywood’s Santa Monica Boulevard called Mexico Restaurante y Barra. Specifically, their bathroom.

Forty years ago this building was actually Doors HQ. Artists, musicians and sundry ’60s hangers-on would lounge around the future enchilada sling-shop to experience the times and create art. Call it Warhol Factory West.

What now is a bathroom was once Morrison’s vocal booth. Here, he recorded the vocal track for numerous songs, including my personal favorite, “LA Woman.” The restaurant pays tribute to the The Doors by augmenting the Mexican décor with band photos, gold records and other memorabilia.

Owners of the eatery, self-proclaimed Doors fans, feel the presence of Morrison in the bathroom. Light bulbs pop, the building makes moaning sounds and voices can be heard within the stalls.

Haunted or not, Mexico Restaurante y Barra is worth a visit if you find yourself in the neighborhood. A true piece of rock real estate, the walls have absorbed more than just the aroma of nachos, they’ve reverberated with the sounds of one of America’s legendary bands.

So go ahead and have a burrito. And if it happens to “Break on Through to the Other Side,” take a seat in the bathroom. Maybe the Lizard King will help you light that fire.

Remember a while back when I told you about an expedition to recover some rare Scotch whisky that was lost to the Antarctic more than 100 years ago?

They did it!

The hooch was abandoned during polar explorer Ernest Shackleton‘s failed 1908 bid to reach the South Pole. Beverage company Whyte and Mackay found out about the lost whisky three years ago, and, because the recipe no longer exists, were keen to “rescue” it. If they could somehow manage to dislodge the malt from its icy tomb, they could set about recreating it using the power of science!

Kind of like Jurassic Park but with booze instead of dinosaurs. BBC News:

The alcohol was removed from the ice by the New Zealand Antarctic Heritage Trust, which had initially believed there to be just two crates.

Al Fastier from the trust said: “To our amazement we found five crates, three labelled as containing whisky and two labelled as containing brandy.

“The unexpected find of the brandy crates, one labeled Chas Mackinlay & Co and the other labelled The Hunter Valley Distillery Limited, Allandale, are a real bonus.”

For single-malt connoisseurs like myself, this is indeed exciting. Of course, it’ll be a while before we’ll be able to taste the liberated whisky — any Scotch worth drinking must be matured for at least ten years. And I’m guessing it’ll probably be longer for this batch.

2027 can’t come fast enough!

[just audio, no video]

www.youtube.com/watch?v=AfJdYtYt5yc

This deliciously skanky bit of hillbilly weirdness was a novelty hit for Homer & Jethro in 1949, featuring a young June Carter. At the time, Homer & Jethro were pretty much the Flight Of The Conchords of ’40s country. 20 years later, June Carter would become Mrs. Johnny Cash (see: “Ring Of Fire”), but at the time was known as the pretty daughter of The Carter Family who couldn’t sing all that well. She had a thing going with comedy though, so she wisely learned to use those talents to her advantage.

It sounds innocent enough on the face of it: sweet harmonies, slick pickin’, and the voice of a young girl, but listen close to the hilariously twisted lyrics — two backwoods dudes are trying all manner of conniving ways to double-team shorty, and she ain’t having it… orrrr maybe she is, because after all it is cold out there. So maybe just a half a jug more. And say, what’s in this here drink? Hey, gimme the key to that door!

I love things like this which contradict my unconscious assumption that old-time society used to be more repressed and now we’re all somehow freer. This was 1949. Can you imagine Taylor Swift having a hit like this with Big & Rich? They wouldn’t dare.

[I'll post complete lyrics in the comments]

Greetings.

I trust your Thanksgiving indulgences were agreeable. Now that the tryptophan coma has worn off, we can get back to business. Here’s an update about some recent concerns at The Contrarian HQ.

• Scotch Whisky: I’m learning (or hope to begin learning more) about this magical beverage. I never much cared for Scotch, considering it to be another affectation of an American male leisure class to which I have no business belonging. Which is why I’m somewhat annoyed that I’ve developed a taste for single malts — seemingly right on schedule. 35 years old, with something resembling an actual career and what might even be considered in these dour economic times to be disposable income. It’s all so predictable. Sigh.
• Lists: I loathe them. But I’m gonna do the responsible publisher thing and throw our lot into the “best of the decade” hullaboo. The other night, I drank a bit too much of the aforementioned Scotch whisky and emailed a crapload of people to hopefully persuade them to tell me their fave albums of the aughts. Looking back, I think it’s been a grim decade for music, but others may disagree. I’ve also asked a more select group of folks to help me think through a “most underrated guitarists” list. So stay tuned for all that.
• Existential Dread: I’ve been considering what it means to be a writer of horror fiction, mostly due to the positive responses to my short story “The Cove” — which is part of the “digital extras” package for my new album, Eldritch Musicks. Though the story will be published at other outlets, those who purchase the CD directly from this site will get an early edition featuring illustrations from our own Susan Norton. But back to the existential dread. Since childhood, I’ve had very few ambitions: to be a writer, to be a rock star, to be a horror movie visual effects person and to work in politics. So far so good? While I won’t be breaking into the FX business anytime soon, I might be able to do the horror writer bit — albeit at a modest level. Lately, I’ve been revisiting those “outsider” scribes with a grasp of our cosmic insignificance and a knack for crafting tales of philosophical terror. Currently, I’m reading Roland Topor‘s The Tenant (with an introduction by Tomas Ligotti!), and my Amazon cart is a who’s-who of literary foreboding and antipathetic decadence. Now, I’m sure I will never reach the heights of the masters, but I can always fail above expectations.

