Paris bar honors The Doors; may have to close them
PARIS (AP) — The walls of the Paris bar are plastered with images of Jim Morrison and The Doors, and a bust of the lead singer presides over the beer tap — all part of the owner’s lifelong passion for the band. But an attorney for the group doesn’t love it madly.
Christophe Maillet said he received a letter from a Beverly Hills, California-based attorney warning that “The Doors do not want to be seen as having approved of your establishment and also the consumption of alcohol.”
The April 21 letter — signed by Anthony Keats, The Doors’ intellectual property lawyer, and shown Friday to The Associated Press — urged Maillet to remove images of the group from his bar within three months.
Not an easy task.
The walls feature oversized close-ups of Morrison and framed photos and posters of the band. And there’s that bust of the flowing-locked singer at the tap.
Morrison, known for a partying lifestyle, died in 1971 at age 27 of heart failure in his bathtub in Paris — just minutes from Maillet’s bar. Morrison’s grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery remains a pilgrimage site for fans.
Doors lawyer Keats did not respond to email and phone messages Friday about the letter.
The decorations are from Maillet’s own collection — the fruit of 25 years as a dedicated fan, he said.
“I found my passion for Jim Morrison at the age of 12,” said the soft-spoken bartender. “Then I found a profession that could go along with it.
“Since I started in this business, my goal was to start a bar dedicated to Jim Morrison.”
After nearly a decade spent working at other people’s establishments, Maillet’s dream came true nine months ago when he opened the “Lezard King” — a play on Morrison’s nickname, the “lizard king.” Because he worried about possible copyright issues, Maillet used the French word for lizard, he said.
On the menu are cocktails of Maillet’s own creation that he baptized after Doors’ songs: the “Light My Fire” blends rum, Cointreau and citrus juices; the “Roadhouse Blues” mixes tequila, Cointreau and blue curacao.
Maillet won’t say how much he invested in the bar located in Paris’ hip Bastille neighborhood but said it amounted to his life savings.
Maillet doesn’t know what could happen if the legal action goes ahead — the attorney’s letter doesn’t specify — but he said: “I guess worst-case scenario is that they could close the bar.”
Maillet, who does not have a lawyer, wrote The Doors’ attorney back but said he hasn’t yet received a response.
He said in order to appease The Doors, he’d be willing to add other 1960s and ’70s bands to the bar’s decoration. The letter also demands that the name of the bar be changed — something Maillet flatly refuses.
He said he knows of about a dozen Doors-themed bars — from Amsterdam to India — and it’s unclear whether others have faced similar legal woes.
“I didn’t do this to destroy (The Doors’) image or to dirty it,” Maillet said. “I did it to make them happy.”
Copyright © 2011 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.
________________________
~The Anatomy of Rock~
The 1st electric wildness came
over the people
on sweet Friday.
Sweat was in the air.
The channel beamed,
token of power.
Incense brewed darkly.
Who could tell then that here
it would end?
One school bus crashed w/a train.
This was the Crossroads.
Mercury strained.
I couldn’t get out of my seat.
The road was littered
w/dead jitterbugs.
Help,
we’ll be late for class.
The secret flurry of rumor
marched over the yard &
pinned us unwittingly
Mt. fever.
A girl stripped naked on the
base of the flagpole.
In the restrooms all was cool
& silent
w/the salt-green of latrines.
Blankets were needed.
Ropes fluttered.
Smiles flattered
& haunted.
Lockers were pried open
& secrets discovered.
Ah sweet music.
Wild sounds in the night
Angel siren voices.
The baying of great hounds.
Cars screaming thru gears
& shrieks
on the wild road
Where the tires skid & slide
into dangerous curves.
Favorite corners.
Cheerleaders raped in summer
buildings.
Holding hands
& bopping toward Sunday.
Those lean sweet desperate hours.
Time searched the hallways
for a mind.
Hands kept time.
The climate altered like a
visible dance.
Night-time women.
Wondrous sacraments of doubt
Sprang sullen in bursts
of fear & guilt
in the womb’s pit hole
below
The belt of the beast
~~~
Worship w/words, w/
sounds, hands, all
joyful playful &
obscene-in the insane
infant.
Old men worship w/long
noses, old soulful eyes.
Young girls worship,
exotic, indian, w/robes
who make us feel foolish
for acting w/our eyes.
Lost in the vanity of the senses
which got us where we are.
Children worship but seldom
act at it. Who needs
temples & couches & T.V.
~~~
We can do it on a sunny
floor w/friends & make
any sound or movement
that comes. Roll on our
backs screaming w/mirth
glad in the guilt of our
madness. Better to be
cool in our worship &
gain the respect of the
ancient & wise wearing
those robes. They know
the secret of mind-change
reality.
~~~
“Have you ever seen God?”
-a mandala. A symmetrical angel.
Felt? yes. Fucking. The Sun.
Heard? Music. Voices
Touched? an animal. your hand.
Tasted? Rare meat, corn, water
& wine.
~~~
An angel runs
Thru the sudden light
Thru the room
A ghost precedes us
A shadow follows us
And each time we stop
We fall
~~~
No one thought up being;
he who thinks he has
Step forward
~~~
Shrill demented sparrows bark
The sun into being. They rule
dawn’s Kingdom. The cars-
a rising chorus- Then
workmen’s songs & hammers
The children of the schoolyard,
a hundred high voices,
complete the orchestration
~~~
“In that year there was
an intense visitation
of energy.
I left school & went down
to the beach to live.
I slept on a roof.
At night the moon became
a woman’s face.
I met the
spirit of Music.”
~~~
An appearance of the devil
on a Venice canal.
Running, I saw a Satan
or Satyr, moving beside
me, a fleshy shadow
of my secret mind. Running,
Knowing.
~~~
The day I left the beach
A hairy Satyr running
behind & a little to the
right.
In the holy solipsism
of the young
Now I can’t walk thru a city
street w/out eying each
single pedestrian. I feel
their vibes thru my
skin, the hair on my neck
-it rises.
~ Jim Morrison
Paris bar honors The Doors; may have to close them
R.M. ENGELHARDT 