It wasn’t until July 5 that the rest of the Doors found out that Jim was gone. Bill Siddons was the first to get the call about rumors that Jim had died, and finally reached Pam, who confirmed the horrible truth. When Bill arrived in Paris the following morning, Jim’s body was in a casket, still in the apartment with Pam. He was buried on July 8 at the Pere-Lachaise cemetery, exactly where he had told Pam that he wanted to be—close to Balzac, Chopin, and Oscar Wilde, near the grave of Moliere. Only a few people attended, and there was no service.
But did Jim Morrison really die that way? Was he dead at all? Back in 1967 Jim proposed faking his death as a publicity stunt. He had once spoken to
Rolling Stone
about someday turning up with a whole new identity Nobody wanted to believe Jim was dead, and the rumors flew.
According to a dealer in Paris, Jim scored some heroin that was too pure, snorted it in the men’s room of the Circus club, and was carried to his flat, where he later died. Friends insist that Jim preferred cocaine to heroin. A cocaine overdose? What if Jim had found Pam’s stash of heroin and she told him it was cocaine? Or maybe he had been killed as part of an elaborate conspiracy aimed at the dangerous hippie counterculture? Jim had worked on a screenplay about someone disappearing into a jungle. Had he perpetrated an elaborate hoax, just so he could finally disappear and get a little peace?
“This is the end, beautiful friend.” (LOUISE DECARLO)
In a story told to
Paris Match
magazine by Alain Ronay and Agnes Varda in 1991, something close to the truth finally emerged. Ronay says that while the doctors examined Jim’s body, Pam pulled him aside and told him that she and Jim had been snorting heroin for two days, heroin that
she
had supplied. Racked with guilt, she went on to tell Ronay that Jim had been listening to the first Doors album when he took one more hit, and they both nodded out. She did awaken to Jim’s heavy breathing and, concerned, got him into the bathtub, then went back to bed and fell asleep. She woke up later and panicked when she realized Jim wasn’t in bed with her. She found him in the tub, his nose bleeding, and he threw up three times into the pot, telling her he felt better and to go back to bed. Then he died. “Jim looked so calm,” Pam told Ronay. “He was smiling.”
In 1969 Jim had named Pam his sole heir, but the will was tied up in court for the next two years. Pam believed she was Jim’s common-law widow, demanding an advance on the estate, and when Jim’s lawyer authorized a loan, she promptly bought a mink coat and a VW Bug. It has been reported that she worked as a prostitute, partly because Jim predicted it would be so. Pam never stopped grieving and continued her heroin use. She sometimes sat by the phone, waiting for Jim to call. Just when the final accounting of Jim’s estate was being made, Pam died of an overdose. She would have gotten half a million dollars immediately, and a quarter of everything the Doors would make in the future, which would have added up to many millions. In a grotesque twist, in 1975 Jim’s share of the Doors’ earnings was split equally between Jim’s parents and Pamela’s parents. The antiauthority rebel now supports a retired admiral and a retired high-school teacher.
“A hero is someone who rebels or seems to rebel against the facts of existence and seems to conquer them,” Jim told
Circus
magazine. “Obviously that can only work at moments. It can’t be a lasting thing. That’s not saying that people shouldn’t keep trying to rebel against the facts of existence. Someday, who knows, we might conquer death, disease, and war. I think of myself as an intelligent, sensitive human being with the soul of a clown.”
RICK NELSON
R
icky Nelson brought the devil’s music into the homes of millions of Americans every week in crisp, clean black and white. He was neat and tidy. He had good manners. He was drop-dead handsome yet winsomely nonthreatening. And his proud parents, Ozzie and Harriet, were always in the audience, grinning their approval as he rocked. Teen idol Ricky Nelson made rock and roll palatable and wholesome, something the average nuclear family could enjoy together every Tuesday night in their very own living room.
As part of radio and then television’s “America’s Favorite Family,” the “irrepressible Ricky” spent three cloudless, blissful decades parading through ideal domestic events that never took place in his real life. Sometimes Ozzie and Harriet were his real parents, sometimes his fictional “Mom and Pop,” and the rest of the time his ever-watchful employers.
By the time Ozzie and Harriet Nelson became parents of their second son, Eric Hilliard Nelson, in 1940, they were an established big-band couple, settling in Hollywood when offered a slot on Red Skelton’s “Raleigh Cigarette Program.” Their good-natured humor helped make the show a runaway success,
and two years later “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” hit the airwaves to much acclaim.
Every Saturday stolid David and his mischievous younger brother, Ricky, would dress up in their cowboy outfits and take the Hollywood Boulevard streetcar to the movies, where they fired their cap guns at the bad guys on the screen. The boys walked to Gardner Street School, two and a half blocks from home, coming back each day to their delighted English setter, Nicky. It seemed like the flawless family suburban dream, but every growing pain, every argument behind the closed doors on Camino Palmero, became fodder for the radio show. And in 1948, when David and Ricky were twelve and eight, producer Ozzie added his sons to the cast. “We knew David could handle it,” said a writer for the series, “but we weren’t sure if Ricky was old enough.” From the first day, irrepressible Ricky stole the show with his high-pitched voice and knowing smirk. David played a passive character, setting up his younger brother for the laughs, but if resentment was brewing, the older boy kept it inside.
