Meeting McClure and Morrison: Beat dreams & a mescaline memory

High times at the height of the Haight

FEW FRIENDSHIPS better embodied the notion of Beat and rock operating in tandem than the creative connection of poet Michael McClure and the Doors lead singer Jim Morrison. McClure was a linchpin of the 1950s Bay Area literary scene while Morrison, by the mid-1960s, was the godhead of LA’s new psychedelic sound.

In San Francisco the two developed a close association based on a shared passion for groundbreaking poetry and an embrace of the West Coast’s increasingly radical personal politics.

McClure possessed a fearsome intelligence and a handsome countenance to mark him as something akin to a literary James Dean. He had been a young and vital component in the Six Gallery event in 1955 when Allen Ginsberg sensationally unveiled ‘Howl’ to the world. By the next decade, he was riding motorcycles, hanging out with the notorious Hell’s Angels, befriending Bob Dylan, who gifted him an autoharp, and penning a controversial hit play called The Beard.

Morrison studied filmmaking at UCLA but his commitment to the poetry of the Beats and the notion that a deeply felt, and challengingly subversive, verse could be set to the exploding rock soundtrack of the time led him to front one of the biggest popular music acts of the period. He was also, by the time he met McClure, well on the way to achieving a PhD in the Dionysian arts, a prolific user of drugs and alcohol and given, on occasion, to outrageous public sexual display.

The singer’s existential hedonism would not end well. By 1971, Morrison reached the end of a reckless road, only 27 and dead in the bath of a Parisian apartment. McClure, we might argue, was much smarter and lived a long, productive and yet still uncompromising life, succumbing only in 2020, aged 87. The poet also helped to keep the Doors’ legacy alive, collaborating for many years, on record and stage, with the band’s keyboardist Ray Manzarek.

Earlier this year, writer and actor Antonio Pineda penned an impressionistic account of his times in the city of San Francisco and in the company of McClure and Morrison for the web publication the Haight Street Voice. Below we re-publish his vividly-realised recollections with the author’s kind permission…

‘Beat poet Michael McClure & Jim Morrison’

By Antonio Pineda

According to Straight on the Haight, historical chronicles composed by Reg Williams, it all began once upon a time long ago, in a psychedelic city state far, far away.

Circa 1964 Williams stumbled upon the Haight Movie Theater in a state of mothballs and disrepair. He consorted with his high school and university chums to reopen it as a psychedelic dance palace and cultural center rebranded as, the Straight Theater.

Located at the crossroads of Haight and Cole streets, the theater had to undergo renovations. The seats on the ground floor were torn out in order to build a dance floor worthy of a psychedelic dance palace. The Grateful Dead famously used this site as a rehearsal hall prior to the opening. The opening was rescheduled for a later date, so Reg Williams and his merry men organized a debut concert to benefit the theater at Chet Helm’s legendary Avalon Ballroom.

Billed as a night of poetry, music, and theater, the headliner was iconic Beat poet Michael McClure, a one-act theater piece by Ed Bullins and Black Arts West followed by music from the Grateful Dead, Wildflower, and the Outfit. Williams awarded me the honor of introducing McClure onstage to perform a reading of Ghost Tantras. 

A decade after his mythic 1955 performance at the Six  Gallery – where Ginsberg premiered ‘Howl’ and  Philip Whalen, Philip Lamantia and  Gary Snyder performed, kicking off the West Coat Beat movement and the San Francisco Renaissance – McClure exerted his influence over the young guns of the Straight Theater. 

McClure also premiered The Blossom, a one-act play from his Billy the Kid trilogy, at the Straight Theater. I was cast in the undercard. Bill Tara, formerly of the Firehouse Theater directed soand Johnny Hombre produced The Philosopher’s Stone wherein I portrayed the Harlequin. Based on the oeuvre of Antonin Artaud, it was a mimodrama considered avant garde for the day, attributed to the Theater of Cruelty.

McClure resided on Downey Street, across the street from George Hunter, founder of the Charlatans. Hunter Thompson, author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, lived around the block on Belvedere street, and Michael’s chum the filmmaker Bruce Conner, who was also from the great state of Kansas, lived on Carl Street. The Grateful Dead resided not far away on Ashbury Street. 

I muse upon the celebration of January 14th, 1967. The Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park was attended by an audience of 30,000 paisley day trippers. It was the brainchild of the Psychedelic Rangers who invented this historical treasure. The Rangers were musician-film producer Harry Tsvi Strauch, painter Michael Bowen, photographer-author Gene Anthony, Ron Thelin from the Psychedelic Shop and Allen Cohen poet-editor of The Oracle, who branded it as ‘the Gathering of the Tribes’.

Fortified by a potent dose of White Lightning, I tripped and danced with the bohemians and outlaws, rebels and recusants, Hells Angels and all the beautiful people. Augustus Stanley Owsley aka the Bear, had created this potion especially for this auspicious event. The enchanted formula was distributed freely to all comers.

The music of the San Francisco Sound entertained the worshippers of beauty and truth. The Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Big Brother & The Holding Company, Country Joe and the Fish and Blue Cheer enhanced the trip under the spell of White Lightning. 

It was written in the stars. The Beat culture was to initiate the devotees into the Elysian mysteries. Ginsberg chanted mantras on stage. Gary Snyder shared his Zen musings of the universe. The British writer Barry Miles had bestowed upon Michael McClure the title of ‘Prince of the Counterculture’.

The Midwinter’s Lysergic Day Dream was heralded by McClure strumming on his autoharp, declaiming magick poetry. The litterateurs understood that generational art movements should pass the sacred fire on to the younger generation. The only thing forbidden was to forbid and nothing was impossible.