If there’s a lesson that I’ve drawn from my 35 years on this planet it’s that imagination is precious and no one is keeping score. At least no one that matters. So I am delighted, in my own peculiar way, to have the means to pursue my fancies and the temperament necessary to advance my ideas, however trifling. This feels as close to liberation as I imagine I will ever comprehend.

End Transmission.

No sooner did I post about the Antarctic whiskey rescue operation than I stumbled upon another article extolling the virtues of alcohol.

This one is from BBC News, and cites a new study that drinking — moderately to heavily, I might add — cuts the risk of heart disease in men by more than a third. So, bottoms up, gentlemen! (Sadly, ladies are not invited to this party.)

The Spanish research involving more than 15,500 men and 26,000 women found large quantities of alcohol could be even more beneficial for men.

Female drinkers did not benefit to the same extent, the study in Heart found. . . for those drinking little — less than a shot of vodka a day for instance — the risk was reduced by 35 percent. And for those who drank anything from three shots to more than 11 shots each day, the risk worked out an average of 50 percent less.

And apparently, it doesn’t matter what you drink, although if you’re guzzling Old Thunderbird or Mad Dog 20/20 you’ve likely got other problems. Still, those who mix and match (like I did last night , blech) receive the most benefit. Yet it’s worth keeping in mind that, while your heart will be healthy, your stomach might mount an insurrection.

Researchers caution that this study should not be viewed as a license to binge, and also note that heavy drinkers typically have other at-risk factors that could mitigate whatever advantages are gained from copious consumption. Meaning, your alcoholic uncle might have a healthy heart from all the Jameson’s he pours down his gullet, if he weren’t also chain-smoking and packing away the Chinese takeout.

“Whilst moderate alcohol intake can lower the risk of having a heart attack, coronary heart disease is just one type of heart disease. Cardiomyopathy, a disease of the heart muscle, is associated with high alcohol intake and can lead to a poor quality of life and premature death,” said the British Heart Foundation’s senior cardiac nurse, Cathy Ross.

“The heart is just one of many organs in the body. While alcohol could offer limited protection to one organ, abuse of it can damage the heart and other organs such as the liver, pancreas and brain.”

Six of one half  a dozen of the other, I say. You pickle your brain and destroy your liver, but your heart keeps pumping mightily. I’ll drink to that.

The booze was the property of British polar explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton, who had been on an expedition, subsequently abandoned. My guess is that he gave up when he lost the sauce. ‘Tis the only reasonable course of action.

So what’s the big deal about this well-aged whiskey? If you have to ask, you clearly don’t understand the appeal of drinking something that tastes like it came from an ancient Irish crypt. And of course, there’s a marketing angle:

Whyte & Mackay, the drinks group that now owns McKinlay and Co., has asked for a sample of the 100-year-old scotch for a series of tests that could decide whether to relaunch the now-defunct Scotch.

Workers from New Zealand’s Antarctic Heritage Trust will use special drills to reach the crates, frozen in Antarctic ice under the Nimrod Expedition hut near Cape Royds.

Al Fastier, who will lead the expedition in January, said restoration workers found the crates of whisky under the hut’s floorboards in 2006. At the time, the crates and bottles were too deeply embedded in ice to be dislodged.

The New Zealanders have agreed to try to retrieve some bottles, although the rest must stay under conservation guidelines agreed by 12 Antarctic Treaty nations.

Fastier said he did not want to sample the contents.

“It’s better to imagine it than to taste it,” he said. “That way it keeps its mystery.”

Mystery or no, if you need taste-testers, Mr. Fastier, I would like to humbly offer my services.

That was a couple weeks ago for me. More drawings in the works!

