Alive, They Cried
Once you’re old enough, you start seeing things not as they are, but as they were many years ago. It happens every so often. You walk past an old man at a coffee shop and he says, out of the blue, “You know, this place used to be a drugstore!” Or a grandfather might say as he drives on a busy street, “This all used to be open land!”
I never thought that I would become like those old men. But even though I’m not gray-haired and wrinkled yet, I once found myself acting like them. It happened the morning that I helped a young millennial move into her new apartment. Looking at my surroundings, I exclaimed,
“The Doors played here!”
In the fall of 2005, my coworkers and I went out on a Friday evening, to a nightclub in Westlake Village. The place was OK, not too crowded. A few TV celebrities were milling about, the music was playing and the drinks were cold. But there were no women to talk to. One of my friends, a guy named Jim, said, “let’s go someplace else,” and thus we started bar hopping.
From reading this you might think that I was a party animal or a nightlife lover. But no. Oddly enough, that was the one night in my life that I went bar hopping. It would turn out to be a very memorable night, for unexpected reasons.
From the Westlake bar, we went east on the 101 freeway, toward the San Fernando Valley. We stopped at another place, still in Ventura County. It was a country music bar — not our thing — so we decided to get on the road once again. We crossed the county line into Los Angeles and stopped at the next whisky bar, on Ventura Boulevard. There were some women there, and we tried to strike up a conversation.
We tried to engage them further but were getting nowhere. The night would have ended in frustration if it were not for the presence of a guy that Jim knew. His name was Michael. Michael happened to know Jim from a previous job. He mentioned that he was the groundskeeper at a building nearby and that perhaps we would want to check it out. The place was quite something, he said.
The conversation with the girls went flat, so we abandoned them and followed Michael. He drove ahead of us, leading us to a location not two miles from the bar, still on Ventura Boulevard. He got out of his car and opened the gate. We drove uphill on a small, winding road, and stopped at the very top, where he lived. That’s where we entered what seemed to be a time warp.
Michael’s dwelling (the groundkeeper’s quarters) was painted white. The front had a 60’s-style wall, with an orderly brick veneer. There was a non-functioning intercom with a gold faceplate and many buttons, the type that you would see in an Austin Powers movie. What struck me was how small everything was. The entire scale was smaller than today’s standard. Small doors, small windows, lower ceilings. Michael’s room had not been painted in decades. He decorated it with movie posters. Looking out the window you could see a gorgeous, million-dollar view of the San Fernando Valley. “I’ll show you the dome now,” Michael said after showing us his room. I hadn’t realized that we had driven past a dome on the way up. but could clearly see it now that we were walking downhill.
The dome had a beautiful lobby, frozen in time. It had radial globe lamps, a concession stand, and what seemed like a ticket booth. From there we walked to the inside of the dome itself. It was a small arena, with a circular stage surrounded by seats. The stage was lit by a circular array of lamps. The inscription on the lamps’ shade, facing the audience, said something about Jehovah’s Witnesses. Apparently, the arena had been used at some point as a temple.
Michael then walked us to the area under the stage. It was basement-like. There was a big motor in the center of the circle, with a pole that functioned as an arm and a tire at the end of it. The mechanism made the stage turn; it was a turntable. I didn’t know if it was still operable, but it seemed to be in working condition. We walked back out and stood on the stage itself. That’s when Michael said, “The Doors played here once.” I had to ask him to repeat what he had just said. “Yeah, The Doors played on this stage,” he said. I couldn’t believe it.
I have been a Doors fan all my life. I used to sit in the dark, in my living room, listening to their songs, and go on a trip without the need for drugs or alcohol.
When the movie The Doors came out, I went to the premiere. I saw it on the big screen. I thought that Val Kilmer did a great job of portraying Jim Morrison. I’ve been to several Doors landmarks over the years. Topanga Canyon, where Jim Morrison lived. Venice Beach, where Ray Manzarek came across Jim Morrison and founded The Doors. The Whisky A Go-Go in West Hollywood, where The Doors were famously fired. The Alta Cienega Motel, where Jim Morrison used to stay. I know most of the band’s lyrics and have watched videos of their concerts many times.
That’s why I couldn’t believe what Michael was saying. It was too exciting to be true. I said, “No way! How do you know that they played here?” He replied, “Because the other day a girl tried to jump the fence. When I asked her what she was doing, she said that she wanted to see where The Doors played.”
It all added up. The Doors were a local Los Angeles band in the sixties, and the dome was perhaps a half-hour drive from West Hollywood.
When I learned that I was standing on the same stage where The Doors had played, my imagination took over. I imagined — almost saw — the turntable rotating as the Doors played. I could see the crowd in the dark, the music flowing in the air. The Doors came alive. I imagined a half-drunk Jim Morrison doing his shaman dance, jumping and throwing himself to the ground.
As I looked around, I heard Ray Manzarek’s Vox keyboard, John Densmore’s drums, and Robby Krieger’s classical-inspired riffs. I stood there for a few moments, in silence, my head filled with music.
We toured the rest of the dome. I saw the long-abandoned food service bays, the cooking area, and the maintenance alleys. No tenant ever bothered to remodel or refurbish the dome. The great majority of its décor still looked and smelled like the 1960s.
Jim, Michael, and I went back to Michael’s room and talked for a while. He explained that his sole job was to take care of the property and to keep it from being vandalized. It had been recently sold to a real state developer, and would soon be demolished and turned into an apartment complex. It was very late by now — past 2 AM — and Jim took off. Michael allowed me to crash his couch. I lived far and didn’t want to make the hour-long journey back home that late at night. I stayed on the grounds for the night, waiting for the sun.
At first light, I got up and saw a spectacular view of the top of the dome and the Valley below.
Many years later, in the summer of 2019, I was helping my niece move to her first apartment. When I saw the location of her apartment complex, I recognized it as the very site where the dome had once stood. As I was helping her move a couch, I exclaimed, “You know, The Doors played here once!” I had turned into the stereotypical old man who sees things as they once were.
I wish that there was something to commemorate the site of the Valley Music Theater, where the Avalon apartments now stand. But the property managers would surely blow me off if I proposed a plaque. So let’s do it here, and place a virtual plaque at 20544 Ventura Boulevard, Woodland Hills. It reads:
“On this site stood the Valley Music Theater, where renowned artists such as Don Rickles, Tina Turner, Jim Croce, Sammy Davis Jr., and THE DOORS once played.”
My virtual plaque (at least in my imagination) is full of graffiti from fans. On the floor, below the plaque, someone has left a half-used bottle of beer. “For Jim,” someone scribbled on the label.
