Brian: "One cheesburger each for these guys- i'll have three....and where's the piccolo player?"
 
 

The ill starred odyssey- a long journey with many changes of fortune- that was the collaboration of Brian Wilson and Jim Morrison on a record that was supposed to be the ultimate west coast statement, began on a diaphanous morning in LA in 1968. Like so many defining moments of the sixties Arcadia, drugs proved to be the genesis as well as the nemesis of the project, with an awful lot of hubris in between.
    Lenny Kreeler was a small time hustler/record producer, working on the fringes of the LA music scene. He’d been around; as a hustler he’d scored junk for Arthur Lee, mixed cocktails for Norman Mailer and Bob Dylan; once, whilst bonkers on STP, he’d nearly persuaded an inebriated Elizabeth Taylor to record a version of Deutcheland Uber Alles for reasons that he could never, thereafter, clearly recall. That episode had ended with him being throttled by Richard Burton in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire. He’d once nearly brokered a deal with Burt Bacherach to score the soundtrack to a Nicholas Ray film about the destruction of the American Indian called ‘Blood on the Tee Pee of Hiawatha’ and had craftily inserted a clause that roped the composer into doing the sequel: Yet More Blood on the Tee Pee of Hiawatha. He’d produced dozens of obscure, unsuccessful records; records which lined the remainder bins of record stores the world over: ‘Son of a Scrimshanker’ by The Sailor Boys; ‘Africa Screams’ by Hubert ‘Love King’ Diggley; ‘Tony Teppolati sings the music of Bob Dylan’; ‘The Many Multi-Colored Moods of the Burbank Lounge Sinfonia’; ‘Let’s Look at the Moon Together’ by Tarzan and Jane; ‘You dig shit? I dig deep!’ by Stokely Carmichael. At thirty, he was worried; he’d been A & R man at a number of the larger record companies – he was, allegedly, the inspiration behind the Stones’ Under Assistant West Coast Promotions Man- but the high life seemed to elude him and he was constantly on the look out for a money making scheme, like his novelty coffins and caskets sideline, now that had been a failure, having garnered only two enquiries: one from an old man who wanted to be buried underneath a whorehouse, and another from the daughter of a woman who wished to be interred in a Japanese fighter plane….
 