Pictured above: Morrison (centre) and McClure (right) at the Belgravia Hotel in London in 1968

The tribes have long since dispersed, but their progeny and cultural admirers  also arisenhave been the genesis of the Neo Psychedelic Renaissance, as the young and old champion the virtues of Albert Hoffman, the scientist-humanist who created LSD. His famous bicycle ride on LSD  in 1943, when he accidentally ingested the chemical in his laboratory, kicked off this amazing phenomenon. As it is written, so shall it be done, Grandmaster.

And so it came to pass. How distinctly I remember: it was in foggy November as I wandered Lysergic through the hallowed lanes of Haight Ashbury that I arrived at the Victorian flat where McClure resided.

The poet opened wide the door, he who dreamed dreams never dreamt before, and escorted me up the apples and the pears. James Douglas Morrison sat there bearded and hirsute. He was casual and unaffected, and greeted my introduction warmly.

McClure was a fan of the Doors’ psychedelic rock, and complimented him on his lyric poetry. The Doors connection was later to flourish in McClure’s spoken word collaboration with the band’s keyboard artist Ray Manzarek, bringing the generations together in poetry and music.

McClure and Morrison were deep in conversation on a poetry project envisioned by the working title, ‘The Lords and New Creatures’. This was to be a two-volume issue of personalized poems dealing with love, fame, divinity and death. It would eventually be published in 1969.

The Lizard King was in his element: McClure brought out the divine in him. Jim waxed eloquent on cabbages and kings, inspired by the voices of the Beat Generation. Jim’s reading voice  was also influenced by McClure. Jim would perform poetry readings in the sonorous light baritone delivery that McClure had perfected over the years.

As I rose to depart, I reminded them that the Living Theater would be performing at the Straight Theater the following week. Jim arched a cinematic eyebrow, and replied he would fall by.

McClure introduced me to the great and the good of Literati Society. I met Free Wheelin Frank Reynolds, the Hells Angels poet, at Michael’s flat in the same fashion. Frank and McClure were working on a volume of prose, soon published, entitled Free Wheelin Frank, Secretary to the Angels, As Told to Michael McClure.

Frank and I struck it up, and when he was in San Francisco General hospitalized with broken legs from a motorcycle crash, I visited him. Frank was forever kind to me, although he could be fearsome with others. Frank performed his poetry at The Last Waltz, an important event of poetry and song hosted at Winterland. He was introduced to Zen by the Beats and changed his lifestyle to become a creative asset to society.

The Living Theater, directed by Julian Beck and Judith Malina, performed Paradise Now at the Straight Theater. McClure and Morrison were there to participate in this much-vaunted event. The experimental theater troupe were political advocates of peace and change in society.

The performers were wont to disrobe on stage, and encourage audience participation. The Lizard King and McClure were well into their cups. There is a famous photo of them backstage. McClure is leading the wolf pack, and giving the middle finger to the photographer. A bearded Jim follows with arms cradling six packs of beer. Pamela Courson, Jim’s beautiful partner, stands demurely behind. The Beat poet and his protege, the New Lord, stormed on stage, and entered into the sacrament of immersion. The generations had come full circle.

My friend Teresa, with whom I had studied Modern Dance and Martha Graham technique under the aegis of Caitlin Huggins at the Straight Theater, offered me a gig. A fashionable night club in North Beach needed a dance duo to perform a love act. The premise as was the fashion of the day, was to pounce about and perform an erotic cabaret act, simulating sex without performing the illegal on stage act.

Teresa and I departed the club after the show. We strolled past Enrico’s on Broadway, and crossed by the Condor Club, until we were in front of The Peppermint Go-Go. Jim Morrison espied us and waved us over to the bar. We strolled to his side as he dug the sexy dancers, and beamed an engaging smile at us. 

The Peppermint was a cosy environment with one small stage that could accommodate two dancers. Jim invited us to cocktails. Charming and gallant he complimented Teresa on her sultry Latina visage. Enchanted by his gallantry, Teresa kissed him on each cheek. 

Jim winked at me and enquired if I had anything more mind expanding. I reached inside my pocket and revealed a vial of capsules of needlepoint mescaline. Now that the statute of limitations has long since expired, I can disclose that Jim grabbed two and popped them straightaway. Teresa  and I consumed the remaining two.

The dancers took on a new glow as they glittered to rock’n’roll. Jim’s eyes sparkled as he spake eloquently on Beat poetics. I informed him McClure had introduced me to Richard Brautigan, who had subsequently performed a reading at the Straight Theater. He revealed he was a fervent admirer of Brautigan. Time stood still, as within the Temple of Poetry, the immortals seemed to speak from a labyrinth of mysteries.

Oddly enough no one seemed to recognize him. Ecstatic waves overcame us as we tripped in our own world. The bartender announced last call for alcohol. Blue nebulae tinted Jim’s profile. We followed Jim out and stood about on the Broadway.

The sky dreamed of the perfection of eternity. Teresa and Jim exchanged kisses and sweet farewells. Jim gave me a hug and complimented me on the mescaline, then he stalked off and disappeared into the San Francisco night. A diamond diadem of stars burned in the firmament. 

The Lizard King now resides in the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, where James Douglas Morrison is entombed with the immortals like Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf. Pilgrims visit his grave and the tombs of the beautiful and damned whose culture granted them eternal life.

As I reflect on the Magick of yesteryear, and confront the reality of contemporary gun violence and financial/racial inequality, there is naught to say except…

MAKE AMERICA TRIP AGAIN 

Note: The author of this essay Antonio Pinada has been described as ‘film actor rocker neo beat poet’. His screen identity is Antonis Greco. The original version of this article was published on January 8th, 2023 in the Haight Street Voice.