The late Texas songwriter Townes Van Zandt was always known for writing clear, straightforward lyrics that don’t leave you wondering what it is he’s trying to say. In the midst of the late sixties/early seventies, it wasn’t easy to find singers who told you just what it was they had on their minds. That said, Townes did write a few cryptic lines. Today, we’ll look at a section of his song “Nothin.”

Almost burned out my eyes

Threw my ears down to the floor

I didn’t see nothin’

I didn’t hear nothin’

Here, Townes is describing two moments of don’t-try-this-at-home experimentation. When he was a boy, he was told not to look directly into the sun, so, being Townes, he of course did, and almost burned out his eyes. Years later, he took to hiding in his apartment all week, drinking and writing songs. Come weekend, he would throw a party. At one of these parties, Townes, wanting to know what it would feel and sound like to fall off his fourth-floor (some say third-floor) balcony, did just that, and fell the four (or three) stories to the ground. Witnesses say he got right up, without even spilling his wine. That there was a born songwriter.

Sorry I’ve been under the radar. I have had a lot of drinking to do. Anyways, I’m back with a report of my recent activities, some of which may be interesting to you readers, stalkers and lurkers. . .

Let’s start where it began, Tuesday the 14th at the Brooklyn Bowl, where I attended the listening party in honor of Clutch’s new release, Strange Cousins From the West. As I sat down with my lovely Sixpoint Apollo Wheat, I regretted (sort of) having already blown my budget on records (Death, Dark Was The Night, Yim Yames, Screaming Females, etc., etc.), and was thereby unable to purchase our favorite stoner-metal band’s fantastic new release. I’ve had a lengthy lapse with Clutch’s albums, but the new one is sludgy as ever with some fantastic blues tones that nicely showcase Neal Fallon’s rubbery tenor. Well guess what — I entered for the door prize and I fucking WON, bitches! I felt like a damn princess, getting everything I wish for, plus the Bakerton Group disc, DVDs and a rarities album.

Wednesday, I met Nathan for a free show at the Stuyvesant Oval. It’s hard to believe that this tree-lined park — now filled with bouncing children and a Verizon Wireless tent — was not too many years ago likely a playground for junkies and crackheads. Yay gentrification! Now we can see Kaki King roll through her catalog starting at 7pm and be mildly offended by her use of the F-word in mixed company! I guess that free family concert series is over, but it was fun while it lasted. . .

The Budos Band was my favorite (read: flock of children on the dancefloor – whoot!). I like the fountain they have over there. I don’t think I’ll succumb to the Stuy Town rental office’s urging to move into their Yuppie Projects, though.

Thursday and Friday we had Jack White’s new supergroup, Dead Weather, at Terminal 5. The crowd had a great time, the music sounded good. But I have to admit, this level of production is a bit much for me. I appreciate all the attention to detail that White puts into his projects, and the visual design in particular I found to be very well excecuted. Alison Mosshart is a fun performer to watch, though I have observed that she seems to only own one shirt. Jay Z and Kanye were there. Meh.

On Saturday, everyone and their mothers were at Coney Island for the yearly sun-assault/concert known as Siren Fest. From all accounts, Built To Spill was phenomenal. However, someone has to stay behind to mind the store, and I spent the day at the Mercury Lounge, enjoying the air conditioning and selling tickets at our mighty box office. Admittedly a bit spent from the previous nights’ post-work tomfooleries, I went home and took a disco nap to prepare for the evening’s show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. The official Siren Afterparty had Francis And The Lights slotted as headliners, with Built To Spill’s Doug Martsch on the 1s and 2s bookending that set.

Francis And The Lights is just a wonderful band. I’ve missed several shows over the past year due to work obligations and the prioritization of seeing Bill fucking Withers take the stage (extremely rare post-1976) at Prospect Park last summer. Francis Farewell Starlite is clearly a perfectionist, and it takes him a few songs to get warmed up. He was plainly dismayed when the drummer veered momentarily from the gasket-tight rhythms the band’s songs employ as backdrop to Starlite’s ball-bearing dance floor spins. Here we’re looking at some bastard love child of Eno/Byrne and Prince, complete with wistful, haunted vocals and a self-absorbed nostalgia approached through the lens of personal relationships. It makes for great dance music, especially when Fran cuts loose and the crowd follows suit.

The party continued with Martsch’s second DJ set, filled with funk, ska, reggae, and some sweet slices from the Clash and the Stones. Lots of Motown, too, which is always guaranteed to make me move. This made me the dance floor mascot of the Siren Fest staff, all having a great time now that they could officially begin their summer vacations. They proceeded to fill me with enough whiskey to kill a bear cub. Fortunately, I was sweating enough that I did not suffer a debilitating hangover the next day, working six hours in the sun at the Williamsburg waterfront park. I did have to make one of my famous drunk escapes, though, sneaking out before asked to join the party for “just one more” dance. Take it easy on me guys! It was fun, though. You can always count on me to burn a hole in the floor.