         That summer morning in 1968, he was sitting cross-legged on his front lawn in his dressing gown, wearing sunglasses and coming down off acid. He heard a car pull up and he opened up one eye; it was a pink Beetle and some shaggy haired hippy was climbing out.
“Hey Kreeler! Kreeler!”
Kreeler opened the other eye. Jim Morrison was striding up the lawn, dressed in his usual leather garb. Kreeler remained seated; Morrison stood over him.
“Jesus Kreeler! You praying to Mecca man!”
Kreeler was staying calm but he couldn’t believe his eyes: Morrison was the biggest fish he’d ever hooked and lost. Back in ’65 he’d almost persuaded Morrison to sign to the label he worked for. Kreeler’s plan had been to get Morrison decked out as kind of rival to Englebert Humperdinck: tuxes, Vegas, up-tempo lounge swing toons….
“Jim, fuck are you doing here?”
The Lizard King smiled down at him, broadly.
“Savin’ your ass Kreeler man, saving your ass”
Morrison’s voice was smooth yet agitated. Kreeler stood up, experiencing a mild head rush. He took his shades of and looked at Morrison, whose face was flushed, with dilated pupils, framed by greasy frizzed out hair; the face was beginning to run to fat; the jowls were showing a boozy corpulence.
“What do you mean Jim?”
Morrison turned towards the car.
“Kreeler, look at the car. Look in the car.”
Kreeler peered forward at the girl. Morrison was wired; he grabbed Kreeler’s jaw and swivelled it.
“Don’t look at the fuckin’ girl forget the fucking girl! Kreeler, look whose in the fucking back? Look Kreeler!”
A large figure lolled in the rear, heavily bearded and swaddled in a brightly coloured kaftan. Kreeler, slightly acid dazed, didn’t recognise who it was.
“Who is it?”
Morrison, grinding his teeth together, slapped Kreeler across the face,
“What are you fucking blind!” he roared. Kreeler staggered.
“I-I didn’t recognise him okay?”
Morrison whispered in Kreeler’s ear.
“It’s Brian fucking Wilson man….”
Kreeler’s heart skipped a beat. Brian Wilson? The demi-god of pop record production; the brains behind The Beach Boys; the man who masterminded Good Vibrations; the man who had his living room floor covered in sand so he could compose with his feet on the beach; the man who had his house painted purple to match his musical pitch….
       Kreeler turned to Morrison.
“You’re right. It is Brian Wilson. I seen him around before…”
Morrison’s eyebrows contracted, and his jaw gurned.
“So fucking what you seen him before? He hasn’t been parked outside your fucking house before has he?”
“No”
“And I’ve never stood on your fucking lawn before?”
“Once you did. Once. I threw a divorce party and you threw up on my TV and stole my stash.”
 Morrison’s eyes narrowed and he ran his hands through his hair.
“Fuck all that man! We’ve been driving around all fucking night man trying to find someone who’ll let us cut a record. We’ve rung everyone…. The president of RCA, Jerry Wexler, Jack Nitzsche…. Oh everybody and all they keep doing is throwing legal shit at us! Can you fucking believe it! I rang Manzerek up! Fucker’s out of his mind man! Two fucking artists want to cut a record man and they’re throwing legal shit at us! Can you fucking believe that? All people keep saying is get your agent to give us a call!”
He was ranting; he grabbed Kreeler by the shoulders and shouted into his face.
“Can you fucking believe that? GET YOUR FUCKING AGENT TO CALL ME IN THE FUCKING MORNING?!! Two fucking artists Kreeler and they say that to us arrrrrgghghghgghghghghghghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……..mmmmmm”
Morrison, clearly in the middle of a massive speed and acid comedown, dropped to his knees, weeping.
“Two fucking artists man…..Blah!”
He fell forward onto the neatly trimmed grass, face down, blubbing. Kreeler looked down at him, then across at the Beetle. He smiled faintly.
“Hey…hey Jim, you wanna make a record? I’ll help you make a record man.”
Kreeler knew he had to work fast: Morrison’s mood swings were obviously savage and there was no telling what sort of state Wilson might be in. This had fallen into his lap; pennies from heaven.
“Jim, er Jim? Get up man. We’ll drive to sunset sound and arrange studio time.”
Morrison leapt to his feet.
“Yeah, but it’s got to be kept totally fucking quiet. Nobody must know…”
“That’s right,” said Kreeler, “until the contract is signed. I’ll ring my lawyer directly.”
Morrison grabbed Kreeler again, his pupils dilated into massive black orbs.
“No fucking Variety! No fucking Rolling Stone!”
Kreeler patted his arm.
“Don’t worry,”
“We need musicians,” said the singer, “loads of musicians, horn section…. woodwind….” 
“Don’t worry, I’ll get the musicians.”

Kreeler, still dressed in his pyjamas and robe, sat in the back of the Beetle, next to Brian Wilson. Morrison was in front of him in the passenger seat, raving at the radio. The girl, an etiolated teenager with scary eyes, drove in a trance, her eyelids half shut.. Kreeler had introduced himself to Wilson when he’d got in the car but the Beach Boy kept his eyes shut and didn’t respond. Now he opened them and looked around. Kreeler turned to him,
“Hi Brian, I’m Lenny Kreeler,”
Wilson looked at him with a blank face,
“Valium man. I need valium and a timpani; there’s gonna be grace notes like Mozart. Is that a girl driving us?” he leant forward, agitated, and tapped her on the shoulder, “Hi, we saw God last night, didn’t we?” he spoke in a very small voice, hardly audible over Morrison raving in the front:
“Fuck radio man! Fuck it! These stations are controlling people’s fucking minds! Fucking Pat Boone man!  What in the name of Jesus Christ is the point of Pat Boone?”
Wilson seemed oblivious to the Lizard king’s jeremiad; he continued to tap the girl on the shoulder.
“God. Seeing God like that. It… gave me a sign. I’m gonna make a record, it’s gonna be unbelievable. The best thing I’ve ever done. The best record ever made.”
Kreeler looked at Wilson; he was in poor shape for a man in his twenties: his huge paunch strained behind his kaftan, which had dark stains all over it….
   The car stopped at lights.
“Which way?” said the girl.
“Left,” said Kreeler.
The girl turned left; Morrison looked up from tuning the radio,
“Right right! Turn fucking right you dumb bitch!”
Kreeler was getting a little worried; he tapped Morrison on the shoulder.
“Jim, Jim Sunset’s the other way,”
Morrison turned round and looked at Kreeler,
“If you ever touch my body again, I’ll kill you.”
Kreeler sat back. He had to go with this. The possibility of making a record with these two was driving him mad; the contracts were going to have to be masterpieces.
“I need cheeseburgers,” moaned Wilson, “cheeseburgers and someone who can play piccolo…”
Morrison was trying to pull the radio out of its mounting,
“Nixon!” he roared, “fucking Nixon! I’d like to cut his goddamned dick off on live TV!  The motherfucking cunt. You hear that Kreeler? They’re all cunts! Ohhhh sometimes man…. I get things in my head maaaaaaan!”
 
