The Westbury Music Fair
Westbury, NY - Fri. April 19, 1968


Review: (2nd show) "Morrison wasn't on stage when the music began.  Suddenly there was a confrontation on one of the downhill aisles leading to the stage.  He stumbled down the steps, entangling his black leather and a mass of tangled hair with the offstage darkness.  He stopped to pose, and a flash of light caught him trying to regain his balance.  The taunts began immediately.  He responded with force indifference or a threat of random violence.  The other Doors were in other rooms.  They played on, almost oblivious to his ranting and raving.  A familiar riff would begin, the audience would briefly come to attention, and he would leave the spotlight to inflict his boredom on them.  He would fall into shadows searching for worthy opponents.  There were glimpses of physical confrontations: crewcutted jocks protecting their interested girlfriends from his suggestions.  Morrison's fist shooting blindly in the direction of obscene threats as a fat security guard grabs at him with a pathetic attempt to control the situation.  Morrison embraces the guard and tries to pull him towards the stage while delivering a passionate plea for weight loss.  The guard frees himself, runs up the aisle to derisive laughter, dropping his hat.  Morrison tries to wear the hat but it is too small and suddenly he is disgusted with the whole scene and lets out a frenzied scream.  Silence in the theater for the moment.  The audience stared as though it was a horrible car crash where the spirit was maimed and the blood ran into the gutter of the soul.  Morrison twitched in some kind of death throes.  The concert ended abruptly.  Morrison howled but it was not with ecstasy.  It was more Ginsberg than Blake.  The lights came up before the band could walk back up the aisles and the audience booed.  Morrison stood still listening.  I stared so that my eyes would forever cover him.  Some people were leaving, others still booing, a few watched him as intensely as I did.  Then in this haphazard atmosphere he threw back his head and began to chant and dance in place like some possessed American Indian brave consecrating a sacred land, cleaning the abuse and disdain with singular belief so powerful that shivers ran through me.  And my heart froze with undeniable blessing.  A girl ran at him with scissors flashing to cut his hair and he disappeared into a circle of anonymous flesh carried him away." (David Dalton. Mr. Mojo Risin'. New York: St. Martins Press, 1991)