Sundays are for the free Jelly NYC Pool Parties, and I performed some support staff duties at the guest list/staff door. This involved keeping counts on the clicker and checking IDs for the VIP beer garden. Also listening to the security guard pitch his house music CD, brag about living in Europe, and hit on every female under 35 who walked in the door. There was something dead in the nearby bushes (I will not tell you what) that was very fragrant. The bands were great. I’d seen Dirty Projectors at the Dark Was The Night show at Radio City Music Hall, and I’m impressed by their dissonant harmonies, if not by most of their melodies.

Crystal Antlers are truly the breakout act of the “Crystal” wave of bands from the last couple of years (“Crystal” is apparently the new “Wolf”). I previously caught them at CMJ and enjoyed their chunky psychedelic guitar brick-in-the-face sound. Now, they have begun to incorporate some unexpected elements. Dare I say doo-wop? I’m feeling some strong late-1950s love balladry here. The singer is gaining confidence and the music has greater cohesiveness. However, it’s still sort of coming together, which to first time listeners I’ve found is not entirely pleasing, especially compared to the Dirty Projectors’ fully dialed-in sound. Still, I find Crystal Antlers very exciting, and I’m very interested in where their new path of songwriting takes them.

The next stop was down North 6th, past Music Hall, where the security team applauded me for last night’s moves, or maybe just for my enthusiasm. I met my wacky German friend Martin, and convinced him to join me checking out the funk/soul music blasting from Public Assembly. Colt 45 (a malt “beverage,” not a band) was doing some promotion, so there were miniature bottles, free, for an hour. I gave the bartender a five and we double-fisted our way through the club, pulling out the strangest, dorkiest, most absurd dance moves we could invent while Martin tried to figure out what George Clinton was talking about. Later I chose the slice of pizza with some truly creative toppings, and it took me down. I slept like a dog that night.

Monday night I had a dinner party. I believe due to all of the rains this year, our apartment building has seen a lot of creatures that Southerners euphemistically like to call “palmetto bugs.” I squished one, to my roommate’s chagrin (supposedly, squishing a roach unleashes their eggs like some zombie virus), so I had him  spray the sole of my shoe with Windex. As he shot lemon-scented ammonia at the bug guts, he frowned, exclaiming “your boots have grooves.” Of course they do! I dispatched the next one with lighter fluid (sorry vegans).

Tuesday, Paolo Nutini played a sold-out show at Terminal 5. Who is this guy? Apparently he’s a Scot of Italian descent who sings an unoffensive blend of blues, straightforward rock, and reggae tones. This is your new adult-alternative market hero. Understanding what a Scot is saying is much easier after a few darks at McSorely’s, but that didn’t make Nutini unenjoyable in the slightest. He’s enthusiastic, adorable and has a scratchy timber that underpins his soaring wails. And he’s not taking himself the least bit seriously, despite the fact that I’m sure several jackasses have told him that he’s the next Van Morrison. You’ll hear it in a coffee shop very soon.

By Wednesday, I was too tired to go see the London Souls, so I stayed in and painted. I started up again last night, but the only thing remarkable about that, I think, was my unexpected success at using six drink tickets in a couple of hours, as well as my lack of a hangover today. I don’t know if it’s luck, practice, or an ability to greet the day bravely by cooking an epic breakfast. But as we say in Brooklyn, you either gotta go hard or go home, and I’ve got another week ahead of me. Thank God it’s just a bachelorette party tonight. Knowing me, I’ll end up sneaking out to go see the Giraffes at Union Pool.

Charles Barkley: looking for love.

Regular readers will know that I’m hardly a sports fan. But certain figures, like Charles Barkley, transcend mere athletic competition — they’re just straight-up bizarre. And thereby worth talking about.

Barkley, who has expressed interest in running for public office, was pinched for drunk driving on New Years Eve. It gets better:

The NBA Hall of Famer was arrested on suspicion of driving under the influence of alcohol early Wednesday. An officer with a law enforcement task force that targets drunk driving saw Barkley run a stop sign in Scottsdale, AZ around 1:30 a.m. And he’s got a very interesting explanation for why he was cruising the streets drunk: he was in a hurry to pick up a girl who had “given him a ‘blow job’ one week earlier.”

“You want the truth? I was gonna drive around the corner and get a blow job,” the once aspiring politican replied when officers quizzed him about why he was driving drunk.

Charles says it was “the best one he had ever had in his life.”

You gotta admire Barkley’s honesty. This is a man who recently switched party affiliations, saying, “I was a Republican until they lost their minds.” Good enough for me.