 

Kreeler moved fast; within an hour he’d arranged studio time, had three lawyers working on a contract and was waking session musicians up all over LA. Morrison and Wilson were safely ensconced in a large recording studio; Kreeler found them in the control room when he returned from scoring a fresh supply of hash, acid, downers and speed. Morrison looked him quizzically.
“Kreeler, aren’t you gonna get dressed man?”
“You said that if I’d wasted time by getting dressed you’d set my house on fire.”
“Did I?”
“So I bought some slacks down the road.”
Wilson ignored Kreeler and washed some acid down with a slug of beer, then started to fill a hookah.
“This is gonna be good Jim.”
“Right on Brian,” said Morrison, unscrewing the top of a whisky bottle, and arranging his drugs in front of him, “I think I’ll do a little acid and just a touch more speed, plus some downers.”
Wilson, twiddling knobs and flicking switches; Morrison handed him the bottle. Meanwhile, session musicians were beginning to enter the studio, carrying their instrument cases and nervously looking over at the control room. Someone spotted Wilson,
“Jesus, its Brian Wilson!”
“Holy shit!”
 Kreeler sat down next to Wilson.
“Right, what song do you wanna cut first? You wanna lay down some backing tracks?”
“Well”, said Brian, looking bombed, “ the first one is gonna be called Big Yellow Ball, right Jim?”
Morrison, seated further along the mixing desk, looked Kreeler in the eyes.
“Listen Kreeler, I don’t want interference, bad things will happen. You’re here  for organisation. Right?”
“Okay Jim, okay. You’re right.”
Kreeler disappeared and made a phone call from an empty office.
“Hey Snitschzstein, get that fucking contract down here, and get it down here fast. This is a dangerous situation, Morrison’s unstable and until I get their signatures on the contract I don’t got nothing. So hurry. And hey! Yeah, write a clause in that says that if I, Lenny Kreeler, am subject to any violence on the part of Mr Morrison he has to give me….fucking everything yeah? I need it A.S A.F.P, yeah? What? Forget your fucking breakfast… Fucking cheese bagels? Bagels Schmagels! Send out for them!”
 

Meanwhile Morrison was sitting back, smoking a long joint and watching the musicians; directly in front of them a line of bassoonists was tuning up.
“Hey Brian, look at those girls.”
Wilson had been scribbling down chord structures whilst the acid came on; he looked up, through the control room window,
“Wooooooh Girls! Girls!”
He smiled inanely at them, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth; he began to dribble. Morrison watched him.
“Hey Brian man, they’re only girls”
Wilson giggled, “hehheheheheheheheeh girls…”
Morrison stood up,
“I-I’m gonna find Kreeler man, and get you a downer.”
The lizard king strode out.
“But, I’ve already had a downer,” said Wilson simply, reaching for Morrison’s speed, “what I need now is an upper.”