With twenty years of show biz under his belt, Ozzie demanded and received more control over family projects, cowriting
Here Come the Nelsons,
a lightweight, lighthearted film romp that did surprisingly well at the box office. Skinny eleven-year-old Ricky, with his brush cut and braces, had a ball in front of the cameras, excitedly viewing each day’s footage with the grown-ups. The following adventures of Ozzie and Harriet would take place on the small screen—for 435 charming, sanitized episodes.
Young Ricky Nelson—wholesome, tortured teenage TV idol. (AP/WIDE WORLD PHOTOS)
The TV Nelsons lived in a timeless, nameless neighborhood.
The Honeymooners’
Ralph Kramden drove a bus; Lucy’s hubby, Ricky Ricardo, played bongos and sang “Babalu,” but the viewing audience never found out what placid Ozzie Nelson did for a living, even though he would sail into the house with his lunch pail and announce, “Harriet, I’m home!” Nothing from the frightening headlines ever found its way into the pristine, sparkling pad on Rodgers Road, Anywhere, U.S.A.
Within his domain, Ozzie was the big boss, expecting perfection from
everyone, especially his kids. David was rarely unprepared, but Ricky was having too much fun to take it all too seriously, often arriving without his lines memorized. He started planting his dialogue around the set, peeking into the cookie jar and opening drawers during scenes. The boys addressed their parents at home the same way they did on the show: “Yes sir,” “No sir,” “Yes ma‘am,” “No ma’am.” “Ozzie ruled with an iron hand,” said one of Rick’s first girlfriends. “He was an extremely domineering, intimidating person and expected an awful lot from Ricky and David. They didn’t want to let him down.”
Though Ozzie certainly wouldn’t have given his approval, at fourteen Ricky lost his virginity to a plump blond hooker in an alleyway on a trip to London, which led to further excursions with many ladies of the night. Teenage Ricky loved to speed around in fast cars and spend a lot of time steaming up the windows, but his main interest was rapidly becoming rock and roll. He wanted to sing like his rockabilly idol, Carl Perkins, but would keep his secret for two more years.
By the time Ricky was sixteen, he was a huge star with half a million dollars in the bank, but still received only a fifty-dollar weekly allowance from his parents. He never wanted for anything. It was all taken care of for him. He rarely dealt with his money, and it remained an abstract concept, which would become a ferocious problem for him later in life.
Ricky finally made up his mind to rock because of a girl. When his new crush, Arlene, cooed dreamily about Elvis Presley, Ricky found himself telling her that he was about to make a record himself and not long afterward did a campy Elvis portrayal on “Adventures.” When the response to the show was positive, Ricky told Ozzie that he wanted to cut his own rock-and-roll record. Having been a musician, Ozzie treated his son’s request with respect, but proceeded with caution, booking Ricky and his guitar into Knotts Berry Farm’s Birdcage Theater with no fanfare. When the reaction was good, Ozzie took a tape of Ricky singing a squeaky-clean version of the Fats Domino hit “I’m Walkin‘” to several record companies, who turned him down flat. Only Norman Granz at independent Verve Records was willing to take a chance on the sixteen-year-old TV star. Two weeks after he sang the song on an episode of “Adventures” called “Ricky the Drummer,” in which he snapped his fingers and shook his legs while the girls sighed, Verve released “I’m Walkin’.” By Ricky’s seventeenth birthday, the song had reached number four on the
Billboard
charts and sold over a million copies. Former crush Arlene called Ricky to gush, but he didn’t see her again until backstage at one of his concerts fifteen years later.
In his first year of recording, Ricky turned out half a dozen rockabilly hits, all performed on “Adventures” as girls got closer to the stage and swooned in black and white. While the show was on hiatus, Ricky toured with his new
band to uproarious screams, fainting females, and damp panties hurled onstage. With a touch of mascara on his long lashes and his hair in a slight pompadour, just a hint of Ricky’s smile sent his ga-ga fans straight to sweetheart heaven. Though plenty of teenage jailbait could have been his for the plucking, he preferred prostitutes, sometimes three or four at a time, which were procured for him by road managers. Wow.
As a young girl, I was a devoted viewer of the “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” If I had known that Mr. Angel Face Teen Idol was bonking a bunch of hookers, I would have fainted dead away. People just didn’t do that kind of thing then, did they? Ha-ha. But Ricky Nelson was a walking dichotomy, living two, maybe three lives at once.
Off the road, depression set in. Ricky would go through the same old motions on the show, but feeling that his family could never understand the strain of rock stardom, he began to spend his spare time with like-minded musicians—Johnny and Dorsey Burnette, Gene Vincent, the Everly Brothers, Eddie Cochran—playing music and gunning motorcycles on Mulholland Drive way past midnight. He even got close to Elvis Presley, playing football with the King and his cronies at Bel Air Park. It seems Elvis never missed an episode of “Adventures.”
