Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Thursday, February 15, 2007

The Singers And The Songs

Noting the Dixie Chicks’ punishment in the past and Grammy triumph the other night reminds me of how, in other days, other public artist-critics of the political and social status quo have been similarly punished for daring to speak their minds in the presence of their enemies.

The primo example, of course, being the Beatles, chastised harshly for John Lennon’s opening his yap and saying they were more popular than Jesus. Which, I need hardly point out, THEY WERE!!!
And John didn’t mean it in a boastful or nyah-nyah kind of way, either. He was merely stating the obvious, and, moreover, shading his statement to the effect that it was freakily ridiculous that they were, the Beatles being just a bunch of lovable moptops, after all, and Jesus being the [alleged: PKM] Son of God.

So to punish them for John’s perceived hubris, they were bumped from radio playlists and their records were burned at the stake. Generally in Bible-belt areas, where knuckles had first to be lifted from contact with the ground before any conflagrating could ensue.

Same thing with the Doors after Jim’s Miami bust. All that spring and summer of 1969, venues across the country canceled Doors concerts, apparently in fear of the Lizard King’s kingly lizard escaping from cover and taking the air onstage.
(Which it NEVER DID AT MIAMI, by the way.)

So, Jim was crucified by such pillars of moral rectitude as drunken fat abusive comedian Jackie “To the Moon, Alice!” Gleason and she of the chicken's-arse lips, Anita “The Homophobe” Bryant, and our boys were boycotted. Dozens of dates bit the dust and airplay suffered, though I don’t recall any incidents of Doors records used to light any fires, or funeral pyres. (Jim was a bit disappointed there were no bonfires, actually, figuring that would just prove he was doing something right—and he was quite correct to think so.)

In any case, the Beatles recovered. The Doors, sadly and sorrowfully, not so much. The Dixies not only recovered but rubbed their bandwagoning enemies’ noses in it so hard it may have deviated a few deviants’ septums. Which I, needless to say, heartily approve.

Because like it or not, and so many seem not to, it still IS a freedom-of-speech little country we got here, yessiree! And that means if I have to listen to Bible-thumpers tirading about the Satanic agenda of uppity women wanting to be President and gay people wanting to get married like everybody else, then they have to listen to the Dixie Chicks mildly dissing Chimpy. Texas should be ashamed of him…

But fair’s fair. Especially when it gets rewarded with trophies.


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