Out on the studio floor, Kreeler was sweating; he was gambling in the big league and he knew it. If word got around before Morrison and Wilson signed contracts, the whole project could be scrapped, legally, leaving Kreeler with less than he started with. He stood in the middle of the studio and counted how many musicians he’d managed to gather there at such short notice and prohibitively high cost: twenty five. There were saxophonists, bassoonists, assorted percussion, two drummers, five guitarists; a piccolo player, an organist, a blind pianist; a violin player he knew from the Burbank Lounge Sinfonia, who was drunk and attempting to play ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee’; a bass player, three guys from Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band who happened to be hanging around in the lobby; a Mexican bongo player; a middle aged vibes player who was trying to score heroin; a man in a sombrero who claimed to be ‘California’s, nay the world’s greatest theremin player and two fat men with sousaphones. A circus by any other name; the meter was running and Kreeler could feel sweat running down his temples.
             Morrison swept up to him.
“Kreeler, have you got any downers, I seem to have lost mine”
Kreeler frowned,
“Don’t you think we’d better start laying some stuff down, some guides…”
Morrison flew into a rage,
“How fucking dare you! You fucking kike! Jesus! I’m in there creating and you’re out here looking at you’re fucking watch!”
Morrison grabbed Kreeler’s arm and tore his Rolex off and stamped it to pieces. The musicians stopped talking and tuning up and stared.
“Yeah?” shouted Morrison, “Yeah? You fuckos are here to play so play!”
Kreeler stalked off to the control room,
“I’ll get the fucking downers… I’ll have one myself I think..”
Kreeler walked into the control room and reared back from the sight before him,
“ Sweet Jesus Christ”
Morrison was behind him,
“What?”
The lizard king pushed his head through the doorway; Wilson had his Kaftan pulled up and was masturbating furiously, whilst saliva drooled from either side of his mouth.
“Girls…….huhhhhhherhghghhh”
Morrison grabbed Kreeler in a throat hold,
“Fuck was that acid man?”
“It was just the usual…”
They moved into the control room; Wilson seemed to be totally oblivious to them, his hand moving fast on his cock, his eyes fixed, staring ahead at the bassoonists who chatted unawares. Morrison stared at Wilson’s cock, fascinated.
“The cock of a genius is always different man.”
Kreeler sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette.
“Oh God”
Morrison looked round at him,
“God? What do mean ‘oh my God’? Oh God what? Forget God. He’s God,” said Morrison pointing to Wilson, “and I’m God, and you’re Lenny Kreeler. Understand?”
Wilson was thrashing around in his seat,
“Ooooooooohman arrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
He reached orgasm and rested his head on the mixing desk. Kreeler stood up.
“Jim,” he said slowly, “Jim, I’m gonna go out there and sort things out. You get Brian right, yeah?”
Morrison grabbed Kreeler in another throat hold.
“Don’t get above fucking yourself,” he said through clenched teeth.

Manson: "A helter skelter is an english fairground ride? What?"
 

One hour later the musicians, briefed on chords, began to lay down Big Yellow Ball’. Wilson stared out from the control room window, his dilated eyes hidden behind dark glasses. As the musicians played a kind of Wagnerian samba, Morrison, conducting the orchestra, went up to each musician and stared into their eyes.
“Big Yellow ball up there in space
Big Yellow Ball of the human race!
Our cocks and our balls from the big yellow ball!
Death and life from the big yellow ball
Big Yellow Ball!”

Kreeler sighed and turned to Wilson, who was smoking a hookah,
“Brian, you know I think Jim’s gonna put the musicians off…”
Wilson picked up a cheeseburger from a pile next to him and bit into it.
“They don’t mind, they can see he’s stoned! He’s fucked heheheheheeh. I want one of those girls man, oh yes.”
He grabbed Kreeler’s arm,
“But no telling my fucking wife though!”
Someone knocked on the control room door and Kreeler opened it.
“Hi there.”
Dennis Wilson and a short, intense looking man stood outside.
“Can we come in?”
“Sure, I’m Lenny Kreeler. I’m producing the new record.”
Kreeler stuck his hand out but Dennis walked straight past him, to Brian.
“Brian what the fuck are you doing?”
“Making a record.”
Kreeler was panicking; where were the fucking contracts?”
“Man,” said Dennis, “you’re making a record with us. Your band, the Beach Boys, yeah?”
He noticed Dennis’ companion,
“Who’re you man?”
“He’s Charlie Manson,” said Dennis, “he’s been hangin’ around up at the house; I’m thinking about making a record with him.”
“Oh yeah, weren’t you going to be in the Monkees?”
Manson flicked an acid tab into his mouth and sat down, “yeah man, they chose Peter fucking Tork man instead… One day man, One day I’m gonna be bigger than Peter Tork, I don’t care what I have to do man. Heard the new Beatles album yet?”
 