Despite his harlot-filled road dates, Ricky was sheltered and tethered by his fame. Playing himself within the confines of an average American family, living his real life as anything but an average American teenager, must have done some serious damage. At eighteen he carried his family’s TV show—an unbelievable pressure. He was a millionaire with no checkbook of his own, uncertain if people liked him for any real reasons, increasingly remote and withdrawn yet at the same time naively trusting. His parents held the reins, allowing America’s Boy Next Door to rock only so far, and it hurt him deeply when critics questioned his “authenticity” and dedication to rock and roll.
In fact, Ricky almost quit his big feature film
Rio Bravo
because he had to sing a couple of corny Western ballads. Johnny Cash had given him a cool tune called “Restless Kid” for the movie, but Ozzie and musical director Dmitri Tiompkin ultimately prevailed and a forlorn Rick was forced to croon “My Rifle, My Pony and Me.” The Johnny Cash song eventually wound up on the album
Ricky Sings Again.
After another good role in
The Wackiest Ship in the Army,
Ricky was offered a meaty part in Lillian Hellman’s
Toys in the Attic,
but was forced to decline due to ABC’s threats to cancel “Adventures” if he temporarily left the series. How could he put his entire family out of work? He did showcase his records on the weekly show, but Ozzie also forced his son to sing schmaltzy clinkers and soggy-stringed ballads. Ricky Nelson was being stifled by playing Ricky Nelson when what he really wanted to do was cut loose, rock out, and sweat. In subconscious rebellion, Ricky took control with dangerous hobbies. He almost burned up in a racing car, he actually took up
bullfighting, and he earned a black belt in karate. Following the fiery racing accident, Rick said he’d entered the demolition derby to show the crowd he wasn’t afraid. Afraid of what? Ozzie’s shadow?
At twenty-one Ricky became Rick and had the biggest double-sided hit of his career, “Travelin’ Man” backed by “Hello Mary Lou,” which reached number one in twenty-two countries and sold six million copies. The album
Rick Is 21
spent nearly a year on the charts. Though his mom still shopped for his food, Rick was finally in his own bachelor digs, dating actresses culled from the
Players Guide
casting directory. The girls Rick dated all describe a romantic, respectful young man who brought flowers and gifts and kissed them for hours. A former Miss California fondly recalls Rick’s hair tonic all over her dress. He may have been innocently necking with beauty queens, but Rick was also involved in a hidden relationship with a wild young bohemian blonde addicted to heroin. She disappeared to New York after a horrifying illegal abortion, telling friends she was so in love with Rick that she didn’t want to destroy his life. He was devastated, and for years afterward tried to locate his “only true love.” He never found her.
Kris Harmon had dreamed of marrying Rick Nelson from the time she was eleven. She kept a photograph of the two of them taken at a celebrity basketball game on her wall with the inscription “Nothing Is Impossible.” The power of the mind is an amazing thing. The Harmons and the Nelsons had been friends for many years, so when Rick started dating Kris after encouragement from Harriet, the two sets of parents almost pushed the couple down the aisle.
Kris’s father, football great Tom Harmon, and her mother, Elyse, an artist and former actress, raised Kris to be an obedient Catholic girl, but she defiantly admits to being the family’s black sheep. Strong-willed and bold, she took over Rick’s life where Ozzie hadn’t even left off yet. On April 20, 1963, the glamorous young couple were married in a Catholic ceremony, after Rick, a nonpracticing Protestant, brushed up on Catholicism. A daughter, Tracy Christine, was born six months later and the press releases stated that she’d been delivered prematurely,
Very
prematurely. Apparently Rick told a friend, “If Rick Nelson got a girl pregnant, Rick Nelson got married.” Recently Tracy Nelson, now a successful actress, told me that she had not really been premature, but was hidden away “because Grandpa didn’t want people thinking that Mom and Dad had had sex before they were married.”
David had married a year earlier and, as always, Ozzie incorporated his sons’ lives/wives into the show. It must have been so weird. Six family members playing themselves—but not really. Even Ozzie’s grandchildren appeared in an episode. By 1965 the Nelson family seemed antiquated. The world outside was in color, and it had moved on. At twenty-five, Rick and his pals were still hanging out at the malt shop. Even though Ozzie attempted tragic hipness
with shows like “Ozzie a Go Go,” “Adventures” was not renewed for the 1966 season. Having worked nonstop for eighteen of his twenty-six years, Rick must have felt nothing but relief.
Rick had stopped touring but continued to record, having signed a twenty-year contract with Decca Records, which enabled him to experiment and branch out musically. But British Invaders—the Beatles, the Stones, the Who—and profound prophet Bob Dylan were stomping all over the twenty-six-year-old former teen idol. It must have hurt so bad. Still he persevered, writing naked autobiographical songs like “You Just Can’t Quit”: “Don’t feel sorry for me /’Cause can’t you see/I’m still me/And I just can’t quit.” But nobody was listening, nobody was buying. Nobody cared if he quit or not.