 

Out on the floor, Morrison had finished berating the musicians and leant against an amp, whilst he dealt with an acid/speed head rush; he was feeling very cranky and paranoid. Looking over at the control room he spotted the new arrivals and dashed over. He burst into the control room.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Dennis sipped at a beer,
“I’m Brian’s brother, man.”
Brian turned from his knob twiddling on the mixing desk,
“Oh Dennis, that’s another thing, I want Jim to join us. I’d like us to be known as the Beach Brothers.”
Morrison lit a cigarette and began to pace the control room, trying to clarify his acid battered brain. Dennis, taking a long drag on a joint, looked bemused.
“The Beach Brothers? Dennis, are you okay? Want me to call Marilyn?”
Brian started to cry, “Your not calling Marilyn……blaaaaaaaaaaaaah”
Morrison reached into his malodorous leather jacket and pulled out a gun and pointed it at Dennis Wilson.
“You fucking shut your fucking mouth man! Shut up right, or I’ll shoot it off your fucking face for you,”
He pointed it at Manson,
“And you. Both of you keep your mouths shut. Nobody is calling anybody’s wife until this record has been made. Is that understood? Kreeler, take the chords out to the band for the next song.”
Kreeler farted loudly, “what’s the next song, Jim?”
“I don’t fucking know, ask Brian.”
Brian, snivelling, handed him a chord chart, “that’s the next one, Custer’s Last Stand.”
Morrison whirled around, “hey that’s one of mine. Kreeler, hold the gun, keep these two covered, I’m gonna sing this one. Hey! Hey I got an idea!  Dennis you sing well and you sing don’t you, Charlie? Come on!”
Soon the three of them were in the studio; Dennis and Charlie singing doo-wop backing vocals on the song, which a kind of up-tempo rhythm and soul number.

“In the Black Hills”
“Black Hills shooby doo wah”
“In a rude Centennial year”
“Shooby Doo Wah”
“The Blonde Rider and his men”
“Shooby Dooby Doo Wha”
“Rode down into the valley of Death!”
“Shooby dooby dooby wah”
“Their cocks itching for the bloooooood of the Indian mother’s aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh”
“The fundamental Patricide of this child Continent”
“Shooop Shooop”
The Slaughter is about to begin!!!!”
This is the Laaaaaaaast Staaaaaaaaaaand Mother! Father!!!!!!!”
 

The song finished and Morrison collapsed on to the floor; the intercom buzzed.
“Great take,” said Brain, “Again, Again.”

The session continued at a good pace, with Morrison, the Wilsons, Charlie Manson and Lenny Kreeler taking drugs at a heavy rate. At the mixing desk, Morrison turned to Kreeler who was still in his pyjamas and massaging his temples.
“Kreeler man, we’re gonna need horses eventually.”
“Horses?” said Kreeler blankly.
“Horses. For the overdubs on Custer’s Last Stand.”
“Okay. Horses. How about a horse.”

Morrison: "...I can read with one eye shut- my head is spinning slightly..."
 
 
 

Next up was Baby Love Blood with Morrison and Wilson double tracking their voices over a sparse piano figure.

I know I have to try harder these days
I just wanna play with the oranges and the sun’s rays
But the killer rises early and goes down to the beach
Wooh
Baby Love Blood
Baby Love Blood
Baby Love Blood
 

Inside the control room, Dennis Wilson was levitating six feet in the air, crossed legged and smoking a joint; he was the only Beach Boy who could levitate; he heard the music and frowned.
“Baby love blood? That isn’t right is it Charlie?”
Underneath, seated at the desk, Manson toyed with Morrison’s gun.
“I dunno Dennis, I think it’s a pretty cool tune. It’s not as good as Lovely Rita by the Beatles. There’s this bit man, where the Beatles shout out ‘retard’….”
Meanwhile Kreeler was in conference with his lawyers, over the phone.
“Look you fucking sons of bitches, I can’t hold this situation much longer! I’m tired, I’m fucked… I’m in my pyjamas…..no I haven’t had dinner…… you had spaghetti with clam sauce oh how nice for you… Morry, finish the contracts you cunt!”
 

At around six the horse showed up with its wrangler. It wasn’t happy in the studio and looked it; it kicked a trombonist and bit the wrangler, who was wearing a yellow Nudie suit with dollar bills all over it. Things were beginning to go downhill; the violinist from the Burbank Lounge Sinfonia had been sick and one of the bassoonists had got her period. Manson was holding a mic up to the horses mouth whilst the wrangler pulled it’s tail. Morrison was in high dudgeon.
“Kreeler! Kreeler you shyster son of a bitch! I asked for the horse John Wayne rode in El Dorado! Brian, did you get the overdub?”
Wilson was wearing a fireman’s hat and was lighting a hookah.
“Yeah man, get rid of the horse and we’ll do ‘Baby, We’ll build a new Brain’.
The horse was led out through the control room and down the corridor; Dennis helped Brian out to the mics where they began to sing against a strong modal drone in 12/8 time. Dennis held Brian up; they harmonised brilliantly.
 

Babyyyyyyyyyy
We’ll build a neeeeew brain
We blew our minds in the sea’s eye
Stayin’ at a cantina in californi-eye
Baby I swam around the world for you
Oh Baby we’ll build a new brain
 

Wilson waved his arms and stopped the music.
“What?” said Morrison irritably.
“I got a great idea,” babbled Wilson, “let’s call it Baby, we’ll build a New Brian! Neat idea huh?”

By midnight, over half the tracks were down:

Big Yellow Ball
Custer’s Last Stand
Mr Dice (the schoolmaster from Ohio)
Bad Vibrations
The Prom Queen (she rides)
Homemade Pie
Icky
Lost in the Hole.

Lost in the Hole
My own good hole
The lord done put me down here
She licks my effluvium 
And I buy candy Floss
Cos we’re going to the state fair in a surrey
With no fringe on top
I get bore stealing up and down the same old strip
I gotta find another place where the kids aren’t sick

Everyone in the control room was gibbering with speed and acid. Morrison was talking so fast he was foaming at the mouth, and he had on his toy Indian headress, which was always a bad sign; Dennis Wilson and  Manson were sniffing the fumes out of a spray-cream container.
“Jesus Kreeler, this is the greatest record ever made! It makes Sergeant Pepper look like a Doris Day album! Can you get me a hooker? I need a blow job.”
Kreeler, who’d just slipped and fallen on some horse shit in the corridor, stood in the doorway, scraping the ordure of his dressing gown.
“Hookers? Later Jim.”
“Later Jim? Hey fucko I…”
There was a knock at the door. They all froze.
“Who’s that!”
Morrison opened the door. Mike Love of the Beach Boys and Ray Manzerek of the Doors stood outside. 
“Yeah?”
Mike Love, looking like an Old Testament prophet, pushed Morrison out of the way,
“One side fuck, these sessions are officially over. I have a writ. What you’re doing is breach of contract.”
“The Breach Boys,” said Manson slowly. Kreeler was dumbfounded. Morrison punched Love in the mouth. Manzerek grabbed Morrison,
“Hey Jim, Jim!”
Morrison shrugged the keyboard player off.
“Take your fucking hands offa me! You didn’t want to know me this morning did you?”
Brian began to cry again.
“Jeeeeeeeeeezuz”
Manson grabbed all the drugs and pocketed them, whilst Dennis, who had been levitating, crashed down onto Ray Manzerek. Kreeler, seeing his chance amid the confusion, grabbed together the reels from the session and barged past Mike Love, who was just getting to his feet, out of the control room and into the corridor. He skidded down it on some horse dung and crashed into the lobby. He fell and dropped the reels.
“Sir, I think you’ll find that is the property of Capitol records.”
Kreeler looked up,
“I beg your pardon?”
In front of him stood a collection of suits and heavies.
“Capitol records. Those are reels recorded by Brian Wilson?”
Another suit stepped forward and grabbed the reels.
“These are the property of Elektra records, they were made by James Douglas Morrison.”
The suits closed in on each other, arguing; Kreeler was forgotten. He stood in the lobby in his shit covered dressing gown, head hanging.
“Shit”
 
 

Manzerek ushered a doctor into the control room. Morrison was raving at the musicians over the intercom, with his Indian Head Dress hanging off his head.
“You bastards! You bastards which one of you told on me?”
Brian Wilson’s wife had arrived and he sat on her lap, crying, whilst she breast fed him. Mike Love shook his head.
“If only they’d listened to the Maharishi, tut tut.”
The doctor jabbed Morrison in the ass with a heavy shot of downers and he was wheeled out on a gurney, moaning.
“It’s all over for the……”
 
 

Out in the street, Dennis Wilson and Charles Manson lounged next to Wilson’s Ferrari and watched Morrison’s gurney being loaded onto an ambulance.
“You know Charlie, sometimes I wonder….”
Manson blew out a plume of marijuana smoke,
“So do I Dennis, so do I…”

Lenny Kreeler’s lawyers were too late. He stayed drunk for three months after the Morrison Wilson affair; he got over it though. He’s now tour manager for Christine Aguilira and regularly lobbies various record companies for the release  of the album…….